Always and Only You

Chapter Forty-One

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Present Day

I return to the flat I share with Simon two days later. I’m desperate to walk through the front door, but when I do, everything feels strange, the same way it does when you come home after a holiday. I know it won’t last long, but I don’t like it. I want everything to feel normal again. I want to feel normal again. But right at this moment, that feels as possible as if I’d flown home from Devon by flapping my arms.

Simon is amazing. If I thought he adored me before the accident, he’s surpassing himself now. I barely have to lift a finger. He doesn’t even open his laptop to look at work emails, something I usually chide him for when he’s supposed to be off. Instead he spends all his time pandering to my every whim. Not that I have many. Food and naps are pretty much all I require at the moment. Even snuggling up in front of the TV every evening is a bit of an ask. Most nights, I just doze off. By about 8 p.m., I’m good for nothing. When my brain decides it’s too tired to do one more thing, it shuts down. I can’t think. I can’t talk. I can barely move.

Other than that, the thing I need most is time with Simon. I know we didn’t end up having our wedding, but I’d been aching for our honeymoon because it would mean a fortnight alone with nothing to do but rest and relax. At least I’ve got that now and I’m grateful for it, even if it is in our two-bed flat in Herne Hill rather than under the Caribbean sun. Slowly, I emerge from my bubble of emotional numbness and feel more like my usual self. How could I not with all the love and attention he’s lavishing on me?

On Monday morning, about ten days after I come home from the hospital, I hear the door brush on the bedroom carpet and I roll over in bed and blink hazily. When I’m able to focus sufficiently, Simon is standing there beside the bed holding a tray.

I yawn and push myself up to rest against the headboard. ‘You don’t have to keep doing this, you know.’

He lays the tray down on my lap. This morning it’s a bagel with cream cheese and smoked salmon – my absolute favourite – orange juice and a large mug of decaf tea, because I’m not allowed caffeine since the accident. It’s too much stimulation for my compromised brain. There’s even a small vase full of grape hyacinths and a napkin on the tray.

‘Yes, I do have to do this for you.’ He leans down to kiss my forehead as I reach for the mug. ‘You’re everything to me, Erin. I don’t always think I’ve been good at showing you that in the past. Or being the person you deserve.’

I reach out and touch his arm, my eyes misty. ‘Yes, you have.’ I think back to all the bunches of flowers, the over-the-top birthday presents, the surprise weekends away to Prague and Bruges and Paris. Simon has always known how to make me feel special.

He looks back at me seriously, rare for Simon who always seems to be on the verge of smiling or bursting into laughter. ‘I don’t know how to express it, but I know what I’m trying to say.’

I nod, even though I don’t understand. Normally, I’m Nancy Drew, digging into the layers of nuance in everyone’s conversations, but since the accident, I don’t have the capacity. I let moments like these slide, and I have the feeling that one day I’m going to stumble over a pile of discarded half-thoughts I’ve let tumble to the floor and it’ll trip me up. Stupid, really, but I feel my head injury has definitely made me more anxious, possibly even a little paranoid.

‘When you’ve finished that, I’ll help you get dressed,’ he says. ‘You’ve got that appointment with the psychologist this morning, remember?’

I nod again. It’s becoming my default response to almost every question, even if I don’t remember what I’m being reminded of. I know it’s not being entirely honest, but I’m so fed up with feeling so weak and useless. ‘I can manage myself,’ I tell him.

He starts to argue, but I give him a look and he backs away laughing softly, his hands up in surrender. ‘Okay … okay … But call me if you need me.’

I nod again. Another lie. When did it become so easy?

I manage to get dressed without Simon’s aid, even if I lose my balance trying to put one foot in the leg of my knickers and have to grab the chest of drawers. I’ve learned my balance is also a bit compromised but that it’s good to move around regardless, as it’ll help my brain recalibrate in a way that staying still, afraid to move, won’t.

I’m just trying to put make-up on when Simon dashes through the bedroom and into the en suite. I put my brush down and peer round the door. He’s busy turning off the cold tap, pulling the plug out and then he grabs a bath sheet from the washing hamper and starts mopping up the floor.

