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“May I have your attention, please? There’s been a temporary signal failure on the line. I’d like to apologise for the delay. We hope to be up and running again as soon as possible.”
“Shit,” I mutter.
“It’s going to be okay, Lana. Just relax,” he tells me, his deep voice doing something to the pit of my stomach.
I should get sick more often, if only to bring out Robert’s caring side like this.
“God, I’m so glad you were at the station at the same time as me,” I whisper to him. “This would have been hell if I’d been on my own.”
“Well, you’re not on your own and you’re going to be home soon,” he says soothingly.
A moment of silence ensues, with the passengers around us grumbling over the delay. We’re in a spot where you can’t get any signal on your phone, too, which makes it that much worse. Nobody can call people and let them know they’re running late.
“I love how you smell,” Robert says, breaking our quiet moment. He turns his head and bends down a little so he can run his nose along my neck. It feels so good that I can’t even summon up the energy to protest.
All I do is mumble, “Mm-hmm,” keeping my eyes closed, as if that will allay my embarrassment.
In the end it takes about fifteen minutes for us to be up and running again. When we get out at our stop, Robert immediately hails a taxi to bring us the short distance to the house. He pays the driver and then helps me to the front door before surprising me by scooping me up into his arms and carrying me upstairs to my room.
Laying me gently down onto the bed, he asks, “Where do you keep your medicine?”
A wave of dizziness comes over me as my head sinks into the pillow. “First drawer,” I answer drowsily, pointing to the nightstand.
He pulls it open and rummages around before he finds my kit as I slip off my shoes and unzip the side of my high-waisted pencil skirt.
Robert sits beside me on the bed, looking lost as he peers at an insulin pen. “I don’t know what to do,” he says, as though this is the first time in his life he’s felt bewildered.
“I can do it,” I reassure him tiredly. “Will you please just help me out of this skirt?”
When sickness hits, I have no space left in my brain for modesty. Right now I just want to feel better, and if that means Robert seeing me in my underwear, then so be it.
He bites on his bottom lip. “Oh, yeah, of course.”
Leaning forward, he puts an arm around my waist, lifting me easily as he pulls the tight skirt down over my hips and off me. Sitting there in my knickers, which are thankfully a nice black pair, I undo the last few buttons on my blouse and pull it up my stomach. Then I set to work on testing my blood sugar.
Robert watches in fascination when I prick my finger and a drop of blood seeps out. His eyes drift to my underwear and bare skin every once in a while, his breathing shallow. Jeez, is he turned on by this cold and clinical process? By me sitting here sick, tired, and sweaty in my bed? If he is, then I don’t understand the appeal.
I look up at him as I’m readying the insulin pen, and his eyes are fixed on the old needle marks on my belly. When he notices me looking, his eyes grow warm and he reaches out, running his hot palm tenderly over the scars. We stay locked in the moment for a while, him touching my marks and me watching him. I’ve never had anyone caress me like this before. He just seems so reverent.
“I have to take my insulin now,” I whisper, breaking whatever it is we’re doing. He nods and removes his hand from my stomach.
I think he winces slightly when I finally get around to sticking the needle in. Once I’m done, I clean up and put everything away before falling back into my pillows.
“Do you need to eat now?” Robert asks after a couple minutes of silence.
“Yes,” I answer softly. “Could you make me something? It doesn’t have to be anything fancy…”
He cuts me off. “I’ll make us dinner. You don’t move a muscle — just stay here and relax.”
Standing, he leans down to press a kiss to the top of my head. He leaves, and my heart is going crazy as I relive those moments on the Tube, our hesitant but desperate need to touch one another. Using my temporary sickness to be close. God, what a mess we make.
A few minutes later I can smell chicken and garlic wafting up from the kitchen. I climb from my bed and go into my en-suite, throwing on my nightie and washing my face and hands with some cold water and soap. When I get back to my bed, I crawl under the covers.
“Ah, naughty! I told you not to move,” says Robert as he returns to the room a little later, having changed out of his work suit and into a T-shirt and jeans. He’s carrying two plates containing what looks to be a chicken stir fry.
“I had to freshen up,” I reply, before adding, “That looks and smells delicious, Robert. I didn’t know you could cook.”
He shrugs and grins. “I get by. Here, eat up.” He hands me the plate and a fork before seating himself beside me on the bed with his own dinner.
I eat the food slowly, still a little bit shaken from my slip-up earlier. As I told Robert, I rarely forget my insulin, if ever. My mum has always drilled it into me to have a regime and stick to it. I mean, she’s been calling me every night since I got here, and every night our conversation ends with her asking if I’ve been taking care of myself and eating properly.
