But that was what he was going to do.
One slow, faltering, painful step at a time.
He was going to prove to the world that he could walk again—and perhaps convince himself at the same time.
It was all about going forward and pretending to the outside world that his old life was not a total sham, while his new life was as yet a complete mystery.
The doctors had made it clear: no more climbing, no more high-risk sports, no more doing the job which had taken him all over the world filming the more exciting experiences an adrenaline junkie could find on this planet.
And in his heart and gut he knew that they were right. Not just because his body was no longer capable of taking that amount of relentless punishment month after month, year after year, but because of something more important.
The day that he had lost his climbing partner was the day that his old life had ended.
Tom Harris had saved his life more than once since their first crazy adventures at university. Tom had been his best friend, the older brother he’d never had.
And now Tom was dead, killed in a fall that Hal relived in Technicolor detail every night in his dreams, and was reminded of every single time he looked at his leg or felt the ridge on his head where he had fractured his skull. It had been five months, but the memory of those terrible few minutes on the mountain was still as fresh as yesterday. Just as vivid; just as painful; just as traumatic.
And some part of Hal had died that day too.
This made his decision to come back to London and work on the charity Tom had founded both logical and ridiculous at the same time. Every time Tom’s name was mentioned it was like an ice-axe going into his gut again.
But what else could he do? He was the one who had suggested to Tom that the events company he’d created with his sister should organise a fundraising event for the work with disabled climbers that Tom had become passionate about during the last year of his life.
It was little wonder that Poppy had telephoned him to ask when he was planning to arrive to help her with the arrangements, claiming that she was snowed under with other work she desperately needed to spend time on. His sister certainly knew which buttons to press to bring on even more guilt. It had been his decision to leave Poppy to run the company on her own while he had enjoyed the life of action and excitement he had always yearned for during the years they had spent building up the company together.
But it was more than that, and she knew it.
He was expected to be at the fundraiser, both as Tom’s friend and as the co-founder of Langdon Events—even if that meant that he would have to endure the constant reminders of the man Tom had been.
He would survive the next week in the same way that he had survived the last five months: one day at a time. Each day was filled with the confused feelings of anger and resentment at the way Tom had died blended with his own overwhelming feeling of failure and the endless self-recriminations.
He had to start taking action and getting back into some sort of work—otherwise he would be guilty of failing Tom all over again.
Head back, chin up, chest forward, Hal glanced at the huge plate-glass doors that marked the entrance to the elegant stone building where Langdon Events rented a second-floor office. He gave a low chuckle and shook his head in disgust.
There were three flights of steep stone steps between the pavement and the entrance. He knew that there was a ramp at the back of the building, but he had not spent his life leading from the front to use the disabled entrance now, even if his sister Poppy did call him stubborn. He was determined to negotiate the steps leading up to the front entrance just like he had before.
Hal Langdon looked up at the glass doors, clenched his fingers tight around the rubber grip of his crutch and braced his jaw even tighter.
Just as Hal was about to take that first step with his good right leg, he was distracted by a flash of movement from inside the building; a few seconds later the glass doors slid open. A pretty girl skipped down the steps onto the pavement, and in seconds was on the other side of the road.
Her attention was so fixed on her target that she had not even glanced once in his direction. He watched in amusement as she weaved her way through the bustling crowds and clusters of tourists who flocked to this part of Covent Garden.
She was clearly a girl on a mission.
He could not resist a smirk at the way she ducked and dived from side to side, onto the road then back onto the pavement, shoulder-bag tight across her chest, elbows tucked into her sides. Her face was totally focused on the goal—so focused that she probably did not realise that she was biting her lower lip in concentration and that her reddish-brown hair was flying up around her pale face.
Black trousers and a coffee-coloured blouse could not disguise a great figure—and also a tantalising glimpse of a shapely ankle above shoes with the kind of heels Poppy would kill for. Someone somewhere must be in desperate need of coffee to send this poor girl out on a mission in that outfit in what passed for a warm day in London.
He was almost disappointed when she turned the corner and was immediately swallowed up out of view. Good for you, he acknowledged with a twist of his upper lip. Mission accomplished.
Time to find out if some of that sense of purpose would rub off on him.
Ten minutes later he stepped out of the elevator, his ankle still aching with the effort, his T-shirt damp with perspiration. He steadied himself for a few minutes to cool off, before taking the few steps to the office he had last seen over a year ago.
Not much had changed, not even the small blonde girl sitting with her head down behind the wide partners’ desk they had bought with such enthusiasm all those years ago so that they could work together from the same office.
Buying such an enormous desk had seemed like a good idea at the time.
Now she looked tiny, and swamped by the stacks of boxes and folders which seemed to cover every flat space in the room.
A twinge of guilt heightened the tension in his shoulders. She was overworked and would probably have asked him back even earlier if it had not been for his injury.
He shuffled on his crutch and her head lifted. ‘Oh, that was fast, Mimi. How did you manage to …? Hal!’ Poppy squealed and flung herself out of her chair and into his chest, her knee connecting with his leg as she pressed against him.
‘Ouch!’ He flinched and hugged her back, one-handed.
‘Sorry,’ she replied and ducked her head. ‘Your leg; I had forgotten for a minute.’
Then she stood back with her hands on her hips and slowly shook her head. ‘Something is definitely different about you today.’ She pretended to scan him from head to toe. ‘Is it the hair—which is desperate for a restyle, by the way? Or perhaps the jacket? No?’
Hal snorted and Poppy laughed, stepped forward and kissed him warmly on the cheek.
‘That boot may not win many fashion awards but it is certainly a big improvement on the horrible cast. You look a lot better.’
Then she play-thumped him on the arm.
‘You pest! I should be annoyed at you. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? I could have picked you up at the airport—made a fuss of you.’
‘You mean apart from the fact that you have a bucket-seat sports car built for one tiny person and their handbag?’
‘Well, yes, apart from that small detail.’ Poppy waved her arm towards the office chair and Hal lowered himself into it very slowly, leg out in front of him. The office was so small that Poppy had to step over his leg to reach her chair.
‘Tell me