Two weeks passed and with them emerged a routine of sorts. Every morning I
would arrive at Granta House at eight, call out that I was there and then, after
Nathan had finished helping Will dress, listen carefully while he told me what I
needed to know about Will’s meds - or, more importantly, his mood.
After Nathan had left I would programme the radio or television for Will,
dispense his pills, sometimes crushing them with the little marble pestle and
mortar. Usually, after ten minutes or so he would make it clear that he was weary
of my presence. At this point I would eke out the little annexe’s domestic tasks,
washing tea towels that weren’t dirty, or using random vacuum attachments to
clean tiny bits of skirting or window sill, religiously popping my head round the
door every fifteen minutes as Mrs Traynor had instructed. When I did, he would
be sitting in his chair looking out into the bleak garden.
Later I might take him a drink of water, or one of the calorie-filled drinks that
were supposed to keep his weight up and looked like pastel-coloured wallpaper
paste, or give him his food. He could move his hands a little, but not his arm, so
he had to be fed forkful by forkful. This was the worst part of the day; it seemed
wrong, somehow, spoon-feeding a grown man, and my embarrassment made me
clumsy and awkward. Will hated it so much he wouldn’t even meet my eye
while I was doing it.
And then shortly before one, Nathan would arrive and I would grab my coat
and disappear to walk the streets, sometimes eating my lunch in the bus shelter
outside the castle. It was cold and I probably looked pathetic perched there
eating my sandwiches, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t spend a whole day in that
house.
In the afternoon I would put a film on - Will had a membership of a DVD
club and new films arrived by post every day - but he never invited me to watch
with him, so I’d usually go and sit in the kitchen or in the spare room. I started
bringing in a book or magazine, but I felt oddly guilty not actually working, and
I could never quite concentrate on the words. Occasionally, at the end of the day,
Mrs Traynor would pop in - although she never said much to me, other than
'Everything all right?’ to which the only acceptable answer seemed to be ‘Yes’.
She would ask Will if he wanted anything, occasionally suggest something he
might like to do tomorrow - some outing, or some friend who had asked after
him - and he would almost always answer dismissively, if not with downright
mdeness. She would look pained, run her fingers up and down that little gold
chain, and disappear again.
His father, a well-padded, gentle-looking man, usually came in as I was
leaving. He was the kind of man you might see watching cricket in a Panama
hat, and had apparently overseen the management of the castle since retiring
from his well-paid job in the city. I suspected this was like a benign landowner
digging in the odd potato just 'to keep his hand in’. He finished every day at
5pm promptly and would sit and watch television with Will. Sometimes I heard
him making some remark about whatever was on the news as I left.
I got to study Will Traynor up close, in those first couple of weeks. I saw that
he seemed determined not to look anything like the man he had been; he had let
his light-brown hair grow into a shapeless mess, his stubble crawl across his jaw.
His grey eyes were lined with exhaustion, or the effect of constant discomfort
(Nathan said he was rarely comfortable). They bore the hollow look of someone
who was always a few steps removed from the world around him. Sometimes I
wondered if it was a defence mechanism, whether the only way to cope with his
life was to pretend it wasn’t him it was happening to.
I wanted to feel sorry for him. I really did. I thought he was the saddest person
I had ever met, in those moments when I glimpsed him staring out of the
window. And as the days went by and I realized that his condition was not just a
matter of being stuck in that chair, of the loss of physical freedom, but a never-
ending litany of indignities and health problems, of risks and discomforts, I
decided that if I were Will, I would probably be pretty miserable too.
But oh Lord, he was vile to me. Everything I said, he had a sharp answer for.
If I asked him if he was warm enough, he would retort that he was quite capable
of letting me know if he needed another blanket. If I asked if the vacuum cleaner
was too noisy for him - I hadn’t wanted to interrupt his film - he asked me why,
had I worked out a way to make it run silently? When I fed him, he complained
that the food was too hot or too cold, or that I had brought the next forkful up to
his mouth before he had finished the last. He had the ability to twist almost
anything I said or did so that I seemed stupid.
