Chapter 4 Andrea
Andrea
The car park office smelled of coffee and onions. A half-eaten Cornish pasty sat on the desk, and a strip light buzzed overhead like a trapped wasp.
James: Oh my God, are you sure you’re okay?
Me: Fine. Can you let Gerald know?
James: How serious was this? You know there are forms to fill out for something like this?
I slipped my phone into my bag and wiped my nose with a tissue. I couldn’t think about more incident reports right now. I’d already been grilled for half an hour by the car park manager.
“Okay, Andrea, look straight ahead for me.”
The paramedic angled a small torch at my pupils.
Straight ahead was hot lift guy.
Surely, he had somewhere else to be? The gym, by the looks of him. He probably worked there. Why was he still hanging around?
I stared at a point just to his left, trying to make my vision blur so I didn’t have to look at him.
“Are you feeling disoriented? Your eye alignment looks a little off.” The medic clicked off the light and looked at me like he was troubleshooting a malfunctioning toddler.
So much for subtlety.
I uncrossed my eyes, and the room swam back into view.
Hot lift guy was leaning against a filing cabinet, arms folded. There was a faint crease between his brows that had been there since the elevator had tried to kill us an hour earlier.
I tried to focus on the torchlight, but my eyes drifted back to him.
Shit. He was definitely looking in my direction. This was doing nothing for my blood pressure. The shoulders didn’t help. The sweatpants didn’t either.
I yanked my gaze back to the paramedic. Safer to look at the man with the clipboard than the one with the chest.
“Pupils equal and reactive.” The medic clicked the torch off. “Good. Now, a few quick questions, then we’ll be done.”
“Okay,” I said, smiling like I was fine. I definitely wasn’t.
Chesty McSweatpants stood like he meant to leave.
“Any chance you’re pregnant?” said the medic.
“I’ll just go outs—”
“No, thank you, sir,” the medic said. “It’s better if you stay.”
What? Why was it better?
“Actually—”
He silenced me with a raised hand.
Why did I always feel this need to please medical professionals, as if they were grading me on some secret patient scorecard, rather than scanning for actual neurological damage? I gulped and shut up.
“So,” he continued. “Pregnant?”
“Not at all,” I said quickly, like I was being asked if I was a drunk driver. “Negative chance.”
“I really ought to give you two some space—”
The medic kept his eyes on me and held up a finger. Chesty didn’t move.
“Last period?”
“Um … pretty recently?”
Kill me.
He scribbled something. “Any medications?”
“Just … antihistamines,” I said.
He raised a brow. “I see. For allergies?”
“It’s for hives,” I whispered. “Stress hives.”
Perhaps dying in the lift would have been easier.
The medic nodded. “And when did you last eat something?”
“Eat?”
He put down his pen. “Yes. Food or drink, since you woke up?”
“Um. Coffee. With oat milk. Eight-ish?”
“No breakfast?”
I closed my eyes briefly. “A breath mint.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
The medic made a disappointed sound and wrote something in his notebook again. Probably “incapable of basic self-care.”
“Any recent nausea, dizziness, fainting—”
“Well, the lift dropped,” I said. “So … yes.”
“Fair enough.” Tick. “And you’re able to stay with your partner tonight?”
“My—sorry, what?”
The medic glanced at Chesty.
“Oh no. No, he’s not—we’re not—”
Chesty stared out the door as if the parked cars had become deeply compelling. His ears had gone slightly pink.
Was I imagining that?
“Right,” the paramedic said. “Well. Physically, you’re okay. Mild shock. Remnants of adrenaline. You might feel woozy for a while.”
Might? My whole skeleton felt like perished rubber. But that might not have been from the lift.
The paramedic packed up his kit and looked at Chesty again. “If she worsens, come straight to A&E or call 999.”
“Of course, not a problem,” he said, as if he’d somehow agreed to take on my well-being.
I wished for death.
“Oh, he really doesn’t need to,” I said briskly. “I’ve got people.”
Not exactly a lie. I had Eliza—although she was God knows where—and James, who would definitely step in. Possibly after filming any collapse and putting it on social, but still.
“Well, okay then, as long as you won’t be alone,” said the paramedic. He smiled and left. The door clicked shut behind him.
Chesty caught my eye. Did he know I was lying?
I rummaged through my bag, pretending to look for something, and my phone pinged again. Perfect timing.
James: What’s happening?
Me: All done. We’re going home.
James: WE? Who is we?
Me: Me and the guy I was stuck with.
James: You got stuck in a lift with a man?! AND YOU’RE ONLY TELLING ME THIS NOW??
I ignored him.
James: Andrea! DO NOT IGNORE ME!
Me: Yes. A man.
Probably best I left out the part where the lift fell, and he pulled me on top of him. He’d go into orbit.
James: Well? Single? Sexy? Employed? I sincerely hope you got his details!
I sent him an eye roll emoji. The less James knew about hot lift guy, the better.
Me: Just a guy. Not much to tell. I’ll fill you in later.
I looked up. Chesty was watching me like I might keel over sideways. He still didn’t look like he was leaving.
I inspected my knees and tried to think. What did you say to a man you’d just survived an elevator disaster with? Thanks for cushioning my entire body with your (very firm) torso, but you can leave now?
No. That didn’t quite work.
James: You’d better fill me in! Good Lord, woman. Single less than a day and already your life’s starting to sound like a low-budget porno. I’m impressed.
I ignored that, too.
Me: How much trouble am I in with Gerald?
James: Zero. New owner didn’t show.
Me: What?
James: Flight was delayed or something. Postponed till tomorrow. I do have some major goss, though …
I sent him a popcorn emoji and waited.
No reply.
Damn James and his love of suspense.
I stood. I still felt shaky, and the room was too hot.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Chesty was looking at me, frowning.
“Well, my lipstick’s come off and my hair’s a disaster, but medically speaking, thriving.” I tried a grin, but it felt stiff, like I’d borrowed it from someone else’s face.
“It’s okay if you’re not. That was pretty full on.”
My eyes started to prickle. Why was I getting emotional? Everything was fine. I didn’t need him tending to me like I was an invalid.
The prickle didn’t stop.
“I’m good.” I tried a breezy laugh but didn’t quite pull it off. “Honestly. ’Scuse me.”
I slid past him and out the door.
Outside, it was warm and sunny. I started walking down the street, no idea where I was going, but I had to go somewhere. I slipped on my sunglasses to shield my eyes from the glare. It must have been almost midday, so it was no wonder I was starving.
I heard fast footsteps behind me and instinctively clutched my bag. But when I turned, it was him.
“Sorry, I … ah.” Chesty had been running. “I wanted to check. See if you were okay.”
I looked up at him. He was really tall, well over six foot.
“I’m fine, thanks. Seriously.” The stinging behind my eyes had waned a little, and I almost sounded convincing. “You heard what the paramedic said.”
And everything else.
Best not to think of it.
“Of course.” He ran a hand through his hair. His forearm was tanned and strong—not the type we got in an office. Nobody chained to Outlook had arms like that.
“I just wondered if you might”—he gestured toward the Fox & Filter with his head—“maybe we grab a bite? It’s almost lunchtime.”
“Ah, thanks, I’m really not hungry.”
“Are you sure?” His mouth twitched. “They do a great breath mint panini. I thought that might appeal to you.”
Against my better judgment, I laughed. “Ah yes, the famous Southwark Mouthwash Melt.”
“Listerine shots on the side?” He grinned.
Oh, what the hell.
It was only lunch.
I’d already survived a medical emergency and been diagnosed with anxiety by my phone, so surely there was no harm in having lunch with my lift mattress.
Just another Monday—right?