I nod back, not trusting myself to speak. Instead, I close my eyes.
When I open them, I’m alone.
41
SARAH
I’d already booked a hotel from my phone while in the waiting room and it’s 7p.m. by the time I exit the hospital. I’m not really sure how I feel. Perhaps if I had time to think about it, I’d be upset. But the rolling emotions of the day – the fear, worry, elation, disappointment – have left me feeling simply exhausted and numb.
So I hobble out and wait for a taxi.
The hospital is in Salon-de-Provence, just two hours from Mum, but I can’t think of going back to her place. I want to get a good night’s sleep. Then, if Hal hasn’t changed his mind in the morning, I’ll just get the train and get back to normality.
The hotel I’ve selected turns out to be in a repurposed old house. It’s pretty and quaint and if I hadn’t been mentally and physically exhausted, I’d have been charmed by the old stonework, the picturesque entrance hall.
A woman meets me and shows me to my room, and I flop down on the bed the minute she leaves me to my own devices. I haven’t eaten since this morning and my stomach growls, so I decide to rest for a few minutes before finding out whether they do room service and, if not, where the nearest fast food place is.
The next thing I know, I’m freezing, lying stiffly on the bed. The light outside is stark, the way it is first thing in the morning. I move a little and everything aches. Groaning, I move myself properly into the bed, pulling the enormous heavy counterpane over me. It’s cold, but heavy and thick, and gradually I begin to warm up.
Pulling out my phone I see that it’s five in the morning. I’ve slept for about nine hours, and although I still feel achy and sore, now that I’m conscious, my mind has turned up the volume again and I’m sure I won’t get back to sleep.
I run myself a bath in the rather decadent tub that’s set in the corner of the room and add a tiny bottle ofbain moussantfrom a little basket on the dresser. The water froths and looks so inviting I decide to get in as it fills. Gingerly, I pull back the Velcro straps on my boot and open up the plastic front. Inside, my leg is very pale and squashed and hairy and sorry for itself. I know that it’s OK to remove the boot to bathe, but I’ve avoided it as much as possible so far. I feel too vulnerable without it.
With careful slowness, I sit on the edge of the bath, put my good leg in then carefully lower myself down using my arms and the side of the bath. And I’ve done it! I’m sitting in a bubble bath, and it feels absolutely glorious.
I let the water run and lean back, feeling each and every one of my muscles begin to unknit itself. And I think about Hal and his words yesterday. He’d just come out of anaesthetic, he’d had a shock. He was feeling sorry for himself. There’s no wonder he wanted me to go. But I’m pretty confident he’ll be glad to see a friendly face when visiting hours start at 10a.m.
After half an hour, I carefully clamber out, glad that I don’t have an audience because it’s far from dignified. But I manage to get myself back onto the chair without incident. I gently towel dry my poor defective limb, then clip it back into its boot before drying the rest of myself and getting dressed.
It’s still only 7a.m. when I hobble out into the street, trying to lean on the boot as much as my crutch, to get myself used to supporting myself again. The doctor told me that eventually I’d be able to give up the crutch altogether, but I’m not ready yet.
In all the chaos of yesterday and after spending hours sitting in artificial hospital light, it feels surprising that it’s still summer; the early morning sun gently warms my skin as I make my way down the road and turn the corner towards the boulangerie I’ve earmarked for breakfast. My hotel serves food from 8a.m., but I’m too hungry to wait. Plus, it’s nice to be out and about and to remind myself that the world is still turning.
I’d imagined a bigger place, but the boulangerie turns out to be a diminutive building, with red signage, tucked between a dry cleaner’s and a florist. A queue spills out of its door and along the pavement. Now and then a second door will open and a customer will exit carrying a baguette or paper bag of pastries.
For some reason I’d imagined that I’d be able to buy coffee and a pastry quite easily, but there’s no way I’m standing in that queue. I’ll topple over from hunger before I reach the till.
Instead, I find a small supermarket and buy a bottle of water and a packet of ready-made croissants. Sitting on a bench in the early sunshine, I break off a corner of one of the pastries. No doubt, if I’d waited, I’d have got a much better deal. But at this moment, feeling this hungry, the dried-up little croissant feels like the food of the gods.
Two hours later and I’m making my way back to Hal’s room. I knock, and hear him answer, ‘Oui?’, clearly thinking it’s a doctor or nurse.
When I peep around the door, he’s sitting up in bed, his colour much better. He’s got a tray on a little trolley near his bed with the remnants of a bread roll and a cup of coffee on it. ‘Oh!’ he says when he sees me.
‘Yep. It’s me,’ I tell him.
A smile spreads across his face, his features soften. ‘I thought you’d be back at home in sunny Cambridge by now.’
‘Nah. That place is overrated.’ I pull up a plastic chair and perch on it. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Bad, but better than I did,’ he offers. ‘Apparently my fracture is behaving itself. And I don’t have a temperature so far.’ He crosses his fingers; holds them in the air.
‘Good.’
‘I’m aiming to be out of here tomorrow.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Well, my doc wants me to stay a week, but I’m hoping to be released on good behaviour, if I promise to present myself at a hospital back home as soon as I arrive.’