During those first two weeks, I got quite good at keeping my face completely
blank, and I would turn away and disappear into the other room and just say as
little to him as I possibly could. I started to hate him, and I’m sure he knew it.
I hadn’t realized it was possible to miss my old job more than I already did. I
missed Frank, and the way he actually looked pleased to see me when I arrived
in the morning. I missed the customers, their company, and the easy chatter that
swelled and dipped gently like a benign sea around me. This house, beautiful
and expensive as it was, was as still and silent as a morgue. Six months, I
repeated under my breath, when it felt unbearable. Six months.
And then on the Thursday, just as I was mixing Will’s mid-morning, high-
calorie drink, I heard Mrs Traynor’s voice in the hall. Except this time there were
other voices too. I waited, the fork stilled in my hand. I could just make out a
woman’s voice, young, well-spoken, and a man’s.
Mrs Traynor appeared in the kitchen doorway, and I tried to look busy,
whisking briskly at the beaker.
‘Is that made up with 60:40 water and milk?’ she asked, peering at the drink.
‘Yes. It’s the strawberry one.’
‘Will’s friends have come to see him. It would probably be best if you -’
‘I’ve got lots of things I should be doing in here,’ I said. I was actually quite
relieved that I would be spared his company for an hour or so. I screwed the lid
on to the beaker. ‘Would your guests like some tea or coffee?’
She looked almost surprised. ‘Yes. That would be very kind. Coffee. I think
I’ll ... ’
She seemed even more tense than usual, her eyes darting towards the corridor,
from where we could hear the low murmur of voices. I guessed that Will didn’t
get many visitors.
‘I think ... I’ll leave them all to it.’ She gazed out into the corridor, her
thoughts apparently far away. ‘Rupert. It’s Rupert, his old friend from work,’ she
said, suddenly turning towards me.
I got the feeling that this was in some way momentous, and that she needed to
share it with someone, even if it was just me.
‘And Alicia. They were ... very close ... for a bit. Tea would be lovely. Thank
you, Miss Clark.’
I hesitated a moment before I opened the door, leaning against it with my hip so
that I could balance the tray in my hands.
‘Mrs Traynor said you might like some coffee,’ I said as I entered, placing the
tray on the low table. As I placed Will’s beaker in the holder of his chair, turning
the straw so that he only needed to adjust his head position to reach it, I sneaked
a look at his visitors.
It was the woman I noticed first. Long-legged and blonde-haired, with pale
caramel skin, she was the kind of woman who makes me wonder if humans
really are all the same species. She looked like a human racehorse. I had seen
these women occasionally; they were usually bouncing up the hill to the castle,
clutching small Boden-clad children, and when they came into the cafe their
voices would carry, crystal clear and unself conscious, as they asked, ‘Harry,
darling, would you like a coffee? Shall I see if they can do you a macchiato?’
This was definitely a macchiato woman. Everything about her smelt of money,
of entitlement and a life lived as if through the pages of a glossy magazine.
Then I looked at her more closely and realized with a jolt that a) she was the
woman in Will’s skiing photograph, and b) she looked really, really
uncomfortable.
She had kissed Will on the cheek and was now stepping backwards, smiling
awkwardly. She was wearing a brown shearling gilet, the kind of thing that
would have made me look like a yeti, and a pale-grey cashmere scarf around her
neck, which she began to fiddle with, as if she couldn’t decide whether to
unwrap herself or not.
‘You look well,’ she said to him. ‘Really. You’ve ... grown your hair a bit.’
Will didn’t say a thing. He was just looking at her, his expression as
unreadable as ever. I felt a fleeting gratitude that it wasn’t just me he looked at
like that.
‘New chair, eh?’ The man tapped the back of Will’s chair, chin compressed,
nodding in approval as if he were admiring a top-of-the-range sports car.
'Looks ... pretty smart. Very ... high tech.’
