Make or Break at the Lighthouse B & B

by Portia MacIntosh

  ‘You’ve broken your leg,’ he tells me.

  ‘What? Really?’

  ‘Really,’ he replies.

  I mean, it is very painful, more painful than anything I’ve ever felt in my life, but I didn’t think it was broken. In fact, after I fell, the first thing I did was insist that I didn’t want to go to hospital. Even when we arrived here, and the nurse asked me to rate my pain on a scale from one to ten, I gave it a six and turned down painkillers because I didn’t actually think it was broken. I thought I was just being a big baby.

  ‘You’re not actually a doctor though, are you?’ I say. ‘You could be wrong?’

  The radiographer’s eyebrows shoot up. I wasn’t trying to offend him, I just meant that, maybe he could be wrong? He has to be wrong. I really, really can’t have a broken leg right now.

  He wheels me across the room, in my wheelchair with my leg sticking out in front of me, sticks my x-ray on the wall and flicks a switch. As the x-ray comes alive, my hope dies.

  ‘See that there,’ he says, pointing to a bone that is broken clean in half.

  ‘Yes,’ I reply softly.

  ‘That’s your fibula,’ he replies. ‘And yours is screwed.’

  ‘Are … are you allowed to say that?’ I ask, a little taken aback.

  ‘Everyone gets a free pass in here,’ he replies moodily.

  I guess I must’ve offended him when I said he wasn’t a doctor. I wasn’t being sassy with him, I was just really hoping he might be wrong.

  As he wheels me along the corridor, I spot Patrick.

  ‘Hey,’ I call out.

  ‘Hey, what’s cracking?’ he asks, looking up from his iPhone.

  ‘Her fibula,’ the radiographer tells him. ‘You can take her the rest of the way back.’

  ‘Thanks for all your help,’ I call after him guiltily.

  ‘You’ve broken it?’ Patrick asks me in disbelief.

  ‘Now that I think about it, I did feel a sort of … popping sensation.’

  ‘Christ,’ he replies. ‘Well, let’s get you to the doctor, get you patched up.’

  I puff air from my cheeks as Patrick wheels me back to the minor injuries unit. We’ve had nine amazing months of going out on lovely dates, enjoying romantic evenings in, entire days in the bedroom … This is our first trip to A & E though. I suppose all couples have to have one eventually, right?

  ‘I still don’t understand how you did it,’ he says.

  ‘I just lost my footing,’ I say. ‘I wasn’t exactly diving for the bouquet. It’s these silly bridesmaid shoes Gia made me wear.’

  Patrick sighs. ‘Women and shoes,’ he says as he wheels me back to see the doctor.

  ‘So, it’s broken,’ the doctor says, appearing from behind the curtain. ‘Fancy that codeine now?’

  ‘Yes please,’ I reply.

  Now I know I’m not going to be able to shift the pain with a bag of ice and a couple of days off my feet, give me all the drugs.

  ‘Here we are,’ she says, handing me two paper cups: one with a tablet and one with water.

  I knock it back.

  ‘So, you’ve broken your fibula, I’m afraid,’ she tells me. ‘I’m just going to run your x-ray by the orthopaedic surgeon, see what he says.’

  ‘OK,’ I reply. My heart is in my mouth.

  ‘Surgeon?’ I say to Patrick. ‘Am I going to need an operation?’

  ‘Calm down,’ he insists. ‘We’re … it’s going to be OK.’

  Is it?! It doesn’t seem like it is.

  I can’t help but notice Patrick’s bedside manner – or lack thereof. He isn’t being very patient or reassuring. He isn’t rubbing my shoulder or holding my hand. He seems deeply uncomfortable with the hospital generally. I suppose some people are just like that.

  ‘OK,’ the doctor says as she reappears through the curtain. ‘So, we’ve had a chat and, as you’re relatively young, an operation probably isn’t necessary. You should heal just fine in a cast.’

  I can’t help but take issue with her use of ‘relatively young’ – I’m only thirty-two, for Christ’s sake. Don’t tell me I’m on the verge of old, brittle bones yet!

  ‘OK,’ I reply.

  ‘I’ll get you a prescription for some codeine to take home, OK?’

  ‘OK,’ I reply.

