Third Time Lucky
Authors: Pippa Croft
PENGUIN BOOKS
Pippa
Croft is the pen name of an award-winning romantic novelist. After studying English at Oxford, she worked as a copywriter and journalist before writing her debut novel, which won the RNA’s New Writers’ award and was later made into a TV movie. She lives in a village in the heart of England with her husband and daughter.
Also by Pippa Croft
The First Time We Met
The Second Time I Saw You
For
Broo, Liz and Nell
The Easter Vacation
‘How is he?’
The nurse scribbles a note on a chart and hooks it over the end of the bed before replying. ‘His condition’s stable for now but we’ll know more when he comes round from the anaesthetic.’
I clench my fists to disguise my shaky hands. ‘And he
will
come round from the anaesthetic?’ I ask nervously.
‘Yes, we think so, but when he does come round, he’s going to feel pretty sorry for himself.’
I look at Alexander’s battered face, thinking miserably that it doesn’t look anything like him. How I wish it wasn’t.
The nurse gives me a professional smile. I’m sure she’s seen it all before, and then some, but this is new for me. New and so far out of my comfort zone I’m still struggling to believe it’s really happening. That yesterday I was living it up at a party after the Oxford and Cambridge Boat Race and then one phone call from the military ward of a London hospital has turned everything on its head.
‘We
should hopefully see some signs of improvement in a few hours, but like I say, it’s a waiting game.’
‘Should’ and ‘hopefully’ are not really the words I want to hear right now; however I’ve no choice but to try and keep a hold on my emotions. I’m no good to anyone if I fall apart, and Alexander’s sister Emma is going to need me to hold it together – though I’ve only just started to process the shock of hearing he’d been seriously injured on a mission myself. When I arrived at the hospital, I could hardly take in what the medical team were telling me: severe blood loss that needed to be stemmed … severe damage to the muscles and tendons of the upper left bicep … almost cut to the bone … half an hour longer and that would have been it … the potential for sepsis to set in.
‘What will I tell his sister?’ I ask, dreading the moment when Emma Hunt gets here, which could be any time now. She’s barely seventeen and Alexander is all she has since their father died in a riding accident in January. I called her school as soon as I’d spoken to his consultant, and Helen, the family’s housekeeper, has gone to fetch her and bring her to the hospital.
‘I’ll ask the consultant to speak to you again. He’ll advise you, I’m sure.’ The nurse touches my arm briefly. ‘I can’t tell you not to worry because Captain Hunt’s condition is serious, but assuming he does wake up, he’s going to need a lot of TLC and patience.’
TLC? I don’t know whether to laugh out loud or scream in frustration because Alexander Hunt is a
stranger to patience, and as for Tender Loving Care, there hasn’t been much of that between us since I crashed into him in the cloisters of Wyckham College six months ago. But it’s a good sign, isn’t it, that I feel angry with him? It has to be a million times better than facing the possibility I’d never see him again.
Never in my life do I want to make another journey like this morning’s, staring out of the windows of the taxi cab, trying not to throw up or burst into tears. Even now I know things aren’t as desperate as they were a few hours ago, I’d give almost anything to see him sit up, throw off the sheet and demand to know why we’re all making such a bloody fuss.
The nurse removes the saline bag from the drip-stand and replaces it with a fresh one. I reach out to touch his forearm, but let my fingers hover an inch above the skin, as if I’m half afraid he’ll break. That’s crazy, because nothing breaks Alexander; or at least he thinks it doesn’t. I stroke his arm gently, surprised – I don’t know why – to find his skin as warm as it always is.
While the nurse adjusts the drip-valve, I force myself to focus on his face again and to try and get things in perspective, but the sight of him isn’t helping. His eyes are slits in a mass of puffy flesh. His cheeks and forehead are criss-crossed with cuts, some patched with Steri-Strips. Purple and yellow bruises bloom on his chest like grotesque flowers and most of his left shoulder and arm is swathed in bandages. Is this really the man who’s occupied my thoughts and shared my bed
so many times for the past six months? The one who’s made me laugh and cry and want to beat the pillow in frustration? The one I’d decided emphatically to stay away from?
The nurse rejoins me at his bedside.
‘I still can’t believe this has happened to him. I don’t know what …’ I murmur.
