Page 7 of Take a Moment

‘Oh, stop it. I know that. I’m doing this for me, not you. I had you trapped a long time ago. You’re not getting away.’ I give him a mischievous wink, ignoring the unpleasant swirling feeling in my stomach.

‘It’s so good to see you smiling, kitten.’ He hovers over me closely, giving me a waft of his delicious eau de toilette, and plants a firm, affectionate kiss on my lips. ‘You worried us all there.’

‘I’ll be fine.’ I continue to chew reluctantly. ‘You must be hungry too. Eat the other sandwich. I’ll be getting out of here later, so I won’t need both.’

‘Did they tell you that while I was away?’

‘Nope. But there’s no way I’m spending the night here.’

‘Lex.’ Dom takes my hand in his. ‘I’m not sure it’s a good idea for you to be coming home. And I’m not sure you should have unrealistic expectations. Only hours ago, you were lying unconscious on your office floor.’

‘And I’m fine now. I can see properly again and everything.’ As I offer him my most confident smile, my mouth unexpectedly begins to water and there’s a sudden lurch in my abdomen. ‘Oh, man… I’m going to—sick bowl.’

Dom demonstrates Olympic medal-winning reflexes as he grabs the bowler-hat-shaped sick bowl from the end of my trolley and whips it in front of me, just as my undigested sandwich makes a sudden and unpleasant reappearance. Holding my hair out of the way with his other hand, Dom tries to soothe me as I battle between trying to control the spasms in my oesophagus and coping with the searing pain in my head that explodes like fireworks with every fresh round of retching.

As I’m starting to regain some composure, the curtain is pulled back and the first doctor I saw when I arrived in A&E, Dr Amani, enters with a nurse. The nurse takes the sick bowl from Dom and leaves, while the doctor swooshes the curtain back over again to safeguard my privacy.

‘How are you doing?’ Dr Amani offers me an empathetic smile. ‘Not so good, it seems.’

‘I’m fine. I really am.’ I try for upbeat, but the tremor in my voice and the spatters of puke down my hospital gown tell a different story.

‘Alex, you have a moderate concussion.’ He cocks his head slightly. ‘You are a good way away from fine. And I am afraid that means you will need to stay in overnight, maybe even for a couple of nights.’

‘But…’ I look up at him helplessly.

‘We need to monitor you. There is no spinal injury, but you do have some swelling on your brain and it is our responsibility to make sure you are totally fit to leave. The fact that you have just been sick tells me you most certainly are not.’

‘Right.’

I feel Dom’s hand clasp mine reassuringly.

‘We are going to admit you to the neurology ward,’ says Dr Amani. ‘The consultant there will see you tomorrow morning. She is going to review your scan results, first thing.’

‘And then I might get out tomorrow?’

‘Why don’t we take it one step at a time?’ He picks up the chart at the end of my trolley and scribbles something down. ‘We need to check on some possible anomalies in your scan. The additional MRI scan we did.’

‘Anomalies?’ Dom looks alarmed. ‘What do you mean by anomalies?’

‘There is nothing to be overly concerned about at this stage.’ Dr Amani expertly placates him. ‘It is due process to have an expert review the results. We just need to rule things out.’

‘What do you need to rule out?’ I’m mildly irritated by this unexpected diversion.

‘As I said, one step at a time.’ Dr Amani smiles kindly at me. ‘Now try to rest and let that head of yours recover.’

He disappears from the cubicle with the swiftness of a magician, leaving Dom and me looking at each other blankly.

Chapter 4

I wake early the next morning from a fractured sleep: a combination of endless disturbance through the night from the desperately unwell patients in my shared room, the lack of familiarity of my surroundings, and the unrelenting thudding pain in my head, despite being dosed up with strong painkillers and anti-inflammatory drugs. The ward smells the same as the A&E department – cleaning products mixed with medical disinfectant and cotton wool. Although it doesn’t feel like the best environment for rest and recovery – which seems ironic given that’s part of the reason I’m here – I do now at least have a proper bed with crisp white linen and a more robust curtain to shut out the rest of the ward (though not the noise). There’s also a wooden locker built into my bedside unit, housing my personal possessions. Thankfully this means I now have my precious iPad to distract myself.

Bleary-eyed, I thank the man who delivers my breakfast from his trolley, pulling across my tray table so that I can eat from my propped-up position. Having been admitted too late the previous evening to choose my own breakfast, I’ve ended up with the menu selection made by one of the ward’s previous tenants. Someone lucky enough to have escaped this pseudo prison – although I sincerely hope it wasn’t via the morgue.

I survey the contents of my tray: a glass of fresh orange juice, a bowl of cornflakes, two slices of white toast accompanied by individual portions of butter and jam, and a plate with a metal cover over it. I tentatively lift it and immediately regret doing so as I’m engulfed by the smell of cooked egg. This sends a fresh wave of nausea sweeping through my hypersensitised body. I slam the cover back down, pluck the orange juice from the tray and push the tray table as far away as I can.

At least there’s one advantage to having a head that feels like an overworked church bell: if it lasts much longer, I’ll meet my goal wedding weight well in advance of my self-imposed deadline. As this thought cheers me slightly, another moves across my consciousness, blocking out my little ray of sunshine. Dr Amani’s words from the evening before: ‘some possible anomalies in your scan’. What did he mean by that? It seemed to unsettle Dom, although a lot of things unsettle Dom. That probably means it isn’t anything to concern me. It would be useful to know when I’ll be seeing the consultant though, not least so that I can find out how much longer I’ll have to endure these breakfasts.

‘Excuse me?’ I call to a passing nurse. ‘Do you have any idea what time the doctor will be seeing me today?’

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