  Why does everyone – myself included – keep saying OK? This is absolutely not OK, and repeatedly saying it’s OK isn’t going to make it O-bloody-K.

  My cast goes much higher up my leg than I expected it to. It’s big, and bulky, and I hate the way it smells. It certainly doesn’t match the stocking on my other leg.

  I notice Patrick staring at it with a look of discomfort. He winces, as he watches me shuffle to find comfort in my wheelchair.

  Patrick wheels me out into the hospital reception. It must be quite late now. All I want is to sleep. If I sleep, things might feel easier in the morning.

  As he manoeuvres me through a doorway he catches my wheelchair on the frame. The jolt sends a wave of pain around every nerve ending in my body. I turn my head to look at him, only to realise he’s looking at something on his phone while he pushes me with one hand.

  ‘Patrick!’

  ‘Sorry, sorry, it’s work,’ he says.

  It’s always work with him. Being a stockbroker is, apparently, a twenty-four hour a day job. I say apparently because I honestly have no way of knowing whether this is true or not. Aside from the most basic knowledge of stocks, I don’t really get what he does. I just know that it makes him very angry, and he’s always on his phone. So perhaps it is a twenty-four hour a day job, perhaps I shouldn’t be so hard on him.

  ‘I’ll go book a taxi,’ Patrick says. ‘Get you home to your bed.’

  ‘Can I come to yours?’ I ask him.

  ‘Wouldn’t you be happier in your own home?’ he replies.

  ‘Perhaps, if I didn’t have a stupid bloody step up into my bathroom.’

  I curse myself. When I was flat hunting, I thought the cute little step up to my bathroom was, well, cute. It made it look like a mini spa. I never imagined I’d be wheelchair bound. Now I’m kicking myself … or I would be, if I physically could.

  ‘Oh, right.’ Patrick scratches his head. ‘Yes, OK then.’

  As he wanders off to book us a taxi, a wave of cramp grips my broken leg, just like it kept doing on the walk over – I suppose from holding it in one careful but awkward position for so long.

  ‘Shit, shit, shit,’ I can’t help but blurt out.

  Right on cue, a toddler waddles out from behind one of the pillars.

  Every single one of my excruciating agony-fuelled outbursts so far has had an accidental audience of someone who shouldn’t be watching anything more than a PG, at best.

  There’s nothing I can do but watch, as the giddy little boy’s legs turn to jelly underneath him and he flops to the floor with a clap, in that way toddlers always seem to go down. As he bursts into tears, his dad finally appears and picks him up. Poor kid, I know just how he feels (let’s casually gloss over the fact that I have thirty-two years’ experience with my feet, compared to his maximum of two).

  His dad dusts him down and his crying stops all at once, as though someone has flicked a switch. The little boy is absolutely fine. In fact, it’s only a matter of seconds before he’s waddling around again.

  Somehow, I don’t think it’s going to be quite so easy for me.

  Chapter 3

  Bloody men and their bloody sex drives!

  I have it on pretty good authority – from my Auntie Val, of all people – that these are the days of our (sex) lives.

  She had a few too many drinks at my twenty-first birthday party and took it upon herself to sit me down and tell me about the facts of life. Not the usual facts of life though, her facts of life, the supposedly real ones.

  Auntie Val told me that, once men hit middle age, they’re not worth bothering with. She said my Uncle Robert was ‘fantastic in the sack’ when he was younger, but
that his ‘tackle’ could no longer rise to the occasion, and that they slept in separate rooms. Auntie Val might’ve had a fair bit to drink, but she and Uncle Robert did eventually break up, and she has only been known to date wildly age-inappropriate younger men ever since.

  With that to potentially look forward to in my future, you’d think I’d take whatever I could get now … except right now, my leg is literally broken in half.

  ‘Boy, are you out of your mind?’ I ask Patrick. He’s lying in my bed next to me, caressing the thigh of my good leg. I know he isn’t comforting me though, he’s caressing with intent.

  ‘What?’ he replies innocently.

  ‘Are you seriously putting the moves on me right now?’

  ‘I thought you’d welcome the distraction,’ he says.

  I slowly eject every drop of air from my lungs.

