* * * *
He didn’t emerge from his room until mid-afternoon. Beat had knocked and spoken to him through the door and though he wanted to ignore her, instead he said, “No,” just because he could. He didn’t want Ham breaking in thinking he’d done something stupid.
Hunger pulled him out. He was relieved to find no one in the kitchen, but as he began to make himself a sandwich, Beat appeared and took over. Flint smacked the plate onto the floor and it broke.
Her eyes widened. “Ham!”
Her calling for Ham pissed Flint off even more and he picked up a mug and deliberately dropped it. He knew he was behaving badly and he didn’t care. Three more mugs went the same way until Ham appeared. When the guy moved toward him, Flint backed off, but Ham held out a phone.
I can’t bloody use a phone, you moron. But he took it, held it to his ear and heard Ryker yelling at him.
“Yes,” Flint said as clear as a bell and cut Ryker off.
Beat and Ham stared at him. Flint’s anger evaporated like early morning mist and he picked up a dustpan and brush from under the sink and cleaned up the mess he’d made. He walked out of the kitchen without eating, locked himself in his room and curled up on the bed in a fetal position. The only thing he had to look forward to was Pixie Girl.
* * * *
Mollie had emerged from her room after a shower to find Lysander pacing outside.
“Upstairs. More photos,” he said and stalked off.
“Who rattled your cage?” she muttered.
She knew he’d heard her because his foot faltered, but he kept going. The first thing Mollie saw when she walked into his studio was a painting of a child. A little girl with a lovely smile and curly brown hair. She was holding out a stuffed dog as if she wanted to give it to the person looking at the picture. Mollie almost reached out to take it.
“She’s gorgeous,” Mollie said.
“She’s dead.”
Mollie spun around to face him.
“She’s my agent’s niece. She died of meningitis four months ago. Five years old.”
“Oh God.”
“Take your clothes off.”
Mollie watched him as she stripped to her bra and pants. He looked exhausted. There were dark shadows under his eyes and he needed a shave, though the stubble was sexy.
“You don’t need to move,” he said and walked around her taking pictures.
She wondered what he was doing. What could he see today that he hadn’t seen yesterday?
“Thanks. You can get dressed and go now.”
Mollie didn’t say a word. She picked up her clothes and walked out. As interested as he’d seemed to be yesterday, now he was all cold indifference, although she wasn’t sure she had that right. He was distracted, maybe. Upset, even. She spent the rest of the day in the garden, pulling up weeds and working over the ground with a fork.
Later she spent some time on Google trying to figure out what was wrong with Hoodie Guy. He could laugh so he had a voice box. He’d implied that he couldn’t hear, but he had heard that crack in the wood and she sensed his full attention on her when she spoke. That one word, Nks, which sounded like thanks, yet wasn’t thanks, she somehow sensed was significant. Her original theory—that he’d been in a fire and had his throat damaged, maybe his ears, too—had been confounded by the rebus. Couldn’t he write either, or had it just been a bit of fun?
When she looked carefully at what he’d drawn, the lack of any familiar symbols worried her. He’d drawn little pictures for everything and she’d interpreted it as—I like you. I like running with you in the morning. I’ll protect you from stick snakes. You protect me from geese. Deal. I like you.
But when she went for a run the next day, she saw no sign of him. Even though she knew she was an idiot, she did another circuit of the reservoir, but he still didn’t show. As she drew closer to his house, she slowed to a walk. It was none of her business whether he appeared for a run or not. She had no reason to assume he was in trouble or interested in her—beyond those few moments of skin touching skin when she’d thought she’d spontaneously combust.
As she walked up the track to his house, the size of the place became apparent. It was massive with dense woodland on three sides and surrounded by high stone walls. She jumped to look over them and caught glimpses of manicured lawns, an Elizabethan style garden and a water feature fed by a stream. The opposite of Lysander’s garden. A car passed her and she recognized the guy with the goatee she’d seen yesterday. Mollie slipped through the gates after him before they closed and headed to the house.
The driver had exited his vehicle, grabbed a briefcase and was approaching the door as Mollie reached his side. The middle-aged guy glanced at her and as he started to speak, the door was opened by a woman in black pants and a white shirt, and the man turned to her instead.
“Good morning, Brigid,” said the man.
“Good morning, Dr. Rothman.” The woman stared at Mollie.
A doctor? Was Hoodie Guy ill? But then this guy had been here yesterday as well.
“I’m Mollie,” she said. “I was just wondering if everything was all right. I was out—”
The door opened wider and Mollie lost the rest of the sentence and probably a chunk of her brain when she saw Flint Klavan standing in the hall. Tall, dark, slim and mouth-wateringly handsome, he was one of the UK’s biggest movie stars. Flint stared at her with his blue eyes, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans, his white shirt part untucked. He’s my Hoodie Guy. Oh shit.
“Come in, Dr. Rothman.” Brigid turned to Mollie. “Not you.”
Mollie’s feet appeared to be superglued to the step along with her jaw.
“Leave. Now,” Brigid said. “Andy!”
Say something, Mollie told herself. Preferably something intelligent. She opened her mouth and nothing came out. Flint hadn’t taken his eyes off her.
