I shake my head. I’m pretty certain that moving my ankle would be a very, very unwise thing to do right now.
Tom sits himself down on the grass next to me.
‘Is it still hurting?’ he asks. ‘Do you mind if I have a look at it?’
‘Yes, and no.’
It does feel a little odd, though, having Tom peering at my leg and foot.
‘Can you take your shoe off?’ he asks.
‘Not sure I’ll ever get it back on if I do.’
‘You have your back-up flip-flops?’
‘Oh yes.’ I can’t believe how pleased I feel that he remembers our spare footwear conversation from this morning. The shock’s obviously getting to me.
Thank goodness I painted my nails properly rather than putting my shoes on and just painting my nails inside the peep-toe bit (I have been known to do that). I was really tired yesterday evening after a day of soul-destroying conversations about spreadsheets (I really need to look for another job) but luckily remembered in time that by the end of the day I might want to switch to flip-flops, especially if dancing, so I did them properly, in a very nice shade of reddy-orange that I bought a couple of weeks ago.
‘Would you like me to help?’
‘Definitely not. Thank you.’ I reach my hand down and my leg out and up to the side and do an experimental little tug before letting go fast. ‘Whoa. That’s sore.’
‘You know what. I’m sure you’re fine, but why don’t I just go and see if I can find Ruth’s doctor son to give you a very quick once-over.’
‘Nooooo. He won’t want to do that at his mum’s wedding.’
‘I’m sure he won’t mind sparing one minute. And then we’ll know you’re fine and that I’m not going to maim you for life by helping you get the shoe off.’
‘Okay. Thank you.’
‘I might just wait until Carole gets back with the water.’ He looks all round as though she might materialise out of a tree or from the sky.
‘I feel like she might have forgotten, or got distracted, or gone to sleep in a bush or something. And I’m fine. Really. Definitely not going to faint again and I have my phone.’ I take it out of my clutch and wave it at him.
‘Okay. See you in a minute.’
My foot’s really throbbing now. I get going on a game of Brawl Stars to distract myself.
There’s still no sign of Carole when Tom returns with a big bowl of ice and a towel, a glass of apple juice and a bottle of water and Ruth’s son, who introduces himself as James.
‘We brought you apple juice for a bit of sugar for shock,’ James tells me. ‘Just in case it really hurts when we take the shoe off.’
Itdoesreally hurt taking the shoe off and I’m very grateful for the juice.
It hurts even more when James very gently (which I am extremely grateful for) examines my ankle, which, when I look at it, has already ballooned and is quite an odd colour.
When we’ve gone through lots of questions on things like whether I can turn it in various directions (no) or push with it without pain (no), James says that he thinks it’s likely that I have a small fracture and that I should go to A&E and get it X-rayed.
I sit very still and think about that. I have a lot of important client meetings this week that I really can’t miss. Hmm. I wouldn’t actuallymindmissing them if I have a really good reason like a broken ankle. In the very short-term, though, I don’t want to miss the rest of the wedding. The reception is karaoke and I absolutely adore karaoke. Thinking ahead to the weekend, I have plans, and most of them involve having the use of my ankle. And I have a holiday to Menorca with three girlfriends booked soon. I don’t want to have a broken ankle. Also, if Idohave anything wrong with me, I don’t want to go to a hospital here, I want to go to St George’s in Tooting, which is quite near my flat, in case I have any follow-up appointments.
‘Is it definitely broken do you think?’ I ask.
‘Not definitely but probably.’
‘Not badly, though?’
‘Probably not.’
