And then because I can’t bear to keep my body upright another second longer, I open my eyes enough to lean back, place the glass on my bedside table and lie down on my bed.
The pain is no worse, but it’s not yet any better. And I’m tired. So very tired, I feel like I could sleep for weeks, and yet I’m not quite comfortable enough to just slip into the comatose state my body craves.
I don’t know how long it is exactly but I know some time has passed when Hannah speaks again. It’s long enough that I started to think she’d gone, slipped out of the flat without me hearing.
“Do you need me to make you some food?” she asks.
“God, no,” I say, sounding ungrateful when really it’s just my stomach issuing very clear threats that any food that passes my lips will be seen again.
I hear a sigh and the bed sinks to the side. I want to tell her to get off, that the change in my position makes me feel dizzy, but I don’t even have the energy.
“I can’t believe you were this sick all those times you hid away in the bedroom with a migraine,” she says and her voice is heavy with something. Guilt? Regret? Confusion? Maybe all three.
“Well, I wasn’t in there catching up on Netflix,” I say, attempting a half-hearted joke, but when Hannah stays silent, I realise that’s likely exactly what she thought I was doing.
Fuck.
“I know I’m no Florence Nightingale, but I could have done more. I could have helped you more…” Her voice trails off.
I know I should apologise. I know I should acknowledge that I kept my worst attacks, and even my day-to-day symptoms as much of a secret as I possibly could. I know that I likely would have refused Hannah’s help even more than I already did.
But I also know that Hannah was quite happy when I kept myself to myself. I would always see her face relax when I would finally emerge from the bedroom, a hopeful glint in her eyes. I could always hear the relief in her voice when she asked me if it was all over, if I was ‘back to normal’.
Her reaction always bruised me a little. It was always a reminder that my chronic illness was an inconvenience, an obstacle to the life she wanted or imagined we should have as a couple. It didn’t hurt me because these things weren’t true. It pained me because I knew deep down they were. My illness is a huge inconvenience.
And now I find myself lying here thinking about Charlie of all people. Upbeat Charlie with his sunshine smiles and positive personality. How could my illness be anything but an obstacle, a problem and a hassle?
“I don’t need help,” I say to Hannah but I suspect we both know I’m telling myself this more than I am relaying the message to her.
“Fine,” Hannah says and it’s not unkind or abrupt, more defeated and resigned. The bed moves again as she stands up. “I guess I’ll go and—”
She gets cut off by the doorbell ringing so loudly and sharply it makes me wince with pain.
Who the fuck is ringing my doorbell in the middle of the day? I’m not expecting any deliveries and only a handful of people even know my new address.
“I’ll get it,” Hannah says as she walks to the door. I open my eyes and slowly push up to peer around the door to try and hear who it might be. It makes me feel dizzy, moving like that, so I crash back down again deciding that in actual fact, I really don’t care who it is. As I close my eyes again, I start praying that Hannah will just tell them to fuck right off.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
We Belong Together
Charlie
Ilast an hour.
One measly hour.
And it’s one hour too long. But it is an hour well spent.
I send the email I promised Jake from Status. I reply to the other most urgent items in my inbox, and after a quick check-in with each of my team, I tell them that I will be out of the office for the rest of the day. I then write another email that I send before I chicken out of doing so.
I know I should go and speak to Garrett face to face or with one of the other senior directors, but I don’t want to waste any more time. Not another sodding second.
The walk to the Underground station takes as long as it usually takes, but today it’s much too long. The Tube itself isn’t delayed or slower than usual, but it feels like every station takes an eternity. And then there’s the walk to my flat, a walk that quickly turns into a jog, and then finally the kind of run that prompts strange looks from passers-by, but I don’t care. I feel like I have the perfect reason to be running.
Because I have soup to make.
Who knows if soup is the right thing to take to someone lost in the depths of an awful migraine, but I don’t know what else to make. I don’t know what else to do, I just know I need to do something.