“Get rid of her,” Brigid said.
Before Mollie could take a step in any direction, the stocky guy grabbed her, wrapped his arms tight around her and whisked her away from the door.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he snapped.
Mollie cried out as he put pressure on her bruises, then Flint was there, wrenching her from the man’s hold, standing in front of Mollie with his arms out, protecting her.
“Why did you let her in?” barked Andy.
“I didn’t. She followed the car through the gates,” Brigid said.
“I’m sorry.” Mollie finally found her voice. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I’ll go.”
As she tried to move away, Flint wrapped his hand around hers, squeezed her fingers and pulled her close.
“How did you know he was living here?” Andy asked.
“I met him when we were out running, but he had his hood up. I didn’t know who he was.”
“But you do now.” Brigid scowled.
Mollie bristled. She’d done nothing wrong.
Brigid turned on Andy. “You were supposed to be watching him.”
“He knows he’s not supposed to go out.”
“Does he?” the doctor asked.
Flint’s grip tightened on her fingers. Her heart pounded. Flint Klavan? She felt as if she’d stepped into a film.
“If we could make a start,” the doctor said.
“Yes, of course.” The woman tugged at Mollie’s arm and Flint pulled her to him.
“Flint,” Andy said. “Let. Her. Go.”
Flint didn’t move.
Andy turned to the doctor. “Make him understand.”
The doctor smiled. “I’m pretty sure he does. You want her to go. He wants her to stay.”
Andy addressed Mollie directly. “You can’t tell anyone Flint’s here or that he has any…issues, understand? If it gets out there’ll be hordes of fans descending on this place and that’s the last thing he needs.”
“I won’t say anything,” Mollie said. “I promise.”
“If the press come, we’ll know it was you,�
� said Brigid.
“I’ve said I’ll keep quiet. I mean it.”
“Even when you’re offered a fortune?” Andy asked.
Mollie sucked in her cheeks. “I won’t say anything.”
Flint pulled Mollie into the house, across the hall and into a room with the most hideous purple couches she’d ever seen. The doctor followed them and closed the door. Flint tugged Mollie to sit by his side and didn’t let go of her hand. The doctor sat opposite and opened his briefcase. “I’m Joe.”
“Mollie.”
“Let’s see if Flint can remember what he learned yesterday. Hello, Flint,” he said.
Flint didn’t answer. Mollie wasn’t sure why he wanted her there while a doctor spoke to him.
“Have you been practicing?” the doctor asked.
“He can’t speak,” Mollie said.
“He can. He just can’t make sense yet.”
“F…Flint. Yesss. No,” Flint said as if he’d understood Joe.
“What sort of doctor are you?” she asked.
“A speech therapist.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“He has something called global aphasia.”
Mollie had never heard of it. “Which means?”
“Damage to the left hemisphere of his brain has made it impossible for Flint to speak coherently or understand speech. His memory and intellect are unaffected but he has to learn to talk all over again.”
Oh God. “How?”
“By listening to the sounds of words and learning to associate them with either the actual object, the written word, the way a person’s mouth moves or the sound the word makes. All of them eventually. He’ll have to be patient, as will those trying to communicate with him.”
“How long will he be like this?”
Joe sighed. “Impossible to say.”
“Not forever?” she whispered and clutched his hand more tightly.
“I’d hope not.”
Oh shit.
Flint tugged at her arm and raised his shoulders, anxiety written all over his face, and she guessed he wanted to know what the therapist was saying. She squeezed his fingers, trying to reassure him, and mustered a smile from somewhere.
“Many recover without any treatment,” Joe said. “Language skills may spontaneously return, but therapy needs to begin as soon as possible and be tailored to Flint’s needs. He’s already anxious and confused. It’s going to be an exhausting process for him as his brain rewires itself, but the more he works at it, the better the chance of success. The more support he has, the better his odds.” He nodded at their entwined hands. “He seems to have taken a shine to you.”
“But he’s…famous,” Mollie said.
“If he can see past that, maybe you can too.”
She let out a small laugh, turned to look at Flint and felt her heart jump. “Me. Help. You.” She gestured to try to get him to understand.
He yanked her against his chest and hugged her so hard she found it difficult to breathe. She patted his back until he let her go but he took her hand again.
“Okay. This is what we’re going to do,” said Joe. “One of the simplest things is to point at something and have Flint name it. He’s not going to find it easy but repetition will help.”
He pointed to a book on the coffee table, looked at Flint and said, “Book.”
“Bun. Bunt.” Flint flung himself back on the couch.
“Book,” Joe repeated.
Mollie squeezed Flint’s fingers.
“Burn,” Flint said.
Mollie tried. “Book.”
“B…utt. B…ert. B…ut. Buk. Book.” His eyes widened.
“Yay!” Mollie smiled. “Book.”
“Book.” Flint grinned at her.
“One down, a few thousand to go,” said Joe. “You have just the right attitude. This needs to be fun because Flint’s going to struggle and that might well lead him to become angry or withdrawn. You could also try the opposites game.” He took a sheet of paper from his bag and handed it to Mollie. “This is to give you an idea but you can make up your own. The point is to build up his vocabulary a word at a time.”