While she waits for me to finish my sentence, she tilts her head to one side a little, possibly to let me know she’s really listening to me – probably it’s just her training. For some reason, it makes me even more anxious. ‘I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to him …’ I say, then realize how ridiculous that sounds considering he’s just been beaten, tortured and stabbed.
She touches my arm briefly. ‘I know it’s difficult but it will sink in soon enough. You – and he – may not think it now, but he’s been very lucky. I’m sorry if this sounds blunt, but at least he’s alive. That’s not the case for everyone who gets wheeled in through these doors.’
‘No, you’re right. Thanks for all you’ve done for him.’
‘Well, it’s up to Captain Hunt from now on – and his loved ones, of course.’
‘He only has Emma,’ I say, sidestepping her comment.
She smiles at me again, more warmly now, but she doesn’t know me.
I’m not his loved one
, I want to tell her. The last words between Alexander and me were cold, angry and bitter. A few days before Alexander went on
this mission, we’d had a massive row that ended with me storming out of his house – with his blessing. Since then, I hadn’t heard a word from him until the early hours of this morning when I found a letter he’d left for me apologizing – sort of – for what he’d said to me. And just hours after I’d got my head around
that
bombshell, the hospital called.
The nurse’s face is a blur in front of me so I wipe my hand across my face, and am horrified to find my knuckles are wet with tears.
‘Here you are.’ A handful of Kleenex is thrust under my nose.
‘Thanks.’ My throat is clogged, my voice husky. The hangover and lack of sleep are taking their toll.
When I refocus, the nurse is watching me intently. ‘Why don’t you take a break, Lauren?’
‘I will do soon, thanks.’ I bite back my tears, ashamed of my reaction.
She touches my arm again. ‘Good. I’ll pop back in a little while.’
The door to the corridor closes with a soft click and I watch her chatting to a colleague through the window that allows the medical team to observe their patients. My knees are a little wobbly as I cross to the washbasin in the corner of the hospital room. The cold water stings my skin as I splash my face and when I glance in the mirror, I see that dark smudges ring my eyes and smears of mascara daub my cheeks. My God, I look almost as bad as Alexander.
Although
the nurse told me to take a break, I can’t seem to tear myself away. The late-morning sun slants through the blinds and casts bars of light and shadow across the sheet that covers him. If there’s one consolation in the whole disaster of this weekend, it’s that I was already in London when I got the call from the hospital – which reminds me, I have to call my college friend Immy as soon as I can. I still haven’t told her where I am so when she gets back to the apartment we’re sharing, she’ll think I’ve either run off back to Washington or been abducted by aliens.
We’d been to a Boat Race party at a house on the Thames, hoping to have some fun and forget our troubled relationships. Immy ended up in bed with a Blues rower and I took a cab home after an encounter with Alexander’s douche of a cousin, Rupert, and Alexander’s poisonous ex, Valentina … but I refuse to think about either of them now.
I reach out and touch Alexander’s hair, biting my lip at the feel of the matted blood on his scalp. ‘So this is what you do, just to get my attention.’
I am just about to look away, wondering if the nurse is right and I ought to take a break, when I think I spot something. Was that his eyelid fluttering? I shake my head, thinking I’m really losing it now. But then I look back and his swollen eyelids are definitely open and those cool blue eyes are focused right on me. ‘Alexander? Are you awake?’
It’s
possibly the most stupid question on the planet but I’m poleaxed by the way those eyes glared at me momentarily, as if nothing had ever happened.
‘What the hell have you done to yourself?’
His eyes are closed now and there’s no response to my whisper, just rhythmic breathing and the monotonous bleeping of the machines. Maybe I was hallucinating or seeing what I wanted to. I’ve hardly had any sleep and the booze from last night must still be affecting me.
‘You really know how to drive a woman out of her mind, don’t you?’ I say, stroking the skin of his free hand again, around the patch securing the IV line.
‘Uh-huh.’
What?
His eyes may be closed but I’m sure his lips moved. I
heard
him and I’m not dreaming.
‘Alexander … can you actually hear me or are you winding me up?’
‘Like I said, he’ll be in and out of it for a while.’ The nurse’s voice startles me. I hadn’t even noticed her walk in but she’s at the bottom of the bed, noting his obs again. I’m not so inclined to put his random comments down to the drugs, however. Nothing would surprise me about Alexander.
