Chapter 11
11
NADIA
My fingers are fumbling like nobody s business as I post the two photos to my work chat, accompanying them with heart and smiley emojis, and I know why. It s because I m just stupidly flustered by that last photo. Well, all the photos actually. In fact, the whole photo-taking experience unnerved me, and, to my shame, while we chatted to those other guests I very much enjoyed their evident assumption that Tom and I are together.
Basically, since we started taking the selfies, I ve had this incredibly stupid, foolish, idiotic, ridiculous feeling that it would be very, very nice if we were together, because what s not to like about Tom? I mean, not just what s not to like but what s not to lust about Tom. And, kind of, if you weren t very careful, love about him.
And seeing that photo, with the way he was looking at me, I mean, I know that he was only acting, I know that he s in love with Lola, I know that we don t have that much in common (although really who cares about that; I don t think I do actually) and I know that I should not and do not want to allow myself to fall into the trap of putting myself in a position where I ll get hurt again, but … it s really difficult not to feel a little bit… well, flustered.
Done, I say. I m already getting Aww comments and hearts in response to my message and I have to say I m enjoying them. It is a lot more fun being the object of OMG you have a boyfriend and he is hot envy than Shh, yes, she s the one who got dumped in the middle of the work canteen pity. (My last proper boyfriend was a colleague – thankfully he recently left the company – who dumped me very publicly at work, which was why I embarked on my series of disastrous first dates.)
Cool. So for the next couple of hours— Tom looks at something over my left shoulder for a moment before clearing his throat, which I have to say reminds me very strongly of the canteen dumping —I m thinking I ll probably just go and chill in the garden somewhere with a book.
Great! I say very, very brightly, like I do not mind at all that you just basically mini-dumped me because actually wouldn t it have been a lot more natural for us to have hung out, and what a complete and utter muppet I am for having thought for one moment that there might be a tiny little thing developing between us . I m going to… Er, what am I going to do now, given that I obviously can t go anywhere in the gardens in case I look like I m stalking Tom? Get on with some work. I have work emails to go through. Quite a lot of admin actually. Because I m actually supposed to be doing half a day of working from home today and I didn t get through everything I needed to on the train.
Yes, I am overexplaining.
Great, then, Tom says.
I nod.
I turn to go… somewhere, anywhere, and I see Carole walking a little unsteadily towards us, champagne slopping over the rim of the glass she s holding in her right hand.
Tom! Nadia! Let s go and get a drink together on the hotel terrace.
I try to look at Tom without looking as though I m looking and catch him doing exactly the same thing to me.
Great, we say simultaneously after a little pause.
We all start walking towards the building, Carole between Tom and me.
A few paces along, I remember that I told Tom I had work to do.
I might have to dip out for a bit, though, I say. I have a couple of emails to catch up on.
Nadia, Carole says in chiding tones. This is Bea and Ruth s wedding . We all need to participate fully. She accompanies the fully with a big swing of her glass-holding arm, spraying the surrounding area with champagne. I jump very successfully out of the spray zone and am able to enjoy my success for maybe half a second before I land very un successfully, due to my heels.
My right ankle turns over and I topple straight onto the ground.
It hurts. It hurts so bloody much.
I m dimly aware of Tom and Carole (who s drunkenly wailing something about being sorry) crouched down next to me, but don t have a lot of time to think about them because I m busy trying hard not to faint.
Nadia. Tom s very firm and very loud voice, right in my ear, cuts through the cotton-wool feeling that s enveloping me. I m going to put my arm round you and lift you to stand on your good leg and then I m going to carry you over to a chair.
I try to say, Okay, but the sound that comes out is a lot more like, Owwwwwwww.
Tom has arms of steel. He literally picks me up from the ground like you would a toddler. I m not an enormous person but I am also not a tiny person, and I don t think many people could do that.
I m momentarily relieved before I begin to feel extremely sick.
I close my eyes because the easiest thing to do would definitely be just to give in to the faintness that s washed over me.
Nadia. Tom s speaking far too loudly. Stridently, actually. I don t like it, so I ignore him and carry on with my nice sleep. Nadia .
I feel him bend down and place me onto a lounger-style chair. I could just sleep here for a while, although actually the pain in my ankle s waking me up now.
