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 itagain, 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 doanythingproperly, 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 meau 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.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Five years ago
Hey, you …she types.Free to chat?
