‘Where are you?’
‘Trafalgar Square. Waiting for an ambulance. Lydia’s collapsed.’
‘Fucking hell. I told her to go straight to hospital.’
‘What? She never told me that.’
‘Fucking idiot. I told her at the house. When you’d gone, I assumed you were headed there.’
‘She … never said a word.’ Guilt almost strangles my vocal cords. ‘I should have…’
‘She should have told you her leg’s badly infected. Possible sepsis. Tell the paramedics as soon as they get there. She needs pumping full of antibiotics. I told her to go straight to A and E.’
‘She never said anything,’ I murmur again, more to myself than Annette. Stupid. Stupid. What was she thinking? But I know exactly what she was thinking and everything changes in that one moment. Like an explosion deep below the surface, it’s shock waves resonating through me. This is love. Unconditional love. There’s no payment, no expectation. This is Lydia. Selfless and generous. There’s no way I’m ever letting her go. She is everything.
‘I wonder why?’ sighs Annette. ‘You’d better bloody hang on to her.’
I hear sirens growing louder and louder. ‘Don’t worry, I intend to.’
I see Lydia’s eyelids flickering and even though I’ve no idea if she can hear me, I lean down to her head and whisper in her ear, ‘Bloody hell, Lydia. You’d better get better quickly because I’m going to kill you and then I’m not letting you out of my sight. I love you, you crazy idiot. You’re … you’re everything. Remember that. Everything.’ My words are choked in my throat as sheer panic constricts the vocal cords. I haven’t cried for years but it seems today is the day I’m going to start again.
Chapter Thirty-One LYDIA
‘Will you just fuck off! You’ve got your footage, now bugger off.’ My brain might be woozy but it’s pretty obvious Tom is rather irate. I try to gather myself but it’s impossible. It’s as if I’m behind a thick plate of glass and all my senses have gone into hibernation. I give up and keep my eyes closed, aware that I’m lying down and tucked in. It’s the first time I’ve ever given up all responsibility for myself.
Tom is still shouting and although his voice is dull in my head, I can hear every concern-filled word.
Tom. I feel a little goofy. Tom is here. Everything will be okay if Tom is here.
‘Calm down, mate,’ says a very reasonable voice a little distant to Tom’s.
I wonder what the fuss is but it’s hard to work out among the spaced-outness of my head. I’m not sure where I am or why Tom is here.
‘No, I will not calm down. Leave her alone. Just let them get her into the hospital, for fuck’s sake.’
‘The viewers will want to know she’s all right.’
‘She will be if you leave her the fuck alone. Will you switch that bloody camera off.’
It’s the last thing I hear as I slip into the darkness.
There’s movement and I feel myself being lifted. I open my eyes, I’m on a stretcher being lifted by two paramedics out of the white box of what I’m assuming is an ambulance. It’s a new experience.
I try to say something but a garbled ‘Om’ is all that comes out of my mouth.
‘Lydia.’ He’s immediately leaning over me, concern and worry etched into his features. No one would blame me for saying he’s not looking his best, some might even say he’s looking haggard. He takes my hand and he’s not so much squeezing it as hanging on for dear life. ‘It’s okay, we’re at the hospital. You’ve got a drip.’ He lays his other hand so gently on my cheek, you’d think I’m made of tissue paper. His fingers are icy cold next to my hot skin and I shiver but it’s because I’m touched to my very bones by his tenderness. A foolish little warm bubble loosens in my chest.
‘You’re going to be okay.’
Looking around, I see a cameraman, a sound man with a boom, and Mark, who’s saying, ‘This is good stuff. Viewers are going to love the romance.’
Tom doesn’t even glance away, although his impatient growl makes it clear they’re lucky they’ve not been punched. ‘You okay?’ he asks so softly, his eyes never leaving my face. I could almost believe he cares but then I remember. ‘She’s nobody.’
When I wake several hours later, it’s dark and I’m in a small room. Tom is dozing in a chair beside me, one hand on my arm as if worried I might go somewhere. The thought makes me smile as I study his sleeping face. The grey pallor has gone but he still looks exhausted, as if he’s been through an ordeal.
I guess it’s been quite a day. This morning seems a lifetime ago. Like Tom said, ‘We’ve been through an intense few days.’ Amazingly, I’m feeling better – a full-blown miracle. The painful man-trap grip on my leg has eased and the paving slab on my chest lifted, making it so much easier to breathe. Aside from the physical improvement though, there’s a calm inside me – a sensation of ease, though I don’t really know why. Maybe it’s because I’m resigned to what comes next. It’s nothing new and no surprise. Tom might have put things down to Stockholm Syndrome, and that’s his prerogative, but I know what I feel is real.
‘Lydia?’ Tom’s soft whisper pierces the quiet of the room.
‘That’s me,’ I say.
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Alive. Sorry for passing out on you.’
‘You should be sorry for a hell of a lot more.’ He sounds angry, which I wasn’t expecting, but I’m too exhausted to complain even though I want to. Seriously! What right does he have to be angry?
‘I spoke to Annette.’ He leaves the sentence hanging.
‘Oh.’ Why is guilt my immediate response?
There’s a very severe expression on his face as he stands up and sits on the bed, leaning over me, one arm propped on the other side of my waist. My pulse takes a few missteps. I’m an idiot.
‘If you’d got sepsis, you could have died. You’re not stupid, you knew you were taking a risk.’