I open my eyes and blink in shock at the two faces looming large right in front of me.
Nadia, cries Carole, I m so sorry. All my fault.
Not at all, I say, inaccurately.
How are you feeling now? Tom says. Do you think you re going to faint again? Carole, do you think you could go and get Nadia some water?
Water. Carole pushes herself up from where she s been holding on to the lounger and wobbles quite alarmingly until Tom shoots an arm out and pulls her into a vertical position. Thanks. On it. Back in five. And off she lurches across the garden.
I think Carole could do with some water too, I observe, in what I have to admit is a somewhat pathetic, I m-not-feeling-at-my-best voice.
Yep. Tom squats next to me and I admire the way his thigh muscles, which are right in my line of vision, strain against his suit trousers. Right. How s your ankle feeling? Can you move it?
I shake my head. I m pretty certain that moving my ankle would be a very, very unwise thing to do right now.
Tom sits himself down on the grass next to me.
Is it still hurting? he asks. Do you mind if I have a look at it?
Yes, and no.
It does feel a little odd, though, having Tom peering at my leg and foot.
Can you take your shoe off? he asks.
Not sure I ll ever get it back on if I do.
You have your back-up flip-flops?
Oh yes. I can t believe how pleased I feel that he remembers our spare footwear conversation from this morning. The shock s obviously getting to me.
Thank goodness I painted my nails properly rather than putting my shoes on and just painting my nails inside the peep-toe bit (I have been known to do that). I was really tired yesterday evening after a day of soul-destroying conversations about spreadsheets (I really need to look for another job) but luckily remembered in time that by the end of the day I might want to switch to flip-flops, especially if dancing, so I did them properly, in a very nice shade of reddy-orange that I bought a couple of weeks ago.
Would you like me to help?
Definitely not. Thank you. I reach my hand down and my leg out and up to the side and do an experimental little tug before letting go fast. Whoa. That s sore.
You know what. I m sure you re fine, but why don t I just go and see if I can find Ruth s doctor son to give you a very quick once-over.
Nooooo. He won t want to do that at his mum s wedding.
I m sure he won t mind sparing one minute. And then we ll know you re fine and that I m not going to maim you for life by helping you get the shoe off.
Okay. Thank you.
I might just wait until Carole gets back with the water. He looks all round as though she might materialise out of a tree or from the sky.
I feel like she might have forgotten, or got distracted, or gone to sleep in a bush or something. And I m fine. Really. Definitely not going to faint again and I have my phone. I take it out of my clutch and wave it at him.
Okay. See you in a minute.
My foot s really throbbing now. I get going on a game of Brawl Stars to distract myself.
There s still no sign of Carole when Tom returns with a big bowl of ice and a towel, a glass of apple juice and a bottle of water and Ruth s son, who introduces himself as James.
We brought you apple juice for a bit of sugar for shock, James tells me. Just in case it really hurts when we take the shoe off.
It does really hurt taking the shoe off and I m very grateful for the juice.
It hurts even more when James very gently (which I am extremely grateful for) examines my ankle, which, when I look at it, has already ballooned and is quite an odd colour.
When we ve gone through lots of questions on things like whether I can turn it in various directions (no) or push with it without pain (no), James says that he thinks it s likely that I have a small fracture and that I should go to A it was all me being clumsy and over-reacting to a tiny drop— it was a deluge —of champagne.
Exactly, Tom agrees. I side-eye him. He didn t need to sound so certain that I was basically a complete muppet. He smiles at me and I melt a tiny bit more inside, which, now that I m no longer feeling faint, I realise is not a good thing. Tom is in love with Lola. And I am not in the market for getting hurt by anyone again, especially not someone who is fast becoming a good friend. Unrequited love is not something I want to do.
Finally back. James has popped up wielding a black doctor s bag, of the type that you would never expect a twenty-first-century doctor to actually own.
Inherited the bag from my father, he says, as he opens it and begins to rummage inside it. He was a community GP, always out on visits. Right. Here we go.
I ve never seen anyone put a bandage on so briskly . It s genuinely not even that painful to have my ankle handled by him, and the more it s strapped the more secure it feels.
You re good , I tell him.
Why are you bandaging it? asks Carole. I thought you said it was fine?