I didn’t know what to do. I stood there for a moment, shifting from one foot to
another, until Will’s voice broke into the silence.
'Louisa, would you mind putting some more logs on the fire? I think it needs
building up a bit.’
It was the first time he had used my Christian name.
‘Sure,’ I said.
I busied myself by the log burner, stoking the fire and sorting through the
basket for logs of the right size.
‘Gosh, it’s cold outside,’ the woman said. 'Nice to have a proper fire.’
I opened the door of the wood burner, prodding at the glowing logs with the
poker.
‘It’s a good few degrees colder here than London.’
‘Yes, definitely,’ the man agreed.
‘I was thinking of getting a wood burner at home. Apparently they’re much
more efficient than an open fire.’ Alicia stooped a little to inspect this one, as if
she’d never actually seen one before.
‘Yes, I’ve heard that,’ said the man.
‘I must look into it. One of those things you mean to do and then ... ’ she
tailed off. ‘Lovely coffee,’ she added, after a pause.
‘So - what have you been up to, Will?’ The man’s voice held a kind of forced
joviality to it.
‘Not very much, funnily enough.’
‘But the physio and stuff. Is it all coming on? Any ... improvement?’
‘I don’t think I’ll be skiing any time soon, Rupert,’ Will said, his voice
dripping with sarcasm.
I almost smiled to myself. This was the Will I knew. I began brushing ash
from the hearth. I had the feeling that they were all watching me. The silence felt
loaded. I wondered briefly whether the label was sticking out of my jumper and
fought the urge to check.
‘So ... ’ Will said finally. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure? It’s been ... eight
months?’
‘Oh, I know. I’m sorry. It’s been ... I’ve been awfully busy. I have a new job
over in Chelsea. Managing Sasha Goldstein’s boutique. Do you remember
Sasha? I’ve been doing a lot of weekend work too. It gets terribly busy on
Saturdays. Very hard to get time off.’ Alicia’s voice had become brittle. ‘I did
ring a couple of times. Did your mother tell you?’
Things have been pretty manic at Lewins. You ... you know what it’s like,
Will. We’ve got a new partner. Chap from New York. Bains. Dan Bains. You
come up against him at all?’
‘No.’
‘Bloody man seems to work twenty-four hours a day and expects everyone
else to do the same.’ You could hear the man’s palpable relief at having found a
topic he was comfortable with. ‘You know the old Yank work ethic - no more
long lunches, no smutty jokes - Will, I tell you. The whole atmosphere of the
place has changed.’
‘Really.’
‘Oh God, yes. Presenteeism writ large. Sometimes I feel like I daren’t leave
my chair.’
All the air seemed to disappear from the room in a vacuumed rush. Someone
coughed.
I stood up, and wiped my hands on my jeans. ‘I’ll ... I’m just going to fetch
some more logs,’ I muttered, in Will’s general direction.
And I picked up the basket and fled.
It was freezing outside, but I lingered out there, killing time while I selected
pieces of wood. I was trying to calculate whether it was preferable to lose the
odd finger to frostbite rather than put myself back into that room. But it was just
too cold and my index finger, which I use for sewing stuff, went blue first and
finally I had to admit defeat. I hauled the wood as slowly as possible, letting
myself in to the annexe, and walked slowly back down the corridor. As I
approached the living room I heard the woman’s voice, weaving its way through
the slightly open door.
‘Actually, Will, there is another reason for us coming here,’ she was saying.
‘We ... have some news.’
I hesitated by the door, the log basket braced between my hands.
‘I thought - well, we thought - that it would only be right to let you
know ... but, well, here’s the thing. Rupert and I are getting married.’
I stood very still, calculating whether I could turn round without being heard.
The woman continued, lamely. 'Look, I know this is probably a bit of a shock
to you. Actually, it was rather a shock to me. We - it - well, it only really started
a long time after ... 5
My arms had begun to ache. I glanced down at the basket, trying to work out
what to do.
