Chapter 17

‘Hello?' The voice holds that suspicious waver, which I guess is normal these days when you answer the phone to an unknown number. Ten times out of ten, they're sales or scam calls.

‘Annette, it's me, Tom.' Thank goodness her parents have had the same landline number for twenty years and that it's an easy one to remember. Her mum gave me her mobile number without the inquisition my mum would have given.

‘Tom?'

‘Dereborn. Your cousin?'

‘I know it's you but why are you calling me? And where from?'

‘I don't have my mobile. I need some advice.'

‘Oh dear God. Just let me check.'

‘What?'

‘That the sky hasn't fallen in.'

‘Very funny.' Annette's family is very different from mine. They're very touchy-feely and supportive of each other. What she doesn't realise is that she's always been the bogeyman to me and my siblings. My super-clever cousin who went to Cambridge to do medicine has been held up as the pinnacle of success by my parents. Luckily, she's also super-nice, so when we do see her, we soften towards her, but I wouldn't say any of us have made that much effort beyond familial duty to get to know her, which now as I speak to her I regret because she doesn't hesitate for one second to help.

I explain what's happened.

‘You're on a reality TV show. You?' She giggles. ‘I take it the 'rents have no idea.'

‘What do you think?' I ask with sigh.

‘And what? You think you'll get away with it? Although, rhetorical question. I can't imagine Uncle Nigel and Aunt Barbara would be seen dead watching that "sort of rubbish".' She imitates the snobbish tones of my mother perfectly. ‘What on earth possessed you?'

‘Because … because I want to give up insurance and make films and this is a way of getting some capital behind me.' Maybe spending time with Lydia has made me a little more open. She's always so direct and says what she's thinking; it must have rubbed off.

I wait for the inevitable scoff.

‘Tom, that's brilliant. I always remember that film you made when I had to stay one summer … you shot it on your iPhone and spent two days editing it. You've always been creative like that. I tell my mates to follow your Insta account. Shame your dad was so anti you going to Portsmouth to do Film Production.'

I don't want to remember that. The occasion I broached it was the first time I truly understood the word ‘apoplectic'. That she remembers those silly videos is a surprise. Maybe they were better than I gave them credit for. As a kid, making those was my thing. I always assumed everyone viewed life in images just like I did.

‘So, my friend. I'm really worried about her.' That's an understatement. I just want to scoop her up, hold her and make her better. I've never felt the need to protect and look after someone like this and I don't know what to do with the feelings. One minute they're soaring with elation like butterflies escaping a jar, next minute they're terrifying me because they feel out of my control. What if I can't put the lid on them? I've always been good at schooling my response so that I don't give too much away.

‘Where are you?' My cousin's soft voice intercepts these far too introspective thoughts.

Luckily there were a couple of letters by the front door and with my brilliant detecting skills I've deduced we're near a place called Sadgill and I tell her this.

‘Did she lose consciousness?'

‘I don't think so but I think she might have broken her arm or something.'

Annette asks me a dozen more questions. When I tell her that Lydia's shoulder looks a very odd shape, she makes her diagnosis.

‘It sounds as if she's dislocated her shoulder. Is she with you?'

‘Upstairs.'

‘Can you take the phone upstairs?'

I go up to the bedroom where Lydia is lying in bed looking pale against the pillows. Against the white cotton she looks young and small and just a little fearful.

There it is again, that need to take her hand, hold it and tell her everything will be okay. I'll look after her. This time there's no holding the feelings in. Maybe I can protect myself by focusing on the here and now and compartmentalising things so that they only exist in this place, at this time. The thought reassures me and I give into my need to reassure her.

‘Hey,' I say softly. ‘I'm on the phone to a doctor. I need to see your shoulder.' I have to put the phone down to lift the T-shirt and I carefully avert my eyes from her breasts. I don't want to embarrass her, not when she's so vulnerable. I put Annette on speaker phone.

‘Lydia, this is my cousin, Dr Annette Dereborn. Lydia Smith, Annette.'

‘Hi,' says Lydia. ‘Annette Dereborn? You didn't happen to read Medicine at Cambridge, did you?'

‘Yes!' My cousin names her college and the years she was there and Lydia informs her they had rooms next door to each other. ‘Lydia Smith. Oh my god. Of course I remember you. What a small world. Tom says you've had an accident. How you doing? No, don't answer that. You're with my cousin. The international man of mystery. If you find any juicy dirt on him, do let me know.'

Lydia flashes me a suddenly mischievous grin and mouths ‘What's it worth?'

I give her a reproving look but she ignores it and smiles to herself as if she's plotting.

‘Tom says you've had quite a nasty fall. What hurts the most?'

‘My shoulder and my leg.'

Annette makes me describe what I can see. What I wouldn't give to have an iPhone right now and be able to snap a photo and send it.