Tom rushes into loud speech, interrupting James. Just a precaution, is what James told us. She s fine, just a bit bruised, and James thought a bandage would be a good idea.
Exactly, I agree.
James nods and says nothing as he carries on with his very neat bandaging.
When he s finished, he says, I m proud of that. I don t do a lot of bandages now but apparently it s like riding a bike.
When I ve swallowed the paracetamol and ibuprofen tablets he hands me, and thanked him profusely, he picks up his black bag to return it to his car, and Carole says, Are you absolutely certain that it s nothing serious?
Yes, Tom and I answer as one.
Don t think I ll be drinking anything else today, she says. I think I downed too much champagne from the shock of being at a wedding without Roger.
You re going to get through this, Carole, I say. Okay, that sounded extremely trite, but you are . You re an amazing woman.
She sniffs. Thank you. Do you know what Roger is?
I want to say tosser but am not sure that I should, just in case she s re-warmed to him, so I just shake my head. Tom s doing the same.
A complete fucker, she says, suddenly cheerful. Come on, let s go and have some non-drunken fun. The main reception will be starting soon.
Good idea. I move my legs round to the side and reach for my bag to get my flip-flops out. Oh. I did not think this through. The flip-flops fit very snugly into my bag. My heels do not.
Carole sees my dilemma. I m staying overnight, she says. Let me look after your shoes for you. I ll take them to my room now. I ll dash. Meet you back here?
Tom sits himself down on Carole s lounger and we stare at each other for a moment before both looking away.
It s a really nice spot here. I hadn t totally registered it before; we ve been busy since we got here and I haven t had a chance to just sit and take things in. The hotel itself is an ancient abbey, built of honey-coloured stone and very beautiful. It s surrounded by stunning rose-covered-walled gardens and lawns that are so vibrant green it s clear they ve been breaking the hosepipe and water sprinkler ban that s been in place across the whole of the south of England for the past fortnight despite the deluge the night we met at Waterloo.
Gorgeous, Tom agrees. I really like the way all the gardens lead into each other, like a kids fantasy.
I m about to suggest that he go and explore the gardens properly – I feel very guilty that he s stuck here with me – when Carole turns up, at a bit of a run.
Sorted, she says. Ready to go inside? People seem to be congregating.
I swing my legs left, so that my good foot hits the ground first, and then sit there, wondering how I m going to stand up because I m very nervous about putting any weight on my right foot.
Help? Tom s appeared at my elbow and is holding his arm out.
Yes please.
Honestly, he says as he hoists me up onto my left foot. Every time I see you you have a foot issue.
Oh, what other foot issues have you had? Carole asks, looking between us like a cartoon detective.
I trod on Nadia s foot the first time we met, at Waterloo, Tom says.
And then we met up a couple of weeks ago for a drink and I got a blister, I add, ignoring Carole s raised eyebrows.
Not just any old blister, Tom clarifies, but blisters plural, mega ones.
And on that occasion I didn t have any flip-flops.
Thank goodness you have them now. Tom adjusts his grip on my arm. I wonder whether I should just carry you over there to avoid you putting any weight on it.
Very kind but no thank you, I say firmly. I don t want to make Carole think I m properly injured and also I m alarmed by the lovely little fantasy of being held close in Tom s arms that just passed through my mind. I m an excellent hopper.
Okay. Would you like some hopping help? Even though I m sure you can indeed hop excellently by yourself?
Yes please. I m pretty sure that I m not a good hopper at all.
* * *
Hopping as your actual mode of transport rather than just a few hops while drunk or on the beach is extremely hard work. Personal trainers should recommend it for exercise. I m exhausted within only about ten hops. And ten hops don t take you very far.
I might just have a break when we get to that tree, I pant. It s like my left foot has cement on the end and my thigh is burning .
The big oak tree?
No, the little thin red one.
Oh, right in front of us. Got it.
Thirteen excruciating hops later, we re next to the little red tree. Honestly, I m almost seeing stars from the hopping effort. When my vision clears, I look down at where I m still holding on to Tom s arm for balance and notice that, even through his shirt sleeves, you can tell that his forearm is very nicely muscled.
I think I really might be falling in lust with him, which can t be good.