“Right.” Mollie nodded.
“Rain,” Flint said and she laughed.
“Right as rain,” she said.
Flint felt incapable of letting go of Pixie Girl’s hand. His head was whirling and it felt as though she was the only thing stopping him from falling apart.
“Mutlee,” she said and tapped her chest.
Mutley? That didn’t seem right. “Mutlee,” he tried.
She spoke again, put her lips together then opened her mouth wide on the first syllable, then closed her mouth and put her tongue between her teeth. “Mo…lee.”
“Mot…lee.”
She shook her head. “Moll…ee.”
“Moll…ee.”
That won a nod.
“Moll…ee. Moll…ee,” Flint shouted.
She jumped up, breaking free of his hold and clapped her hands. Flint pulled her down again. “Moll…ee, Moll…ee, Moll…ee.”
She beamed at him and for the first time since he’d realized what he could no longer do, he felt real hope surge in his veins. He could do this. He would do this.
“Flint. Yes, no, book, Moll…ee,” he said.
She leaped up again and danced around the room. Oh shit. Those long legs, that strip of naked flesh at her waist, that smile. Though he hadn’t forgotten the bruises. He wished he could ask her about them. He dragged his brain back into gear. “Moll…ee. Flint,” he said.
The speech therapist put up both thumbs.
Mollie and Flint. Flint and Mollie. Mollie and Flint.
The therapist took the tablet from his briefcase and put it on the table between them. “Heec tis. Pogod sex cise.” Then he handed Flint a pad of paper and pencil. “Youden.”
Mollie nodded so Flint assumed what the guy had said was good. A picture of an apple appeared on the screen. The therapist pressed a key and a voice said, “Apin.”
Flint tried to repeat it. “Epan.” He sucked in a breath. He knew it was a fucking apple, but he also knew that wasn’t what he’d said.
“Apin,” said the guy.
Mollie turned to face him and put a hand on his jaw, manipulating it as she said the word. “A…pul.”
Flint tried again. “A…pul.”
Mollie laughed and hugged him. I got it right?
“Apple,” Flint said and they both nodded. “Apple. Apple. Apple.” Well, he’d be able to ask for a piece of fruit now. He wouldn’t starve to death.
But the longer he worked, and the harder he tried to make sense of the words, the more confused he became. The room seemed to close in on him and he thought he was going to throw up, but Mollie kept smiling, encouraging him, and Flint kept trying.
Letters appeared under the pictures on the laptop but Flint couldn’t read the words. Frustration and resentment began to build. How long was this going to take? He’d assumed it would be far easier than this. Every time he got something wrong, he felt ashamed, then angry. But he didn’t want to stop.
When the therapist packed up to leave, Flint felt a flare of panic. The guy tapped his watch and wound his finger in a circle several times, which Flint took to mean he’d return the next day.
Flint might not be able to keep him here, but he could keep Mollie.
Chapter Thirteen
Mollie was horrified at how hard it was for Flint to speak and comprehend, though she made sure she didn’t show it. She understood now why the pair looking after him had tried so hard to get her to leave. Flint’s face would be all over the papers if this got out. When she thought about what it must have been like for him when he’d become aware of what had happened, how scared he must have been, her heart ached.
Brigid came in with lunch just for him, and he gave the woman a fierce glare and moved the plate in front of Mollie. Ten minutes later, another plate of food appeared for Flint.
“Don’t think yo
u’re going to be coming here again,” Brigid said and smiled. “I’ve been employed to look after him and help the speech therapist. He doesn’t need a little tart like you.” She smiled again.
“Nice to meet you too,” Mollie said and didn’t smile.
Brigid’s eyes darkened and Mollie hoped Flint noticed.
While they ate, Mollie made him practice. She pointed to things, said the word and tried to get him to repeat it. Eventually, Flint groaned, shook his head and closed his eyes. Instead of pressing him, she let him eat and used the tablet to Google.
Exercises focusing on automatic responses seemed worth trying. Repeating the months of the year, days of the week, the alphabet. Even singing nursery rhymes and songs. The key was accessing and repeating memories stored in the long-term sections of the brain, which enabled neurons to create new pathways and access old information.
Something told Mollie that trying to get Flint to sing nursery rhymes was going to depress him and she had an idea. She’d been to the cinema with Lewin and watched Flint’s film, Platform Two, a dark thriller in which he’d played a psychopath who tied people to train tracks and left cryptic clues for the police. If they were quick enough, they could save the victim. Lewin’s film choice, not hers.
Mollie logged into her Amazon account, downloaded a copy and belatedly wondered if Lewin knew how to access her account. Though if he did, it wouldn’t tell him anything more than that she’d used a credit card to buy a film, would it? Flint straightened and turned when he heard himself speak. Mollie hoped she wasn’t upsetting him, but her theory was that his memory might kick in and he’d be able to speak the lines he’d learned. He glared at her but she started the clip again, and pointed to him. When he continued to scowl, Mollie spoke the lines, a fraction behind those on the screen.
Talking Trouble Page 14
