Chapter 6
I risk opening the one good eye I have left and stare at the face looming over mine.
It’s blurry – probably because my good eye is full of Fanta – but I could swear moody Mr Window Seat from the plane is hovering over me.
I must have sustained one of those severe head injuries where my most recent embarrassing accomplishment seems like reality.
I feel my cheeks being squeezed like a lemon and a pair of warm lips covers mine.
Just as everything goes black, I feel a sharp slap to my face.
‘Stay with me, Connie! Stay with me!’
Apart from anything, at best it’s an appallingly amateurish attempt at first aid; at worst, it’s bordering on assault. I gingerly rub the Fanta from my good eye so I can see who this Good Samaritan really is. My vision clears slightly as I squint in the sunlight.
Christ Almighty, it is him.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ I croak.
‘I’m checking you’re alive!’ he yells at me in a panic, his nostrils flaring like a spooked horse.
‘By kissing me, then slapping me?’ I say as sarcastically as I can manage, which isn’t much as I’m very injured and can barely speak, but at least my short-term memory has not been affected.
‘I’d hate to know’ – I pause as a wave of exhaustion and dizziness hits me – ‘which medical school you…’ I’m losing momentum as the world begins to spin slowly around me.
What was I saying? Oh yeah . ‘…graduated from.’
He politely waits for me to finish the world’s slowest sentence before we continue to stare at each other. I fear the sarcasm has petered out to nothing.
It’s as though time is standing still around us.
I open my mouth to give him a thorough lecture on the grave repercussions of flouting the three P safety rules of first aid: preserve, prevent, promote.
He hasn’t even checked to see if a bus or a lorry full of bananas is hurtling down the road towards us, but it’s simply too tiring.
I ask to see his driver’s licence instead because he obviously has no idea how to drive properly but instead of producing the required paperwork, he suddenly bursts out laughing and his whole face softens.
‘You’re funny.’
I take a moment to continue scowling.
The cheeky, cheeky bastard.
He’s so close I can feel his minty breath tickle my cheek.
I’m incensed at his cavalier attitude towards my life, but because his laughter is surprisingly infectious, and even though I’m quite appalled at myself, I giggle along.
Soon it builds into a gut-wrenching belly laugh.
The more I think of how ridiculous this day has been, how much pain I’m in, how battered I am and how most of it is this handsome fucker’s fault, I start crying with laughter.
‘How are you even here?’ I ask.
Maybe fate is throwing us together.
‘You have my phone. I’ve been following the tracker on my iPad.’ He points his thumb to his backpack.
‘Your phone? I haven’t got your phone,’ I say.
‘You must have picked it up on the plane by mistake.’
After a few bizarre moments, he helps me to sit up while I rummage in my little fanny pack. I take out his phone. ‘Shit. I have no idea how it got there.’
‘That flight was… well, it was… things were thrown all over. Don’t worry about it. I’m just glad it’s not broken. I run most of my business from it so I kind of really need it back.’
We glance over at his once pristine moped lying on its side, dripping in non-fat Greek yoghurt. It has half a watermelon sticking out of the front wheel and a baguette firmly wedged under the mudguard. There’s a can spraying Fanta over the seat and handles.
‘Shame. It looks brand new.’
‘It is.’
We are completely drenched in Fanta, which seems unbelievably funny in my woozy state. I think we might both be in a bit of shock. I try to lift a hand to my head. It feels broken inside.
‘Any minute now I’ll probably start speaking fluent Chinese. You hear about that kind of thing happening with head injuries, don’t you?’
His eyebrows shoot up.
He is very, very attractive.
We are distracted by the wheel of Brie that is rolling casually down the hill being chased by a herd of zigzagging lemons.
He gets up to salvage what is left of the groceries.
The crisps, the melon and the bread are completely flat and covered in dirt and the rest is covered in mayonnaise.
He picks up my arnica gel and ibuprofen and brings them to me with an expression that is almost an apology.
His face is sticky. Fanta is drying his hair into weird horns.
I smile at him, and he smiles reluctantly back.
‘Seriously though,’ he says, ‘you wandered out into the road looking at your phone instead of where you were going. It could have been much worse. You should be more careful in future.’
This brings my smiling to an abrupt halt.
I squint up at him. ‘Just hold on there, pal,’ I say.
Just to be clear, I have never called anyone ‘pal’ in my life.
It must be the concussion. ‘I clearly had right of way as a pedestrian. You hit me with your’ – I glance over to his bike – ‘your old-lady scooter.’
‘It’s a moped,’ he says moodily. ‘A GTS300. Limited edition.’
