9. Adam

9

ADAM

S he’s crashing.

Jesus Christ.

I stand.

‘Fuck!’ I shout. I take a panicked look down at the huge coffee table between me and Natalie, thinking I’ll use it as a launch pad, but it’s glass. Better not try putting my weight on it. I sidestep it so I can round the massive three-sided sofa. ‘Looks like she’s hypo,’ I blurt at Gen, whose face drops instantly with realisation and horror.

‘Shit,’ she says. ‘Shit.’

No no no no. This is not happening. Fuck . The glassiness in her eyes, the sheen of sweat already forming on her forehead and upper lip, that very particular jerky, floppy flailing that is all too familiar and all too triggering.

I’d know it all a mile off.

‘Natalie,’ I say more forcefully than I mean to. I get to my knees in front of her and cup her face. It’s cold and clammy. ‘Natalie, can you hear me? Where’s your monitor? Do you have a monitor?’ I turn to Gen, who’s frozen in shock. ‘Does she have a monitor? ’

‘Yes.’ She looks Natalie up and down frantically. ‘Oh, it’s on her arm.’

I release her face and run my hands up both her arms. Yep. The fabric of the patch hits my fingertips. There it is. It doesn’t matter really. I don’t need a monitor to tell me she’s hypo.

She had a big handbag on her when she walked in. It’s by her feet, and it’s open. I grab it with one arm and shake it out, emptying its contents all over the sofa next to her. With the other hand, I pin Natalie’s shoulder to the sofa. She’s flailing more, jerking harder, her hands fluttering ineffectually, trying to slap me away.

‘Phone.’ I hand it to Gen. ‘Try to get into her glucose monitor,’ I bark. ‘It should be linked.’

She takes it, and I look for long enough to note that she’s trying to get Natalie to unlock it with face recognition. ‘Natalie,’ I say firmly. ‘Natalie. Help Gen to unlock your phone. We need it.’

‘I’m in,’ Gen says shakily. ‘Um, let me see—okay. Freestyle Libre. That sounds like it.’

‘Good.’ I continue to rummage among the contents of Natalie’s bag as I support her. I’m shaking too, my body flooded with adrenaline and dread and God knows what else. There’s an opened wrap thingy from Pret, but that won’t cut it. Nor will the Snickers bar—there’s no way she’ll be able to chew it.

‘Do you have juice?’ I practically shout at Gen. I’m asking too many things of her at once, I know I am. But I need everything now. I need Nat’s numbers. I need some form of fast-acting glucose.

‘I think so. Hang on.’ She stands, her face still on the phone. ‘Got it. Is this bad?’

She turns the phone around and shows me the display. Two-point-two with a downwards arrow showing that her glucose levels are still dropping. Natalie, you stupid, irresponsible girl. ‘Get me that juice,’ I tell Gen shortly, and she runs towards the double doors separating this room from her team’s office.

Natalie’s getting more agitated. ‘Fuck off,’ she slurs, the words less clear than her disquiet. ‘Fuck you. Devil. Hate you.’

‘I know,’ I tell her. Even if she didn’t loathe me, this kind of hostility, this irritability, is very standard in someone who’s hypo. Ellen used to hit me with her tiny fists. ‘I know. You hate me, but right now you’ve got to let me help you. Okay?’

‘No,’ she whimpers, clawing at my hand on her shoulder, trying ineffectually to swipe it away. She’s crying, tears pouring down her face, her mascara a smeary black chaser. I can’t bear this. It’s fucking splitting me open, seeing her like this. Watching history repeat itself. Where is the fucking juice? I scrabble around her belongings. Surely she’s got some sweets, or some gummies or something?—

Glycogel.

Bingo .

We never had this for Ellen, but I know what it is. I need to get it into her. If this doesn’t work, I’m giving her five minutes before calling nine-nine-nine. She’s twisting and turning, and I don’t want to make her any more distraught than she already is, but my priority is getting some glucose into her to offset that surplus insulin in her system.

I unscrew the cap and squeeze a large mound onto my shaking finger. ‘Natalie, open your mouth for me. I need to give you some gel.’

She arches back, shifting forward on the sofa, the heel of her stiletto grazing my wool-covered thigh as she does. I spy the black lace tops of her fishnet stockings and quickly avert my gaze back to the job at hand, because now is not the time to ogle, and God knows, this beautiful, irresponsible woman is not going to get any more ill on my watch.

She’s still mumbling, but it’s growing less coherent by the second. Her lips are wet with saliva, her cheeks slick with tears and her nose running. My nose is running too. Odd. I sniff hard, gripping her jaw hard with my free hand and sliding my finger in sideways, rubbing the gel over her upper gum as best I can while she thrashes about.

‘There you go,’ I croon. ‘Good girl.’ Please work please work please work. I’ve never used this stuff before. I don’t know how much is enough, but I’m going to err on the side of caution and give her some more, unless?—

Gen appears in the doorway. ‘Juice.’

Thank fuck. I release Natalie’s jaw. ‘Grip her head as firmly as you can,’ I order, holding my arm out for the juice. She comes up behind the sofa and cradles Natalie’s face in both hands. ‘Harder,’ I bark. I may even shout it. ‘Hold her as still as you can.’

I raise the juice to her mouth and tip the glass to pour a little in. She splutters and spits it right back out, some of it landing on me.