  ‘I’ve been awake almost all night, in so much pain, unable to get comfortable, and you think thrashing away at me is going to make me feel better?’ I reply in disbelief.

  ‘Usually you like my thrashing,’ he replies. ‘Plus, I’m going to Amsterdam for work for a few days, so …’

  ‘You are?’

  ‘I told you I was.’

  ‘You absolutely didn’t,’ I reply.

  ‘Hmm.’ He ponders whether he did or didn’t tell me for a moment. ‘Yeah, it’s for work. For a few days.’

  ‘Oh,’ I reply.

  ‘Did you think I was going to be able to look after you?’

  ‘I did …’

  ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘Maybe ask your friends?’

  ‘Erm, yeah, OK.’

  I don’t really know what else to say. If he has to work, then he has to work.

  ‘I should call work, actually, explain what has happened,’ I say.

  Patrick plants a peck on my forehead.

  ‘I’d better get ready for work,’ he says, hopping out of bed. I can’t help but envy the ease with which he is able to switch from lying to standing. For me, it feels like a distant memory – and it’s only been ten hours! ‘I’ll leave you to your call.’

  Patrick has always slept naked. I think he’d prefer to be naked all day long, if he weren’t so into fashion. I like that though, that he cares about what he wears and how he looks. He works hard to keep in shape, and he has a beauty regime to rival my own, but he looks incredible for it, with his rippling muscles, his £60 pompadour haircut, his neat, short beard and his threaded eyebrows.

  I can’t help but admire him as he walks across the bedroom. I don’t think that I’m out of his league, or anything like that, but I do know how lucky I am. Women just seem to fall at his feet.

  I carefully reach for my mobile, to call my boss. My plan is to – hopefully – take a couple of days off, just until I get the hang of the wheelchair, and the pain settles down, but then it will be business as usual, as far as actual business is concerned, at least.

  ‘Hello,’ Andrea pants down the phone.

  ‘Oh, erm, hello … It’s Lola James … Sorry, did I wake you?’

  ‘No, no, I’m in the gym,’ she replies.

  That’s a huge relief. It would be so like my randy boss to answer her phone while she was at it.

  We both work for the Beautiful People Agency, which manages a range of clients who are either rich, famous, or an obvious combination of both, giving perfect people their perfect lives. We handle finding them work, advertising deals, we manage their appearance (both how they look and how they come across) – we even have an in-house estate agency, to make sure that they live in the perfect place for them. And then there’s the department I work for, handling their relationships. I play cupid to the rich and famous, not only finding them their perfect matches, but also advising them on all areas of their love lives. It’s a strange job sometimes, but I absolutely love it. How many people can put on their CV that they gave rock star Dylan King advice on a particular aspect of his lovemaking game? It’s got to be fewer than five.

  ‘Oh, on Friday, did you find someone for Kelly Parker in the end?’ she asks me.

  ‘I did, yes.’

  ‘Someone from the Bin?’

  ‘Yep. Fabrizio Napoletano – he was on Love Island last year …’

  The Bin is a particular category of client we talk about in the office, referring to someone who we signed (usually off the back of a reality TV show), who we are thinking of dropping. Before we do so, we’ll keep them in the Bin for a while, until we can match them with someone of a higher calibre (dictated by our guidelines). It sounds awful, but I do take pride in my work, and I will absolutely not pair up anyone who I don’t truly believe belong together. My job is to find perfect relationships for people who find it hard to meet people. It’s not easy, being rich or famous – there are thousands of people willing to date you (or even marry you) simply for your money and status. But I can spot a fake from a mile off, and I have a one hundred per cent success record. I’m so good that my company offers a money-back guarantee.

  ‘Great,’ she replies.

  I hear a few beeps coming from whatever machine she’s using. It sounds like she’s getting faster.

  ‘So, what couldn’t wait until you got to the office tomorrow?’ she asks.

  ‘Oh, God, it’s Sunday, isn’t it? Sorry, I get so confused with Patrick working seven days a week. I thought I was in work today.’

  ‘Not today,’ Andrea says with a snort. ‘Don’t worry, I was up for my workout anyway. Can it wait until tomorrow?’

  ‘Well, I’m not going to be able to come in tomorrow either,’ I start.

  ‘Oh. It’s not like you to take sick days,’ she says.