Like I would care!
‘Whatever,’ I sigh, struggling to get up. He immediately hoists me gently to my feet. I yelp as pain shoots up my back.
‘You’re injured,’ he says, his voice suddenly full of concern. ‘We need to get you to a hospital.’
‘No, honestly, I’ll be fine,’ I say. A trip to the hospital is the last thing I need right now. If I have to cancel the gig tomorrow and Nancy finds out, then my career is over. ‘I’d rather get back to the villa, take some painkillers and lie down for a bit.’
A wave of dizziness swoops over me. I give him my full weight and feel him tense.
‘Where are you staying?’ he asks. I groggily show him through my cracked phone screen where the villa is. His face falls. ‘Ah,’ he says, ‘you’re one of Nancy’s tribute acts? I should have guessed.’
‘No,’ I say. ‘I mean, yes, but not with the Dollz. They’re just my support act. I’m the headline. Standing in for Ted Sheeran.’
Like that makes me sound important!
‘I’m more of an upmarket type of act.’
Now I just sound desperate.
‘No, I mean I’m more avant-garde. More ethereal. I take my audience on an emotional journey.’
Now I just sound shit.
‘Right. Of course,’ he says, avoiding eye contact. ‘Right. Let’s get you back to the villa.’
Two minutes later, we pull up outside. I climb unsteadily off the lady scooter. ‘Well, thank you for bringing me back,’ I manage, stumbling slightly as I walk away from him.
He insists on seeing me properly into the house but as we let ourselves in through the gate, we hear the sound of arguing sailing out through the open windows. He flinches as we catch a torrent of squabbles.
‘Who used all the Vagisan? It’s for making my hair sleek, not for your vaginal dryness, Liberty. Get your own!’
‘Who had a bath? You’ve used up all the bloody hot water.’
‘Who left the straighteners on? You’ve burnt the fucking rug!’
We slide past the house, I nod towards the BBQ, and we tiptoe to the gate, quietly shutting it behind us.
‘They’ve been like that since five o’clock this morning.’ I yawn, suddenly very tired.
‘You have such weird taste in friends.’
‘Oh,’ I say, ‘they’re not my friends.’ Another pain shoots up my back, stopping me in my tracks. ‘We only just met. Like I said, they’re a tribute act, whereas I’m more avant?—’
‘I’ll get you some water for the painkillers,’ he says, helping me over to a sunbed.
The mattress is soft, and the light breeze is lovely on my hot skin.
‘Try this.’ He turns the control to a gentle massage, which instantly soothes my aching back.
He goes off and comes back with an ice pack for my eye.
‘I’m worried you might be concussed so is it okay… ?’
He’s asking me something, but I can’t focus…
I fight to stay awake, but my eyes are so heavy…
I feel so soothed and relaxed… My stinging eye feels so much better…
He’s asking me to… No, he’s asking if he can go…
He’s leaving… My good eye is sticky with Fanta and, once it closes, I can’t unstick it.
It feels so heavy. Both eyes are clamped shut.
A fog of exhaustion takes me as I drift in and out of sleep, waking briefly to hear strange male voices. One of them is saying he is a doctor of cheese… No, he’s asking for some cheese… He’s checking my pulse and feeling my head because he thinks I’m lying on top of the cheese.
‘ Queso ,’ I say, pointing to the kitchenette. ‘ Mucho queso grande .’
I’m in awe at how fluently I can now speak the lingo because of my lovely head injury. My hand feels like a ton weight as I attempt to indicate the whereabouts of the cheese. I hear mumbled talking again and… plenty of rest… keep an eye… acute whiplash .
I wake feeling like I’ve been hit by a truck.
Ah, yes, a cheese truck. For a moment, I forget where I am until my eye stings to remind me, and my back aches.
I feel cold. My good eye snaps open. I am still outside on the sunlounger, but the sky is dark.
I try to sit up and feel a stiffness go through me.
My ice pack has slipped off and is somewhere near my neck.
‘Here, take some more painkillers.’
Alarmed, I discover Mr Window Seat is sitting right next to me. He’s holding out the tablets and some water.
‘Sorry to startle you. It’s just me, Matt, from the plane. From the accident, you know, whatever…’ He trails off.
I feel so groggy. Even lifting my arm is a huge effort.
He leans in to help me sit up and puts the water to my lips so that I can swallow the tablets.
It feels a bit too intimate, but he smells incredible, and he’s got very strong arms. I tear my eyes away from his muscular forearms that look like they should have boxing gloves at the end of them.