10. Natalie

10

NATALIE

T he Devil himself is sitting right next to me, and he’s crying. Actual tears are streaming down his face.

Whatever. I don’t have the energy to care. I just feel… ugh. Horrific . Sick and shaky and fucking wiped like I’ve just run a marathon, my hands still trembling.

He’s holding my hand. Oh my God. I tug it away as hard as I can, and he releases it. It’s all sticky. I plonk my elbows on my thighs and bury my face in both my hands, the cloying smell of orange juice hitting me. I just want to curl up into a ball somewhere dark and die. I don’t want to be here in this fancy room with Gen and him while I’m in this state.

The tears spill over into my hands, and I want to wail at the absolute misery and unfairness of it all. I’ve had way worse hypo episodes than this, but it’s still beyond shitty. I cry harder. Gen’s talking, and I think she says my name, but I honestly can’t make any sense of it.

Then he speaks. ‘Hey. It’s okay. You’re okay.’ I understand that part, and I understand that he’s shifting beside me and tipping me forward so he can wrap a strong arm around me and tug me against his hard body.

I should elbow him in the ribs, but I’m too tired. I should be horrified that I’ve let him get this close, but there’s no room in my broken body for that. There’s only room for exhaustion, and for the extreme mortification that’s creeping over me at the realisation of what’s just gone down.

I’ve just had the most vulnerable experience it’s possible for me to have. If I’d got naked and danced on the table it would have been less humiliating. Nothing else can top that.

Besides, his voice is nice and calm and authoritative. Like, if he says it’s so, it is. If he says I’m okay, I am. And the arm banded around me feels nice, too. Safe. Strong.

One of the absolute hardest things to accept about type 1 is the extreme vulnerability it forces you to endure, often in very public places, and often in front of total strangers. It’s the worst, especially for someone like me, Little Miss Perfect, who always wants to look like she’s got her shit together and never wants to impose on anyone.

Believe me, the strangers I’ve imposed on… the poor, unsuspecting people I’ve collapsed on and drooled on and flashed my panties at and scared the shit out of.

But nothing beats this. This is the worst. An episode in front of this guy, when I planned on playing the role of impenetrable ice queen today? It’s a fucking joke.

I sob harder. I can’t stop. After every hypo, I just want my mum. I want to be babied. It’s so bloody miserable.

‘Hey,’ he says again. ‘Natalie.’ He holds me more tightly against him. ‘It’s over. You did great. We just need to get more juice down you, okay? Your glucose is above four now. We’re getting there.’

‘You’re in good hands with Adam,’ Gen says, her voice coming closer. ‘He knows what he’s doing. ’

Abdicating responsibility is easy right now. If someone wants to adult for a few minutes, to monitor my levels and feed me juice like I’m three years old, then I’ll let them. Gladly. I’m too drained to argue.

I remove my face from my hands. My cheeks are wet, and I can’t look at him or Gen quite yet. Instead I look at the coffee table, at the box of tissues and the glass of orange juice, its sides all smeary. To my right, his thighs. Brioni , I think. I nod my acquiescence, my head still bowed.

‘Good girl,’ Adam says. He keeps me in a tight grip while he reaches forward and pulls out several tissues. I raise a hand halfheartedly to take them, but he tuts. ‘Let me. Lift your head.’

I do as he says, but I let my eyes drift closed. If I don’t have to see it, it’s not real, right? He wipes gently over both my cheeks, a little harder under my eyes, and then wipes over my mouth before dumping them and pulling out a fresh tissue, which he holds to my nose.

‘Blow.’

Oh, the indignity. I do as he says, and lots of snot comes out. That feels better.

‘Excellent,’ he says. Now that my nose is clearer, I can smell him. He smells amazing, in a hard-to-define way. Like, if I went into Harrods and made a mix of all their nicest aftershaves. Kind of how their perfume hall smells, but the male version. I’m fucking exhausted. I let my head sag right back till it hits the cushions, though it’s not very comfortable with his arm around me.

‘Lemme go,’ I slur, my bottom lip trembling.

‘Nope. Not till you’ve had more juice. Tell me when you’re feeling up to chewing your Snickers.’

‘Mmm.’ Snickers. God, I know just how well that’ll hit the spot—I just need to work up to the effort of actually ingesting it. I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling. The chandelier twinkles prettily at me. It’s like something out of a fairytale. A Cinderella chandelier.

‘Come on. Juice time,’ he says, hoisting me upwards with the arm still banded around me. I want to tell him to fuck off, but I know he’s right about the juice.

He brushes my hair off my face before holding the juice glass up to my mouth and letting me drink. I take a big gulp and then another. I haven’t looked either of them in the eye yet since that first glance at him. I’m always hyper-vulnerable after an attack, and eye-contact is a step too far. I detest seeing that look of pity and fear in the eyes of someone who’s witnessed it; I can’t stand knowing the state they’ve seen me in. That they’ll probably never un-see it. That they’ll think of it every time they look at me.

‘Snickers,’ I tell him, pushing the glass away. I can feel my glucose beginning to stabilise, but the hangover isn’t going anywhere.

He releases me, thank fuck, though my back feels instantly colder when he removes his arm, and twists, opening the Snickers bar and handing it to me. I accept it wordlessly and take a bite, chomping down on the delicious mix of chocolate and caramel and salty peanuts.

Sooo good.

It gives me the confidence to glance to my left, where Gen sits, her face stricken and her hands clasped on her knees. I can’t muster a smile, but I give her a little nod, and she presses her lips together in a gesture of sympathy before asking, ‘Are you alright, sweetie?’