‘Well, you know you and I ... we ... 5
Another weighty silence.
‘Will, please say something.’
‘Congratulations,’ he said finally.
‘I know what you’re thinking. But neither of us meant for this to happen.
Really. For an awful long time we were just friends. Friends who were
concerned about you. It’s just that Rupert was the most terrific support to me
after your accident -’
‘Big of him.’
‘Please don’t be like this. This is so awful. I have absolutely dreaded telling
you. We both have.’
‘Evidently,’ Will said flatly.
Rupert’s voice broke in. ‘Look, we’re only telling you because we both care
about you. We didn’t want you to hear it from someone else. But, you know, life
goes on. You must know that. It’s been two years, after all.’
There was silence. I realized I did not want to listen to any more, and started
to move softly away from the door, grunting slightly with the effort. But
Rupert’s voice, when it came again, had grown in volume so that I could still
hear him.
‘Come on, man. I know it must be terribly hard ... all this. But if you care for
Lissa at all, you must want her to have a good life.’
‘Say something, Will. Please.’
I could picture his face. I could see that look of his that managed to be both
unreadable and to convey a kind of distant contempt.
‘Congratulations,’ he said, finally. ‘I’m sure you’ll both be very happy.’
Alicia started to protest then - something indistinct - but was interrupted by
Rupert. ‘Come on, Lissa. I think we should leave. Will, it’s not like we came
here expecting your blessing. It was a courtesy. Lissa thought - well, we both
just thought - you should know. Sorry, old chap. I ... I do hope things improve
for you and I hope you do want to stay in touch when things ... you
know ... when things settle down a bit.’
I heard footsteps, and stooped over the basket of logs, as if I had only just
come in. I heard them in the corridor and then Alicia appeared in front of me.
Her eyes were red-rimmed, as if she were about to cry.
‘Can I use the bathroom?’ she said, her voice thick and choked.
I slowly lifted a finger and pointed mutely in its direction.
She looked at me hard then, and I realized that what I felt probably showed on
my face. I have never been much good at hiding my feelings.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ she said, after a pause. ‘But I did try. I really
tried. For months. And he just pushed me away.’ Her jaw was rigid, her
expression oddly furious. ‘He actually didn’t want me here. He made that very
clear.’
She seemed to be waiting for me to say something.
‘It’s really none of my business,’ I said, eventually.
We both stood facing each other.
‘You know, you can only actually help someone who wants to be helped,’ she
said.
And then she was gone.
I waited a couple of minutes, listening for the sound of their car disappearing
down the drive, and then I went into the kitchen. I stood there and boiled the
kettle even though I didn’t want a cup of tea. I flicked through a magazine that I
had already read. Finally, I went back into the corridor and, with a grunt, picked
up the log basket and hauled it into the living room, bumping it slightly on the
door before I entered so that Will would know I was coming.
‘I was wondering if you wanted me to -’ I began.
But there was nobody there.
The room was empty.
It was then that I heard the crash. I ran out into the corridor just in time to hear
another, followed by the sound of splintering glass. It was coming from Will’s
bedroom. Oh God, please don’t let him have hurt himself. I panicked - Mrs
Traynor’s warning drilled through my head. I had left him for more than fifteen
minutes.
I ran down the corridor, slid to a halt in the doorway and stood, both hands
gripping the door frame. Will was in the middle of the room, upright in his chair,
a walking stick balanced across the armrests, so that it jutted eighteen inches to
his left - a jousting stick. There was not a single photograph left on the long
shelves; the expensive frames lay in pieces all over the floor, the carpet studded
with glittering shards of glass. His lap was dusted with bits of glass and
splintered wood frames. I took in the scene of destruction, feeling my heart rate
slowly subside as I grasped that he was unhurt. Will was breathing hard, as if
whatever he had done had cost him some effort.
His chair turned, cmnching slightly on the glass. His eyes met mine. They
were infinitely weary. They dared me to offer him sympathy.