‘Fuck’s sake, sweetheart,’ I groan. ‘I need to get this into you, okay? You’ve got to be brave. I’ve got you. We’ve got you. You need to let us help you.’

I try again. Most of it dribbles down her chin, but I get a little in. I swipe the rest off her chin with my hand. This is fucking hopeless—the gel’s a better option, clearly.

‘Keep hold of her,’ I tell Gen and grab the tube again, smearing another line of gel onto my finger. Into her mouth I go, rubbing back and forth as thoroughly as I can in an attempt to get it absorbed. I have no idea how quickly this stuff works.

She’s still seizing, but not quite so badly, and as Gen holds her and I rub gel into her gum until I can feel no trace of it, it strikes me that the spasms are lessening.

Oh God is what I think she says, but it’s garbled around my finger. I ease it out of her mouth and wipe the back of my hand over the slick of moisture running down my cheek before wrapping my fingers gently around the back of her neck.

‘It’s okay,’ I tell Gen. ‘You can let her go now. What’s her monitor say?’

She casts around for the phone, which is perched on one of the cushions. ‘Three-point-three.’

‘Show me.’

She turns it and props it back on the cushion so I can watch the data. The arrow has turned and is bearing upwards. Good. The number is rising more slowly than I’d like, but I can only guess it operates on some sort of delay.

I shift my hands so they’re cradling Natalie’s face. She’s still weeping, but it’s less distressed and more piteous now. She’s almost childlike like this. I’m well aware that this will be a highly vulnerable position for her to find herself in when she comes around, especially in front of a guy she despises, and I hate it for her.

I hold her for a moment. ‘I’ll try the juice again,’ I say with a hard sniff. ‘Natalie? You need more glucose, sweetheart. Okay? Try to take a drink for me. Everything’s going to be okay. You’re doing great.’ I have no way of knowing how much excess insulin is in her system. I suppose all I can do is feed her juice and gel gradually until I see the numbers ticking up to a safe level .

Beats the hell out of pricking her skin to test her blood, that’s for sure.

I hold the glass to her lips, dispensing juice with difficulty. It’s messy, and a good half of it rolls down her chin with each sip. I notice idly that my hand is shaking, but it’s going in. That’s the main thing. She’s managing to swallow between heaving sobs, and she’s attempting to curl a trembling hand around the glass, though I have no intention of letting it go. She’s not strong enough yet.

‘You’re doing so well,’ I tell her. Her spasms have lessened now to the point that I don’t have to hold her head still anymore, but I keep my hand there for comfort as much as for anything else, letting my fingers smooth down her hair, which has got all mussed up. ‘You hear that? You’re doing so well.’

I blink away the moisture blurring my vision and glance up at Gen, but she’s staring at me with the strangest expression. It looks like concern.

‘Are you okay, Adam?’

‘I’m fine. Can you get me a towel? Or a whole load of tissues?’

She hesitates, checking me out again. ‘Of course,’ she says, bustling through the doors. She’s back again a moment later with a box of tissues, tugging a few out and handing me a wad.

I get shakily to my feet and take a seat beside Natalie, easing her backwards so her head is supported by the cushions. ‘Let’s get you cleaned up a little,’ I tell her, setting the glass of juice on the coffee table and using the tissues to wipe the tears from under her eyes, the juice from her mouth and chin and neck, and her runny nose.

I ditch the tissues and begin to feed her the juice again. Her head lolls backwards. I know just how exhausted and shitty and intensely vulnerable she’ll feel when the worst of this has passed and she’s compos mentis .

Gen comes around the back of the sofa and takes a seat adjacent to us, watching me. ‘This must be very triggering for you.’

‘I’m fine.’

‘I can’t believe I didn’t know what to do.’

‘Believe me, I’ll be having words with Natalie about that,’ I say. ‘And so should you. It’s fucking irresponsible. She should have briefed you all fully.’

Natalie groans and pouts like a child, letting more juice leak out over her full lower lip. I put the glass down and reach for the tissues again.

‘But it can wait,’ I tell Gen hastily as I mop her chin up. She swipes my hand away, and I grab her wrist gently, holding her hand away from her face. ‘Right now, she needs peace and rest, and ideally a full checkup.’

‘You’re very good with her. I was a mess.’

I have a feeling I’m a mess too, but I shake my head. ‘Where does she live?’

‘Seven Sisters.’

Fuck that. There’s no way she’s schlepping all the way back to the arse end of North London, or wherever the fuck it is. ‘I want to take her back to mine, get my doctor over. My nutritionist, too. Get her fully checked out and have my chef cook her a square fucking meal.’

‘Come on, Adam. You’ve been great, but there’s no way she’ll go for that. I can’t possibly put her in that position.’

We eye each other over Natalie’s head, and it’s perfectly clear what she’s thinking. Gen’s not one to hold back when she disapproves.

‘I’m telling you.’ My voice is barely above a whisper. ‘I swear on my baby sister’s eternal memory, I will not harm a hair on her head. You know that. And you’d better persuade her of that fact.’ I lift the clump of damp, sticky tissues to my face and wipe my cheek.

Her face contorts as if the significance of my oath is too painful for her to handle. ‘Fine,’ she says finally. ‘But only if Nat agrees. I’m not letting you steamroll her, okay?’