‘Definitely dislocated and it sounds as if that gash needs stitches. You need to get to a hospital. Hang on, I've looked it up. The nearest one is Kendal and a taxi there would cost about twenty quid. I can book you an Uber.'

‘We can't,' says Lydia. ‘I'm not going to hospital.' She gives me a recalcitrant glare. ‘I thought you could just pop dislocated shoulders back in. Can't you talk Tom through it?'

Annette takes her words at face value. ‘I could … but it would be?—'

‘I'm not going to hospital,' says Lydia, her white face tight with tension and her eyes imploring me. ‘Please don't make me.' It's the first time she's ever asked me for anything.

I hear Annette huff. ‘I can talk you through it but it's not like the movies where it's instant relief. The tendons, muscles around your shoulder, have been through their own trauma. It's still going to hurt for a few days and you'll have damaged the tissue around the joint. You really need an X-ray.'

‘I can get an X-ray when we get back to London,' says Lydia, her mouth snapping shut with the finality of her decision.

My hands are slick with sweat on the phone receiver. I really do not want to do this.

‘Fine,' says Annette, ‘but this is against my better judgement.'

I put the phone down again and follow her instructions. Lydia has to lie flat with her arm out over the edge of the bed. She grits her teeth and looks away as I follow Annette's instructions.

Lydia's low moan of pain as I move her arm strikes me right to the core. I know it's dragged from her because she's the most stoic person I've ever met. I pause. I can't do this to her.

‘Keep going,' she hisses through her clenched jaw. When I take her arm again, she closes her eyes and I can see her summoning all her willpower and taking slow, deep breaths. Even so, when I move the arm, a heartfelt groan escapes from her. I keep going. There's a horrible crunching sound and then a pop. Lydia screams.

‘Sorry. Sorry. Oh God, are you all right?' I feel sick.

She opens her eyes and there's a slick sheen of sweat across her forehead. She nods but when I look down I can't quite believe it. The grotesque misshapen silhouette of her shoulder is miraculously back to normal. I can scarcely believe it.

‘How does that feel?' I ask, almost too scared to ask.

Lydia stares up at me, unclenching her jaw with great care and takes in a shaky breath. ‘Better,' she whispers. ‘Still hurts. But not like … not like before.'

I cradle her face with one hand because I can't not and stare down at her. At what point did I start to care so much about her? I hate that she's in pain, that I hurt her even though I know I helped.

‘All done?' asks Annette, I'd almost forgotten she was on the other end of the phone.

‘All done,' I confirm, nausea still swirling in my stomach.

‘Well done, Tom. Want me to tell your dad what a hero you are?' Annette's teasing holds an element of sincerity.

‘No, you're good. Thank you. What about Lydia's leg?'

‘It's just a cut,' says Lydia, glaring at me and shaking her head.

‘I really need to see it, to see if it needs stitches. If you can't get to a hospital, you need to make sure to keep it clean. Have you got any steri strips or plasters? And have you cleaned it?'

‘I washed it in the shower.'

‘No, it needs to be washed with saline solution. Boil up two fifty mls of water and add half a teaspoon of salt. Clean it with that. Have you got sterile dressings? Bandage it up and don't let it get wet again.'

I tell her what there is in the first-aid kit and she congratulates me on what I've done so far.

‘The biggest danger is if it gets infected. Stitches will help it heal better and close the wound so there's less chance of infection. Lydia, if there's any sign of heat around the wound and swelling, you need to see someone. In the meantime, rest and keep the leg elevated. But well done, Tom, we'll make a doctor of you yet,' she says.

‘Thanks, Annette. I owe you.'

‘You certainly do. You can pay me back this Saturday at the party. We'll nick a bottle and hide at the bottom of the garden away from the rellies, like we used to when we were kids.'

‘Oh fuck,' I whisper.

‘You will be back by then, won't you?' says Annette. ‘Your life won't be worth living if you aren't.'

‘Fuck, fuck, shit, piss and derision.'

‘And there's the Tom I know and love,' she says and hangs up.

Lydia raises her brows. ‘You going to tell me what that was about?'

‘Shit. I'd forgotten. It's my mother's birthday this week and there's a royal command invitation on Saturday to their house in Berkhamsted for the annual party. Presence is mandatory.' I sink my head in my hands. ‘Like Annette says, my life isn't going to be worth living if I skip it.'

‘It won't be that bad,' she says. ‘I'm sure your mum will forgive you.'

‘Yeah,' I say vaguely. She has no idea.

‘She'll get over it,' Lydia says with a reassuring smile.

‘By the time she's ninety, perhaps.'

‘How old is she?'

‘She'll be sixty-two.'

‘She's had plenty of birthdays already, then. Nothing special about this one.' Lydia's indefatigable logic makes me smile even though I don't feel like it.