I looked down at his lap, and then at the floor around him. I could just make
out the picture of him and Alicia, her face now obscured by a bent silver frame,
amongst the other casualties.
I swallowed, staring at it, and slowly lifted my eyes to his. Those few seconds
were the longest I could remember.
‘Can that thing get a puncture?’ I said, finally, nodding at his wheelchair.
‘Because I have no idea where I would put the jack.’
His eyes widened. Just for a moment, I thought I had really blown it. But the
faintest flicker of a smile passed across his face.
‘Look, don’t move,’ I said. ‘I’ll get the vacuum cleaner.’
I heard the walking stick drop to the floor. As I left the room, I thought I
might have heard him say sorry.
The Kings Head was always busy on a Thursday evening, and in the corner of
the snug it was even busier. I sat squashed between Patrick and a man whose
name appeared to be the Rutter, staring periodically at the horse brasses pinned
to the oak beams above my head and the photographs of the castle that
punctuated the joists, and tried to look even vaguely interested in the talk around
me, which seemed to revolve chiefly around body fat ratios and carb loading.
I had always thought the fortnightly meetings of the Hailsbury Triathlon
Terrors must be a publican’s worst nightmare. I was the only one drinking
alcohol, and my solitary packet of crisps sat crumpled and empty on the table.
Everyone else sipped at mineral water, or checked the sweetener ratios on their
Diet Cokes. When they, finally, ordered food there wouldn’t be a salad that was
allowed to brush a leaf against a full-fat dressing, or a piece of chicken that still
sported its skin. I often ordered chips, just so that I could watch them all pretend
they didn’t want one.
‘Phil hit the wall about forty miles in. He said he actually heard voices. Feet
like lead. He had that zombie face, you know?’
‘I got some of those new Japanese balancing trainers fitted. Shaved fifteen
minutes off my ten-mile timings.’
‘Don’t travel with a soft bike bag. Nigel arrived at tricamp with it looking like
a ruddy coat hanger.’
I couldn’t say I enjoyed the Triathlon Terrors’ gatherings, but what with my
increased hours and Patrick’s training timetable it was one of the few times I
could be guaranteed to see him. He sat beside me, muscular thighs clad in shorts
despite the extreme cold outside. It was a badge of honour among the members
of the club to wear as few clothes as possible. The men were wiry, brandishing
obscure and expensive sports layers that boasted extra ‘wicking’ properties, or
lighter-than-air bodyweights. They were called Scud or Trig, and flexed bits of
body at each other, displaying injuries or alleged muscle growth. The girls wore
no make-up, and had the ruddy complexions of those who thought nothing of
jogging for miles through icy conditions. They looked at me with faint distaste -
or perhaps even incomprehension - no doubt weighing up my fat to muscle ratio
and finding it wanting.
‘It was awful,’ I told Patrick, wondering whether I could order cheesecake
without them all giving me the Death Stare. ‘His girlfriend and his best friend.’
‘You can’t blame her,’ he said. ‘Are you really telling me you’d stick around if
I was paralysed from the neck down?’
‘Of course I would.’
‘No, you wouldn’t. And I wouldn’t expect you to.’
‘Well, I would.’
‘But I wouldn’t want you there. I wouldn’t want someone staying with me out
of pity.’
‘Who says it would be pity? You’d still be the same person underneath.’
‘No, I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t be anything like the same person.’ He wrinkled his
nose. ‘I wouldn’t want to live. Relying on other people for every little thing.
Having strangers wipe your arse
A man with a shaved head thrust his head between us. Tat/ he said, ‘have you
tried that new gel drink? Had one explode in my backpack last week. Never seen
anything like it/
‘Can’t say I have, Trig. Give me a banana and a Lucozade any day.’
‘Dazzer had a Diet Coke when he was doing Norseman. Sicked it all up at
three thousand feet. God, we laughed.’
I raised a weak smile.
