There were men he knew, members of his family even, who would not allow their wives to be examined by a male doctor, let alone be touched by a male nurse. He had long since passed that kind of foolishness.
‘I would willingly have let my wife be cared for by a Martian if I’d thought it would have helped her,’ he said.
Would have? Past tense?
Oh, no, Lucy thought, she wasn’t going there…
‘Look, I know you’re just trying to help and I’m grateful, but I’ll be fine once I’m on my feet.’
He looked doubtful.
‘Honestly! Besides, it’s not just a wash I need and I’m telling you now, you can forget any ideas you might have about trying out your bedpan technique on me.’
‘You are a headstrong woman, Lucy Forrester,’ he said. ‘If you fall, hurt yourself, you may end up back in the hospital.’
‘If that happens, you have my full permission to say I told you so.’
‘Very well.’ He glanced around as if looking for something, and said, ‘One moment.’ And with that he swept from the room, dark robes flowing, the total autocrat.
Oh, right. As if she was planning to hang around so that he could enjoy the spectacle of her backside hanging out of the hospital gown.
Sending encouraging little you-can-do-it messages to her limbs, she pushed the sheet down as far as she could reach. Actually it wasn’t that far and, taking a moment to catch her breath, she had to admit that she might have been a bit hasty.
Ironic. All her life she’d been biting her tongue, keeping the peace, not doing anything to cause a fuss, but the minute she was left to her own devices she’d done what her grandmother had always warned her about and turned into her mother.
Impulsive, impetuous and in trouble…
If Hanif bin al-thingy hadn’t been passing she’d have been toast, she knew, and it wasn’t worth dying over.
Money.
She’d been broke all her life and when she’d had money she hadn’t known what to do with it. At least Steve had given her a few weeks of believing herself to be desired, loved.
He might be a cheat, a liar, a con man, but he’d given value for money. Unfortunately there were some things that she couldn’t just chalk up to experience and brush aside. Which was why she had to get out of here…
Everything was going fine until she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and tried to stand up. That was when she discovered what pain really was.
She didn’t cry out as she crumpled up on the floor. She tried, but every bit of breath had been sucked out of her and she couldn’t make a sound, not even when Hanif dropped whatever he was carrying with a clatter and gathered her up, murmuring soft words that she didn’t understand; the meaning came through his voice, the tenderness with which he held her.
Idiot! Han could not believe he’d been so stupid. He was so used to total obedience, to having his orders obeyed without question, without explanation, it had never occurred to him that Lucy would ignore his command to stay put until he found the crutches, the ankle splint, which had been tidied away by someone as he’d dozed on the day bed in the sitting room.
Over and over he murmured his apologies and only when she let her head fall against his shoulder and he felt her relax, did he gently chide her.
‘You could not wait two minutes, Lucy?’
‘I thought I could manage. What have I done?’ she asked into his shoulder. ‘What’s wrong with me?’
‘You’ve torn a ligament in your ankle, that’s all.’
‘All?’ She looked up.
‘I know,’ he sympathised. ‘It is an extremely painful injury.’
She remembered.
At the time it had all happened so quickly that she’d felt nothing. It had been just one pain amongst many. Now, though, she was reliving the moment in slow motion…
He was holding her, supporting her, holding the sheet to her mouth before she even knew she was going to need it, but there was nothing to throw up except water…
By the time her stomach caught up with reality and gave up, she was sweaty and trembling with weakness. He continued to hold her, offering her water, wiping her forehead, her mouth—so gently that she knew her lips must look as bad as they felt.
‘You’re very good at this,’ she said, angry with him, although she couldn’t have said why. Angry with herself for having made such a mess of everything. ‘Are you sure you’re not a nurse?’
‘Quite sure, but I took care of my wife when she was dying.’
His voice, his face, were wiped of all emotion. She wasn’t fooled by that.
She’d become pretty good at hiding her feelings over the years, at least until Steve had walked into her life; he’d certainly cured her of that. But when you knew how it was done it was easy to spot.
‘I’m so sorry…Han,’ she said, trying out the name he’d offered, as near as she could get to an apology for behaving so badly, so thoughtlessly, when all he was doing was trying to help her. When he was clearly reliving all kinds of painful memories.
‘Nausea is to be expected,’ he said distantly.
That wasn’t what she’d been apologising for and she was sure he knew it. Questions crowded into her mind, but she had no right to ask him any of them and she let it go. Better to keep to the practicalities.
‘Didn’t they explain your injuries to you at the hospital?’
‘They tried. I didn’t understand most of what they were saying. I was just so confused. By everything.’ She looked up, appealing for understanding. ‘I saw a mirage,’ she said, trying to make him see. ‘At least I thought I did. Then, after the crash there was an angel. He had gold wings and he was coming to get me and I thought I was dead—’
‘Hush, don’t distress yourself—’
‘And then you were there and I thought… I thought…’
She couldn’t say what she’d thought.
‘You drifted in and out of consciousness for a while. The mind plays tricks. The memory becomes uncertain.’
‘You’re speaking from experience again?’ she asked, trying a wry smile, but suspecting that it lost something of its subtlety in translation from her brain to her face.
‘I’m afraid so.’ Then, ‘They did a scan at the hospital,’ he said, wanting to reassure her. ‘There was no head injury.’
‘Just my ankle? Really? Is that it?’ she asked. ‘No more nasty surprises?’
‘Lacerations and bruising.’
‘Cracked ribs?’
‘No one mentioned anything about cracked ribs,’ he said, finally showing some emotion, if irritation counted as emotion, although not, she thought, with her. ‘Are they sore?’
‘Everything is sore. So, tell me, what’s the prognosis?’
‘The bruises, abrasions, will heal quickly enough and you’ll need to wear a support on your ankle for a couple of weeks, use crutches. That’s where I went. To fetch them for you.’
‘Oh. I didn’t know.’
‘Of course you didn’t. I should have explained.’ His smile was a little creaky, as if it needed oiling, she thought. ‘I’m so used to being obeyed without question.’
‘Really?