  ‘I know,’ I reply. ‘But, well, I’ve broken my leg.’

  ‘Oh, no, that’s terrible,’ she replies.

  ‘Yes, it’s not ideal. I’m in a wheelchair, actually. I’m not allowed to put weight on it – they didn’t even give me any crutches for these first couple of weeks.’

  ‘Oh gosh …’

  ‘And my silly apartment has steps in it, so I’m going to have to find a friend to stay with.’

  ‘Lola, listen, it sounds like you’ve got a lot on your plate right now.’

  ‘I am figuring it all out, don’t worry.’

  ‘It’s not just that,’ she starts. ‘You know, having you in a wheelchair in the office, it’s just not practical. You’re not going to be able to get around to clients, you’re going to need ramps and whatnot – it’s going to be a logistical nightmare.’

  ‘So …’

  ‘So, I’m going to hand over all your work to Angel, until you’re back on your feet, and I won’t hear another word on the subject, OK?’

  Pssh. Angel. She isn’t like any angel I’ve ever heard of, she’s more like a devil. She’s my office frenemy, the thorn in my side, the one always vying for Andrea’s attention and trying to pinch my high-profile clients, because hers are all from the Bin. I always knew she was after my job, I guess now she’s going to get it. At least it’s only temporary.

  ‘OK then,’ I reply, but it’s absolutely not OK.

  ‘You rest up and take care now,’ she insists, before hanging up the phone.

  For a moment I just stare into space.

  Andrea is right: I don’t ever take sick days. I work myself into the ground for that company. Suddenly, because I’m in plaster and being pushed around in a wheelchair, I’m, what, not cool enough to be seen around the office? Andrea always tells us that we’re selling a sexy lifestyle, so it’s important that we look sexy. While I’m not entirely sure how legal this might be, female employees have to adhere to an office-wide ban on ponytails, trousers, and natural-look make-up. I don’t mind too much. I like to have my long blonde hair flowing, wear nice clothes, and spend time applying my make-up each day. I do it for myself, not because Andrea tells me to. I feel like I really fit in there, which is why I’m so gutted to be put on the bench.

  My next order of business is to find someone I can stay with. Patrick might not be able t
o look after me but, lucky for me, I have a lot of friends.

  I call Gia, my best friend. I’m sure she’ll be dying to know if I’m OK, but with last night being her wedding night, I didn’t want to put a downer on things.

  ‘Heeey,’ she sings down the phone.

  ‘Hey, how was last night?’

  ‘Oh, amazing,’ she replies brightly. ‘Just … magical. Where did you end up?’

  ‘I fell.’

  ‘Yeah, I saw,’ she replies. ‘After that?’

  ‘The hospital, Gia …’

  ‘Oh, wow, how you feeling now?’

  ‘Not great,’ I confess. ‘I’ve broken my leg.’

  ‘No way!’

  ‘Way,’ I reply. ‘I’m in a wheelchair.’

  ‘Ah, Lola, that’s awful. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I reply.

  I’m so lucky, to have a best friend like Gia.

  ‘The worst thing is, Patrick is going away for work, so he can’t look after me. And I’ve got that silly step in my apartment.’

  ‘Oh, gosh, yeah,’ she replies. ‘I forgot about that.’

  I hear Gia giggling.

  ‘Stop it,’ she whispers.

  ‘Do you want me to let you go?’ I ask.

  ‘No, it’s just Kent, being a randy newlywed. Get off, Kent, I’m talking to Lola. She’s broken her leg.’

  ‘Get well soon, Lola,’ he calls down the phone.

  ‘Tell him thank you,’ I say. ‘Anyway, Patrick can’t look after me, so I’m just trying to work out what to do.’

  ‘Oh, well, Lola, you know I’m going on honeymoon,’ she reminds me.

  ‘Yeah, in three weeks, right?’ I reply.

  I wasn’t necessarily angling to stay with her – I get that she’s a newlywed – but I’m surprised she hasn’t offered. She’s my best friend, and she and Kent live in a massive house. Everything I could possibly need is downstairs in her house. I thought she might have suggested I look after the place while she’s in Bali for three weeks or something. Just offered, even if she knows I’ll say no. All the more reason to ask, right?