My hand flies to my mouth. ‘I didn’t do it again , did I?’

‘Yup. Clyde from downstairs called to say his ceiling was dripping.’

I get down on my hands and knees and try to help, but he shoos me away.

‘I’m so sorry!’

It’s the second time since I’ve been home that I’ve forgotten to turn the taps off, and the first instance was bad enough that our downstairs neighbour had to claim on his home insurance. Thankfully, the contractors haven’t arrived to patch his ceiling up yet, so today’s mishap won’t spoil anything further. I hope.

‘It’s fine,’ Simon tells me, even though his face is looking more strained than when he brought me my breakfast. ‘You go back to what you were doing.’

I return to my dressing table and pick up my eyeshadow brush. I’m going to go for something simple. Just a bit of colour to make me look a tad more healthy.

‘Do you really need to put make-up on?’ I can see Simon behind me, holding a sodden towel which I presume he’s going to throw in the washing machine.

I meet his gaze in the mirror. ‘No, but …’ My shoulders sag. ‘I just want to feel a bit more like ‘me’, you know? Put on a brave face. Almost literally.’

Simon nods, but I know he’s reflecting my technique back to me. He holds the towel up a little higher. ‘I’ll just …’ and then he heads for the door.

Once the shadow is done, I pick up my mascara, unscrew the lid, and begin brushing it onto my lashes, but I’ve only done a couple of sweeps when I jab it into my eyeball, causing me to yelp in pain.

Simon comes skidding back into the room. ‘Erin! Are you okay?’

My first reaction isn’t gratitude, but irritation. Not at Simon. Not really. At myself. I’m just so fed up with not being able to do anything properly, especially if it involves fine motor skills. Forget mascara … my handwriting is a car crash at the moment.

‘I’m fine. I just …’ I wave my hand to indicate the blackened mess I made of my upper lid when my hand slipped and grab for a make-up wipe.

Simon hovers behind me, watching as I start again with the eyeshadow. ‘We need to leave in about ten minutes,’ he says softly.

‘This won’t take long.’ I’m already done brushing a nude shade over my lid. I pick the mascara up again and eye it warily.

‘Why don’t you let me try?’ Simon asks, and he leads me to the edge of the bed, makes me sit down and kneels down in front of me.

I hand him the mascara wand. ‘Are you sure?’

He lifts it up to my lashes, his lip caught between his teeth in concentration. ‘How hard can it—?’

‘Ow!’ I scream, as Simon pokes my sore eyeball once again in exactly the same spot.

‘Oh, my God! Erin … I’m sorry!’ Simon grabs the make-up wipes and gets to work, taking off almost everything I’ve applied so far in his panic.

I reach up and still his hand. He looks at me and then I burst out laughing. Relief floods his features and he begins to laugh too. And then he kisses me on the lips and it feels light and fun, just like it did before all this happened. It’s almost as if he’s been scared to touch me since we came home from the hospital, scared he’ll break me further.

I kiss him again, then take the wipes from him and scrub my face clean. ‘The psychologist will just have to meet me au naturel ,’ I say.

But when I’ve finished, I hold the packet of wipes on my lap and stare down at it, suddenly sombre. I look back up at Simon. I can’t ignore the reality of my situation, not after two minor disasters so far, and the day is hardly begun yet. ‘We’ve only got until next weekend and then you’re back at work,’ I say. ‘What are we going to do? I’m scared I’ll flood the place again, or worse! What if I put something on the hob and forget about it? I don’t feel …’ I swallow, not quite able to say the words. Truthfully, I don’t feel confident about being on my own, something I thought I’d never think or say. My mother always used to joke that self-sufficiency was my middle name.

Simon makes a rueful face. ‘I didn’t want to say anything, but I was thinking the same thing. How about we have a chat with your mum, see if you can stay there for a bit?’

I take a few breaths and then meet his gaze. ‘Okay,’ I reply, even though that one word feels like an admission of defeat.