‘Mmm-hmm.’ I nod again and take another mouthful of my bar, focusing on masticating thoroughly so I can absorb its sugar as quickly as possible. I’m well aware she’s never seen me like this. I’m always immaculately turned out and immaculately behaved, remembering everyone’s name and greeting her members politely. Professionally .

She’s never seen me crying—last night excepted—and God knows what else: probably fitting and slurring and drooling. Dear God. I have no idea how on earth I’ll find the strength to pull myself together for my shift. I’ll have to redo my makeup. I must look an absolute state.

On my other side, Adam reaches behind me and rubs my back in circles. I’m stuck in the weirdest place between knowing intellectually that I hate him— fear him—and liking the sensation of having a competent adult’s hands on me.

It must be primal. Right now, my nervous system knows I’m at far greater risk of being hospitalised with inadequate glucose than I am of having him beat the crap out of me or gouge my eye out in front of Gen.

And, loath as I am to admit it, I understand from my confused memories and from the disgusting mixture of glycogel and orange juice lingering in my mouth that I have him to thank for rescuing me from a worse crash. One where I might have had a full-on seizure or lost consciousness.

How could I be so fucking irresponsible? That’s not me. A key subset of my Little Miss Perfect persona is Little Miss Responsible. I blame my nerves over having to sit down with this arsehole.

I risk a glance to my right to see his gaze still trained on my Freestyle Libre app. He may have taken care of my tears and eye makeup and snot and drool, but his face is still tear-stained, and those pale blue eyes I was begrudgingly admiring a few minutes ago are reddened.

He looks in far worse shape than Gen. He looks as though I scared the living daylights out of him. I would not have pegged Adam Wright, coward and bully and violent thug, for a crier. He looks up, and our eyes meet. His palm is still doing circles of my back, the heat of it warming me through my dress.

‘You’re getting there,’ he says, flashing my phone at me.

‘Thank you,’ I manage. I’m not sure if it sounds ungracious or simply garbled given my mouthful of chocolate and my compromised motor skills.

‘No thanks needed,’ he says stiffly. It’s too awkward to hold his gaze. My skin should be crawling at this proximity to him, but I feel a different kind of discomfort. Less fear than excruciation at having shared a moment of intense vulnerability with such a monster. My eyes drop instead to his lapel.

‘Brioni,’ I mumble. Clearly my usual, carefully honed filters have left the building and failed to return.

He gives a low chuckle. ‘You’ve got a good eye. I think she’s getting there,’ he says to Gen, and I roll my eyes before slumping back against the cushions and letting them drift closed.

‘Stay like that, sweetie,’ Gen says in a low, gentle voice. ‘Just rest. You’ve been through a lot. When you’re ready, Adam would like to take you back to his place so he can get his doctor to look you over.’

No fucking way. Hell would have to freeze over first. I open my eyes and sit bolt upright, but Adam eases me back with a firm hand on my shoulder.

‘Lie back and close your eyes,’ he says. ‘Just listen , okay?’

‘I’m not going anywhere with you,’ I mutter.

‘Natalie.’ His voice is stern, but it’s also low and melodic. I bet he fools all sorts of people with that voice. ‘Listen to me. I know you’ve just had a very rough quarter of an hour, so I’m not trying to give you a hard time here. But the truth is, you had a nasty crash, and you scared the shit out of me and Gen, and I for one won’t be able to relax until you’ve got the all-clear from a doctor, okay?

‘Sending you back to Seven Sisters isn’t an option. You need to get checked out now, and you need some rest and a balanced dinner. I’m only a couple of miles away.’ He pauses. The fact that I’m too exhausted to bite his head off mid-speech is working in his favour.

‘I live right behind Kensington Palace,’ he continues, ‘and I have a car outside right now. Please believe me when I say I’m well aware there’s no one you’d rather get in a car with less than me. I know that. But I’m here, and you need to let me help you.’

I roll my head to one side and open my eyes. He’s staring down at me with a blistering intensity that makes my face heat.

‘I don’t need to let you help me,’ I whisper, because it’s true. I can take the pain of a taxi fare back home, heinous though it’ll be. Maybe Gen will let me relax here for another few minutes. Maybe?—

‘You don’t need to, but you should,’ Gen says gently. ‘I’ll vouch for Adam. He’s promised me you’ll be in safe hands. And there’ll be other people around. Right, Adam?’

‘Right,’ he says hurriedly. ‘My butler, at least two maids, my chef, the doctor…’ He trails off. ‘My PA too, possibly.’

Jesus. Sounds like a circus. Or Downton Abbey.

‘My point is,’ he says, ‘you won’t be alone with me at all. You’ll be perfectly safe and well cared for. I just want to get you checked over, maybe get some bloods taken.’ He pauses again. ‘It’s really the very least I can do for you.’

I stare at him. It’s the most ridiculous, farcical proposal ever, and there is literally no one on the face of the earth who’s less welcome and less entitled to see me like this than him. I just wish my brain and mouth would hurry up and work together to formulate a coherent argument to that point.

Gen rises and comes to sit right next to me. She takes my hand, and I give Adam some side-eye before I roll my head back around so I can see her, my hand clutching at my Snickers as if it’s a life raft.

‘Sweetie,’ she says in a confiding tone. ‘I feel terrible about this. But Anton’s away, and this is absolutely not the right place for you to recover, and Adam has these people on speed dial. He’ll get a doctor over immediately to his place, and we can all get some peace of mind. I promise you, you’re in very good hands. Will you please, please do it for me?’

I close my eyes and gather the flimsiest shreds of resilience from somewhere deep inside my poor, exhausted body.

‘Fine.’