Page 28 of The Reluctant Billionaire

He transfers the arm attached to Gaz’s injured hand over to Aide, who kneels beside him. Then Noah’s a blur of efficiency, wiping at the wound, which is gushing blood, before wrapping gauze around it and then the cloth Sylvie’s procured.

All the way through it, Gaz is sobbing and swearing, and I feel so helpless. It’s so awful. The poor, poor guy. I’m only semi-aware of getting to my knees beside Aide and behind Gaz and putting my arms against Gaz from behind as I lay my head against his shoulder.

‘It’s okay,’ I tell his back. ‘It’s going to be okay. You’re so brave. It must hurt so much.’

He shifts gingerly and reaches up to squeeze my hand with his good one. ‘Thanks, babe,’ he says through gritted teeth, and I hug him harder. I feel so bloody helpless.

‘Can you take it out at your place?’ Aide asks Noah, who shakes his head.

‘Afraid not. It’s A&E for him. Hammersmith’s your best bet. He’ll need a tetanus shot, too.’

‘I’ll take him,’ Aide says.

‘No you won’t.’ Judy crouches down. ‘I’ll do it. You’ll be a blubbering idiot, and you’re more use here than I am.’

‘It should be me,’ Aide insists. ‘I’m his best mate.’

‘I. Will. Take. Him,’ Judy insists. ‘If you want to make yourself useful, get us a cab.’

Within minutes, Aide has a black cab outside, its meter running. He bundles Judy and Gaz in and returns to the hall, where we’re surveying the damage. It looks like someone’s staged an amateur production ofTexas Chainsaw Massacre. There’s blood spattered across the wall where Gaz was working, all over the floor, and soaked into the bare wood of the skirting board he was in the process of fitting to the wall.

Frank lifts the piece of skirting and stands it on end against the wall. ‘I’m really sorry about this, mate,’ he tells Aide. ‘I should have been supervising him more closely.’

‘He used to be a fucking joiner, for fuck’s sake,’ Aide says, raking a hand through that mass of dark hair in frustration. ‘He knows how to use a nail gun. Why the fuck he wasn’t wearing gloves, I don’t know.’ He looks down at the blood, and his shoulders visibly slump. ‘Why don’t you guys get out of here. I’ll clear up.’

‘No you won’t,’ I say. ‘I will.’

He shoots me a look that telegraphs his utter lack of belief in my ability to clean up a bit of blood. Even when he’s devastated, he manages to be rude.

‘I’m not saying I’ll get it all out,’ I say, holding my hands up, ‘but I’ll have a go.’ At least the wooden floorboards are so highly varnished that the blood is pooling on their surface rather than soaking in like a murder scene. Thank God. A lone skirting board is easier to replace than an entire floor.

He hesitates.

‘Go on. You look a bit shaken up. Go and have some of Noah’s cake, or a whisky or something.’

‘I’ve lost my appetite,’ he says, but he does what he’s told and ambles back to the other end of the hall.

While I mop the blood off the floor, Frank has the others clear up their tools and stack all their equipment and massive toolboxes in a neat pile under the window, which he covers with a paint sheet for the night. My end of the hall looks less tidy when I’m done. Most of the blood comes off the floorboards, as I hoped it would, but the skirting board is going to need a fair few coats of paint to cover the stain, and the walls end up with ominous pinky blotches.

At least they’re all due a new paint job, too.

I drain the bloody water out of the mop bucket in the little scullery off the kitchen and leave the mop standing upside down to dry. The kitchen itself smells deliciously of garlic and onion and tomatoes.

‘Have you seen Aide?’ I ask Sylvie, who’s peering into the oven at her vast trays of pasta bake.

She jerks her head towards the office next door. ‘I think he’s still in there. You okay, sweetie?’

I grimace. ‘I’m fine. I just feel so bad for Gaz. It’s so horrible.’

She gives me a comforting nod. ‘I know. Not nice at all. But he’ll be fine. He’s had a nail through his foot once, you know. Stood on it. Went right through the sole of his work boot and all.’

I gasp in horror. ‘Oh my God. That’s revolting.’

‘Yup,’ she says. ‘This ain’t his first nail gun rodeo. But you think he’d be a faster learner, wouldn’t you?’

That makes me giggle. ‘Seriously.’ Poor Gaz.

‘Stupid twat,’ one of the women helping her says. It’s mean, but it makes me giggle even harder.

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