Page 22 of Her Fixer Upper

‘Got it. You rest here, and take it easy while I fetch it.’ He ran to the doorway, then turned back to face me. ‘Try not to lean too heavily on the stonework. Now the window’s not holding everything in place, it might be a bit unstable.’

‘I thought you were trying to make me feel better,’ I gasped.

‘Hold onto that thought, I’ll be back in two minutes,’ said Charlie.

He thundered down the stairs, apparently unconcerned that they too could collapse under him. I tried to do as advised and take gulps of fresh air, but it was hard to get enough oxygen in when it felt like an elephant was sitting on my chest. The sight of the destroyed window down on the ground didn’t exactly help me to feel any better. I was literally allergic to this place.

Thankfully Charlie was as good as his word and reappeared in record time with the inhaler triumphantly held out before him.

I took a couple of doses to be on the safe side, and gradually felt the pressure on my lungs start to ease. I slumped down onto the floor, not caring how dirty it was, and tried to summon up my energy.

‘Sorry about that,’ I said, feeling somehow exposed that Charlie had witnessed me in a moment of fragility. It was illogical, I know, but I didn’t want him to think that I was going to be the weak member of our house partnership. I hated being vulnerable in front of other people, and I didn’t know the adult version of him well enough yet to know how it would affect the way he saw me.

Charlie unfortunately was far too perceptive for his own good.

‘None of that, Freya,’ he said. ‘Nothing to apologise for. Paula Radcliffe has asthma, and it didn’t stop her running marathons. You’re not going to get away with avoiding restoration work because of a bit of wheeziness.’ He smiled at me, so I could be in no doubt that I was being teased.

‘Damn, that’s my plan foiled,’ I managed to retort. ‘Thanks, Charlie. Don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t managed to find my inhaler.’

He responded with a thumbs-up, or rather he tried to, but winced as he attempted to make the gesture.

‘What’s the matter?’ I asked.

‘Just worried about how you’re going to respond when you discover the mess I made while rooting through your stuff to find your inhaler. You have quite an interesting collection of possessions.’

I noticed him trying to move his hand out of my eyeline.

‘Nice attempt to distract me. Now show me,’ I said, in the voice normally reserved for cheeky Year Nines.

He reluctantly uncurled his fingers to reveal a very large, very painful-looking splinter stuck deep in his palm.

‘It’s nothing to worry about,’ he said.

‘That doesn’t look like nothing.’

I traced my finger along his skin, trying to feel where the splinter ended. It must be at least half an inch long, I realised, and razor sharp. He shivered.

‘Perhaps I should go and knock on one of the neighbours’ doors and see if they can give me some tweezers to get this out. Maybe they’ll let us use them in their house as well. This isn’t exactly a clean environment to be doing minor surgery in.’

‘Not a brilliant way of introducing ourselves to the neighbourhood,’ said Charlie. I could see my earlier embarrassment at my moment of weakness mirrored on his face now. ‘Don’t fuss, Freya. It’ll fall out of its own accord. I’m not going to let it stop me doing anything.’

I frowned. ‘I don’t think it works that way. Let me try and see if I can pull it out. I’ll be as gentle as I can, I promise.’

‘You better be,’ said Charlie, only half joking. Then his voice grew more serious. ‘It’s okay, I trust you.’

My fingers were wobbling slightly as I tried to grasp the end of the splinter, nervous that I might be about to inflict more pain on him. I felt responsible for the injury. If he hadn’t been trying to open the window to help me breathe more easily, he wouldn’t have been hurt in the first place.

‘I could really do with my glasses to see this better,’ I said, my frustration growing as I failed to get a proper grip on the splinter.

I tried to get up, but Charlie urged me to stay seated. ‘You’re still getting your breath back from that asthma attack. Don’t worry, my hand’s in no imminent danger of falling off.’

But I could tell from the tightness in his voice that the shard of wood was troubling him, so I ignored him and hurried off to collect another container of water from downstairs. The taps might be working again, but I wasn’t going to trust that the water coming from them was clean, especially not for such a delicate operation. I poured water into a saucepan from our stash of camping equipment and added a bit of hand sanitiser for good measure. Then I put my glasses on and hurried back upstairs.

‘Soak your hand in this for a few minutes and then I’ll try again.’

He gave a harsh intake of breath as the sanitiser and water did their thing.

‘Sorry, I know it stings, but at least we know it’s clean now. Can’t have you picking up an infection from the ancient woodwork.’

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