Page 88 of Unbind

Ihave a perfect winter’s Sunday planned for me and Nat today: a walk in Windsor Great Park followed by lunch at a fantastic pub just outside the palace gates. The pub may be ancient—and tiny—but those in the know come far and wide for its roast sirloin.

All of which makes it extremely exasperating that I’ve woken up feeling bloody awful and realising that the mere thought of roast beef makes me want to hurl.

I don’t get sick these days. It’s a point of pride for me to maintain my immune system in ship-shape condition. I follow an anti-inflammatory diet, for the most part, designed by my nutritionist, Louise, and executed by Kamyl. I take enough supplements each day to make me rattle. I don’t drink much—especially since meeting Nat. I make regular use of both the ice bath and infrared sauna in my basement. I meditate and adhere to a workout regime that balances the obligatory weights and cardio with more somatic movement to maintain my mind-body connection.

That is to say, someone who manages their wellbeingand immune system in the tightly controlled way that I do has no business feeling this bloody horrific.

I lie there for a while, careful not to wake Nat, who’s slumbering peacefully next to me, as I edge the covers off me. It’s still dark outside. I’m boiling hot and my head feels like a power drill has taken up residence inside it. The pain is so bad I can barely move. I try to turn my head towards Nat, but a flash of agony sears my skull.

Fuck.

I’m unsure how long I spend in this tortuous state, but at some point, a dim grey light bleeds into the edges of my blinds and Nat rolls towards me, tucking her lithe, naked body against mine. It’s a move I’d usually treasure, but I’m too fucking hot to endure any further human heat.

Thankfully, she rolls right away as though I’ve scorched her.

‘Woah. You’re like a furnace.’

I groan my agreement, and she puts a hand to my forehead.

‘Jesus, honey, you’re burning up.’ She scoots onto her knees and gazes down at me, her lovely face tight with concern. ‘How do you feel? You definitely have a fever.’

‘Don’t feel my best,’ I croak, because I’m not one to whine. There’s precisely nothing to be gained from self pity. I learnt that lesson a long time ago. ‘I’ll just…’

I’ll just grab some medsis what I’m thinking as I attempt to swing my legs over the edge of the bed, but I find I have neither the energy nor the mental capacity to construct the end of the sentence. Nor, it seems, do I have the energy to get out of bed.

‘No!’ Nat shouts. ‘What are you doing?! Don’t move. Stay there.’

She leaps out of my bed and pads over to my bathroom,where I hear her rummaging around in the medicine cabinet under the huge vanity. She emerges and comes around to sit on my side of the bed.

‘Let’s get you dosed up, and then I can call Dyson?’ Her voice is hesitant, and I nod. The retainer I pay him is certainly hefty enough to warrant disturbing him first thing on a Sunday morning. This feels like a textbook flu, so there’s not a huge amount he can do. But at the very least, he can administer an IV or two and help me feel slightly more human.

Nat busies herself with popping capsules from the Nurofen and Lemsip packets. She lays them on my bedside table and grabs one of the extra pillows from the floor before slowly, carefully, putting her arm around my neck. Even with her help supporting my weight, the effort of raising my head enough to insert the extra pillow behind it is agony. I suck in an involuntary breath through my teeth.

‘Poor baby,’ she says, bending to kiss my forehead. She stuffs the pillow behind me and I lean back against it gratefully. The shock waves of pain recede as I still, and this elevated position feels better for the pressure inside my head, full stop.

She feeds me two of the capsules before picking up the glass of water I took to bed and holding it to my lips. I swallow, and then swallow the next two capsules. I’m not the biggest fan of pharmaceuticals, but fuck knows I’ll do anything to relieve this pain in my head and the terrible cramping in every muscle in my body. I feel a hundred years old.

‘Thanks,’ I murmur, letting my eyes drift closed. ‘Just give me an hour and then we can get going.’

I hear a little laugh. She brushes my hair off my face before placing a damp washcloth over my forehead—shemust have grabbed it from the bathroom. It feels wonderfully cool, and I hum my appreciation.

‘You’re not going anywhere, mister,’ she whispers. ‘Your only job today is to rest and get better. Okay?’

I frown, and the washcloth shifts. ‘But what about…’

‘Nothing.’ She readjusts the washcloth and gently presses down on it with her hand. ‘Today we’re chilling. I’ll cancel the pub.’

For fuck’s sake. I had very specific plans for today, and they involved showing Nat what my Aston Martin is capable of before strolling around Windsor with her like a lovesick puppy and feeding her forkfuls of Yorkshire pudding. Sundays are precious when you work as hard as she does. I wanted to make today count. At least once Dyson gets here, she can escape and salvage her day. See her family, maybe. Catch up with some friends.

But I don’t have the energy to say any of that.

The next hour is a blur. Dyson shows up with a nurse who sticks a needle in my arm, telling me this IV should sort me out.

‘Trish will stay with you,’ he tells me. ‘Nasty fever you’ve got, though plenty of rest and fluids should do the trick. Looks like a standard flu to me.’

While I’m pretty sure I pay him far too much for that kind of vague diagnosis, I’m also aware that there’s not much doctors can do to treat the flu except manage the symptoms and provide relief.

Trish is far too chirpy for my liking. She can’t be far off retirement age, and while she seems capable, she’s already exhausting.

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