Shaven-headed man disappeared and Patrick turned back to me, apparently
still pondering Will’s fate. ‘Jesus. Think of all the things you couldn’t do ... ’ He
shook his head. ‘No more running, no more cycling.’ He looked at me as if it had
just occurred to him. ‘No more sex.’
‘Of course you could have sex. It’s just that the woman would have to get on
top.’
‘We’d be stuffed, then.’
‘Funny.’
‘Besides, if you’re paralysed from the neck down I’m guessing
the ... um ... equipment doesn’t work as it should.’
I thought of Alicia. I did try, she said./ really tried. For months.
‘I’m sure it does with some people. Anyway, there must be a way around
these things if you ... think imaginatively.’
‘Hah.’ Patrick took a sip of his water. ‘You’ll have to ask him tomorrow.
Look, you said he’s horrible. Perhaps he was horrible before his accident.
Perhaps that’s the real reason she dumped him. Have you thought of that?’
‘I don’t know ... ’ I thought of the photograph. ‘They looked like they were
really happy together.’ Then again, what did a photograph prove? I had a framed
photograph at home where I was beaming at Patrick like he had just pulled me
from a burning building, yet in reality I had just called him an ‘utter dick’ and he
had responded with a hearty, ‘Oh, piss off!’
Patrick had lost interest. ‘Hey, Jim ... Jim, did you take a look at that new
lightweight bike? Any good?’
I let him change the subject, thinking about what Alicia had said. I could well
imagine Will pushing her away. But surely if you loved someone it was your job
to stick with them? To help them through the depression? In sickness and in
health, and all that?
‘Another drink?’
‘Vodka tonic. Slimline tonic,’ I said, as he raised an eyebrow.
Patrick shrugged and headed to the bar.
I had started to feel a little guilty about the way we were discussing my
employer. Especially when I realized that he probably endured it all the time. It
was almost impossible not to speculate about the more intimate aspects of his
life. I tuned out. There was talk of a training weekend in Spain. I was only
listening with half an ear, until Patrick reappeared at my side and nudged me.
‘Fancy it?’
‘What?’
‘Weekend in Spain. Instead of the Greek holiday. You could put your feet up
by the pool if you don’t fancy the forty-mile bike ride. We could get cheap
flights. Six weeks’ time. Now you’re rolling in it... ’
I thought of Mrs Traynor. ‘I don’t know ... I’m not sure they’re going to be
keen on me taking time off so soon.’
‘You mind if I go, then? I really fancy getting some altitude training in. I’m
thinking about doing the big one.’
‘The big what?’
‘Triathlon. The Xtreme Viking. Sixty miles on a bike, thirty miles on foot, and
a nice long swim in sub-zero Nordic seas.’
The Viking was spoken about with reverence, those who had competed
bearing their injuries like veterans of some distant and particularly brutal war.
He was almost smacking his lips with anticipation. I looked at my boyfriend and
wondered if he was actually an alien. I thought briefly that I had preferred him
when he worked in telesales and couldn’t pass a petrol station without stocking
up on Mars Bars.
‘You’re going to do it?’
‘Why not? I’ve never been fitter.’
I thought of all that extra training - the endless conversations about weight
and distance, fitness and endurance. It was hard enough getting Patrick’s
attention these days at the best of times.
‘You could do it with me,’ he said, although we both knew he didn’t believe it.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ I said. ‘Sure. Go for it,’ I said.
And I ordered the cheesecake.
If I had thought the events of the previous day would create a thaw back at
Granta House, I was wrong.
I greeted Will with a broad smile and a cheery hello, and he didn’t even bother
to look round from the window.
‘Not a good day,’ Nathan murmured, as he shouldered his way into his coat.
It was a filthy, low-cloud sort of a morning, where the rain spat meanly
against the windows and it was hard to imagine the sun coming out ever again.
