‘You ok?’ says Nick, holding the door as I buckle up, and god, he looks wrung out. He’s spent the entire day on a plastic seat in my cubicle, where I’m certain he’s been wrestling with memories too. Not about my grandparents, obviously, but the last time we were in hospital together.
I’ve been remembering that as well.
And I don’t know if it’s the thought of how much he was hurting then, or my guilt at how distant I’ve been from him – the lies I’ve told; the secrets I’ve kept – but I feel suddenly compelled to tell him how sorry I am, for everything.
You deserve better.
But I can’t do that in front of Mum and the driver.
So, ‘I’m fine,’ I say instead.
And Nick gives me a strained smile, then closes my door, climbs in beside the driver, Mum gets in beside me, and we set off back to Doverley.
It isn’t a massive deal that I’ve been invalided out for the rest of the weekend, not like it was when Emma was sick, and I take some comfort from that. Although we only have a fortnight left on the estate now, with a hard stop at the end – the National Trust need it back on 1 December for their festivities – the focus is still very much on finishing Emma’s scenes, and she has several outstanding that I’m not involved in. Her final one needs rain, lots of rain, so is being saved until the weather cooperates. In the meantime, while I’m resting, she’ll shoot a montage of pool matches with the boys (Clare was apparently incredible at pool), then another in which she pens Clare’s un-postable letters to Hans, and, assuming that all goes to schedule, another night in Bettys Bar, with everyone except Nick and me.
We will both feature in that sequence, just back in Doverley’s abandoned billiards room, with the idea that the noisy, boozy fun in Bettys will be intercut with much steamier, silent footage of the two of us.
My anxiety over filming that footage is something I think about at least once a day.
It’s one of a trio of scenes scheduled for the last week of this month that I’m really, really dreading.
The second is the shot where I give Robbie the coordinates that lead him and the crew to their deaths.
The third is the one when I kill myself – which, like the second, I’m still hoping gets dropped from the script.
For the present though, I can’t do anything about that, so I park it and, once we arrive at Doverley, leave Mum in Jeff’scapable hands, gratefully acquiescing with her insistence that I go straight upstairs and make use of my rolltop bath.
‘Remember to wear a shower cap,’ she calls after me as, with Nick, I head for the stairs. ‘You can’t get those stitches wet.’
I don’t see her again for the rest of the evening. She texts me while I’m still in the bath, saying her room’s extremely comfortable, I’m not to worry about her, she’s going to eat dinner with Felix then have an early night.
I suggest you do the same. Phil and the girls send their love xxx
‘You pull that off,’ says Nick, nodding at my plastic cap as he comes out of the shower, wrapping himself in a towel.
‘My hair’s going to get gross,’ I say. I’m not allowed to wash it until these forty-eight hours are over.
‘You could never be gross, Claude.’ Exhaustedly, he runs his hand down his face. ‘Want me to leave you in peace?’
‘No, stay.’
It takes him aback.
I see that from the look he gives me, and, thinking of how incredible he’s been all day, feel guiltier yet.
I’m sorry, I wanted to tell him in the car.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I say to him now. ‘I know I haven’t been making anything easy.’
‘I’m not interested in easy,’ he says, moving to rest against the vanity. His shoulders are coated with beads of water that catch the lights’ glow. His face, despite his tiredness – despite the years I’ve spent looking at it – still gives me pause, pulling my eye.
It’s a good face.
My favourite face, in fact.
Yet, even as I think that, I discover I’m picturing Robbie’s too, and feel even worse.
‘You deserve … ’ I begin.