‘Can I get you a cup of tea?’ she asks, perhaps noting that I look like a zombie. She must have far better things to do than fetch drinks for me.
‘No, but thanks so much for the offer. I might take a walk. I need some fresh air.’
‘Good
idea. Try and stay positive. We’re as keen as you are to have Captain Hunt on the mend and probably driving you mad in no time.’
‘How did you know he drives me mad?’
She rolls her eyes. ‘Don’t they always? Besides, it was all we could do to get Captain Hunt to lie down and behave while we examined him. He kept saying he had to get back to his men. He was delirious from the blood loss by then, but he was still quite a handful.’
‘You wait until he wakes up,’ I say, wildly encouraged by this statement while also apprehensive of what’s in store when we do have to confront each other – and our problems – again.
The nurse gives a wry smile. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve seen it all. I can handle it.’
I wish I could say the same
, I’m thinking, as I gather up my bag and follow her out of the room.
The moment the fresh air hits my lungs in the hospital grounds, I know I must have misheard Alexander’s words. Outside, tulips crowd the neat borders and the cherry trees are thick with blossom. It’s a bright spring morning; just a few damp spots in the shadows reveal any hint of the rain that poured down during the night. I sink my chin inside the neck of my funnel coat and shove my hands deep into my pockets.
What will I tell Emma when she gets here? She won’t be long. I remember the letter Alexander sent me before he went off on his mission:
So if my corner of a
foreign field ends up being some dusty hellhole, be a friend to Emma for me, would you?
Oh, Emma
. Clever, naive, vulnerable, even more maddening than her brother. The words in the letter are imprinted on my brain. I feel sick when I picture her reaction when she heard about this. She worships Alexander, when she’s not arguing with him, and the news will have hit her hard.
Without warning, I feel a little light-headed so I find a bench in a patch of sunlight and sit down. At least my hands are steadier now, but I remember them trembling like leaves as I thrust a pile of notes at the cab driver when I arrived. He called after me, trying to offer me my change, but I was already jogging towards the hospital reception.
Despite the fact I vowed I’d never come running at Alexander’s call again, I didn’t hesitate when the hospital rang me. I didn’t rush here because Alexander had asked for me before he went into surgery. I didn’t come because he wanted to spare Emma from the shock of his injury until he was out of theatre. I came because I
had
to.
By the time I get up from the bench, I feel stronger and calmer, and the sun warms my face as I make a second circuit of the courtyard. Beyond the hedge, there are fields and a wood, where the first signs of green are clinging to the branches. The Easter vacation has started and I’d expected to be heading home to Washington soon. My mother was looking forward to a
belated birthday celebration with me, because I missed hers while I was away. And I’d already arranged a girls’ weekend with my old Brown University friends and was looking forward to catching up with them and having fun after the stresses of last term of my master’s in Art History. The exam term is coming up and it’s going to be a toughie.
Now I’m wondering if I’ll even be home in time. I don’t know what state Alexander will be in when he’s released, or if he’ll want me to stay – or if
I’ll
want to.
I think you can’t stay away from me, Lauren, and I know damn well I can’t stay away from you.
More of the words in his letter seem to float in front of my eyes. I shake my head, contemptuous of my own weakness. Any floating is sure to be a legacy of the obscene amount of Pimm’s and wine I consumed yesterday.
I know you’ve hated me at times – perhaps most of the time – and especially now …
I can never forget those words because he’s right; I
have
hated him at times, but not now. Now, I’m … scared of how vulnerable I feel, of how conflicted I feel. I could just walk right out of here and get the first plane back to Washington, and maybe that’s what I
should
do.
I swear this: if I ever get the chance, I’m going to make good on all the things I’ve lain awake promising myself I’d do.
Remembering this threat, I don’t whether to laugh or cry – or run. Right now, while I still have the chance,
before everything starts again, before I’m sucked into his world and lured back into his bed.
The gates to the car park are only a few feet away; beyond that is the street. Above the birds, I can hear the rumble of traffic and, overhead, a plane’s distant thrum. I stand up; it’s that easy.
Just walk right through those gates, Lauren. Do it now
. The voice instructing me sounds like my mother’s, like Scott’s, like Daddy’s.