Even I felt glum on a day like this. It wasn’t really a surprise that Will should be
worse. I began to work my way through the morning’s chores, telling myself all
the while that it didn’t matter. You didn’t have to like your employer anyway, did
you? Lots of people didn’t. I thought of Treena’s boss, a taut-faced serial
divorcee who monitored how many times my sister went to the loo and had been
known to make barbed comments if she considered her to have exceeded
reasonable bladder activity. And besides, I had already done two weeks here.
That meant there were only five months and thirteen working days to go.
The photographs were stacked carefully in the bottom drawer, where I had
placed them the previous day, and now, crouched on the floor, I began laying
them out and sorting through them, assessing which frames I might be able to
fix. I am quite good at fixing things. Besides, I thought it might be quite a useful
way of killing time.
I had been doing this for about ten minutes when the discreet hum of the
motorized wheelchair alerted me to Will’s arrival.
He sat there in the doorway, looking at me. There were dark shadows under
his eyes. Sometimes, Nathan told me, he barely slept at all. I didn’t want to think
how it would feel, to lie trapped in a bed you couldn’t get out of with only dark
thoughts to keep you company through the small hours.
‘I thought I’d see if I could fix any of these frames,’ I said, holding one up. It
was the picture of him bungee jumping. I tried to look cheerful. He needs
someone upbeat, someone positive.
‘Why?’
I blinked. ‘Well ... I think some of these can be saved. I brought some wood
glue with me, if you’re happy for me to have a go at them. Or if you want to
replace them I can pop into town during my lunch break and see if I can find
some more. Or we could both go, if you fancied a trip out... ’
‘Who told you to start fixing them?’
His stare was unflinching.
Uh-oh, I thought. ‘I ... I was just trying to help.’
‘You wanted to fix what I did yesterday.’
I -’
‘Do you know what, Louisa? It would be nice - just for once - if someone
paid attention to what I wanted. Me smashing those photographs was not an
accident. It was not an attempt at radical interior design. It was because I
actually don’t want to look at them.’
I got to my feet. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think that -’
‘You thought you knew best. Everyone thinks they know what I need. Let’s
put the bloody photos back together. Give the poor invalid something to look at. I
don’t want to have those bloody pictures staring at me every time I’m stuck in
my bed until someone comes and bloody well gets me out again. Okay? Do you
think you can get your head around that?’
I swallowed. ‘I wasn’t going to fix the one of Alicia - I’m not that stupid ... I
just thought that in a while you might feel -’
‘Oh Christ... ’He turned away from me, his voice scathing. ‘Spare me the
psychological therapy. Just go and read your bloody gossip magazines or
whatever it is you do when you’re not making tea.’
My cheeks were aflame. I watched him manoeuvre in the narrow hallway, and
my voice emerged even before I knew what I was doing.
‘You don’t have to behave like an arse.’
The words rang out in the still air.
The wheelchair stopped. There was a long pause, and then he reversed and
turned slowly, so that he was facing me, his hand on the little joystick.
‘What?’
I faced him, my heart thumping. ‘Your friends got the shitty treatment. Fine.
They probably deserved it. But I’m just here day after day trying to do the best
job I can. So I would really appreciate it if you didn’t make my life as unpleasant
as you do everyone else’s.’
Will’s eyes widened a little. There was a beat before he spoke again. ‘And
what if I told you I didn’t want you here?’
‘I’m not employed by you. I’m employed by your mother. And unless she tells
me she doesn’t want me here any more I’m staying. Not because I particularly
care about you, or like this stupid job or want to change your life one way or
another, but because I need the money. Okay? I really need the money.’
Will Traynor’s expression hadn’t outwardly changed much but I thought I saw
astonishment in there, as if he were unused to anyone disagreeing with him.
Oh hell, I thought, as the reality of what I had just done began to sink in. I’ve
really blown it this time.
But Will just stared at me for a bit and, when I didn’t look away, he let out a
small breath, as if about to say something unpleasant.
‘Fair enough,’ he said, and he turned the wheelchair round. ‘Just put the
photographs in the bottom drawer, will you? All of them.’
And with a low hum, he was gone.
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