knew her blood sugar must be low; she was feeling light-headed. ‘A...sandwich?’ she muttered, glancing at the menu which stood in the centre of the red and white checked tablecloth. ‘Cheese and salad sandwich, please.’
The waitress vanished and Luisa spread the newspaper out in front of her. By the time she had absorbed what it said the waitress was back with her sandwich and coffee. Luisa folded the newspaper up again with fingers that trembled, and tried to enjoy her meal, but it tasted like sawdust and ashes. All she could think about was what she had just read.
The consequences of the crash were even worse than she had imagined. Zachary West was an artist, it seemed—and famous, according to the newspaper, which had talked about large sums of money paid for his work in the past.
When the crash happened Zachary West had been taking a number of paintings up to London, in his van, to be shown in a big exhibition of his work in the gallery of a well-known art dealer. The exhibition would have been a major event in the art world, the dealer was quoted as saying. It had been awaited eagerly since Zachary West’s work was much sought after and fetched increasingly large amounts and he had not exhibited his work for some years. The art world had been curious to see how he had developed his style and technique since his last exhibition. Now, said the dealer, tragically, the world would never know. All the paintings Zachary West had spent the last four years working on had been destroyed in the fire which had left the artist himself so badly burned.
Chilled and appalled, Luisa paid for her meal and left the café. She walked home and put away her shopping, then rang her father.
‘How are you this afternoon, Dad?’ she gently asked.
‘Have you seen the newspapers?’ was all he said, his voice dry and shaky.
Luisa bit her lip. ‘Dad. Dad, don’t—’
‘Don’t what?’ Harry Gilbey bitterly asked her. ‘Face up to what I’ve done? God, when I think—’
‘Don’t think about it, Dad, not yet. You’re still shocked,’ Luisa hurriedly pleaded, her blue eyes anxious.
‘How can I stop thinking about it? A man like that—a genius, they say in the papers—all that talent, so much to give the world...and I’ve destroyed him...’
‘You don’t know that, Dad! He’ll pull through, and he’ll do other work when he’s better. He’s still a young man...’ But her reassurances were only half-hearted and she knew it, because she felt just as guilty as her father, and with more reason. ‘And, anyway, it’s my fault, not yours,’ she huskily added.
‘Your fault? How can it be your fault? I was driving that car, not you!’
‘But if I hadn’t rung you and made so much fuss you wouldn’t have been hurrying!’
‘That still doesn’t make it your fault, Luisa. I was the one doing the driving, and I’d been drinking—oh, I wasn’t over the limit, I’m not that stupid, and I never have been a drinking man. As you know, I’m not that keen on spirits—I just had some white wine. Anyway, they breathalysed me and they said I was in the clear. But I know my reflexes were affected by the couple of drinks I’d had, my mind worked slower than it usually does, and I know in my heart that I was driving recklessly. I took the corner too fast; I was right over his side of the road... But that was nothing to do with you. I was in a temper—I’d had a row with Noelle—and... Oh, well, never mind. But it was my fault, Luisa! You mustn’t blame yourself at all.’
But she did, of course, and she was still edgy and tense as she walked into the ward that evening. It was difficult to force a smile for her colleague, Mary Baker, who was Day Sister.
‘Anything wrong? You don’t look well,’ Mary said, frowning in concern. She was a married woman with two grown-up children and had been working at the hospital for fifteen years. Easy-going and cheerful, she had been very kind during Luisa’s probationary period when she worked on this ward as a very raw, anxious newcomer who had difficulty coping with what she had to do each day.
‘I’m fine,’ Luisa hurriedly said now, and tried to look as if it was true. Pleasant though Mary always was, Luisa still felt like a nervous probationer at times when they were talking, and she couldn’t bring herself to confide in Mary. ‘Just a little headache...’
‘Are you sleeping properly?’ Mary promptly asked, frowning. ‘I don’t have to remind you how vital it is to get enough sleep when you’re on nights, do I?’
‘No,’ Luisa grimaced. ‘I usually do, don’t worry. So what sort of day have you had? Any new arrivals? Anyone depart?’
Mary gave her a wry look, but obligingly began to go through the ward list, putting Luisa in the picture with each patient until they came to Zachary West’s name. ‘He’ll be going soon,’ she then said, and Luisa’s dark blue eyes opened wide.
‘Going? What do you mean?’
‘He’s being whisked up to London to have specialist private nursing. It seems we’ve a celebrity on the ward!’ Mary grinned, looking amused. ‘I’ve been getting phone calls from Fleet Street all day, asking how he is! Would you believe some of them wanted to come up and take photos of him? He’s unconscious, I said, and he doesn’t look very pretty at the moment, either, so if he was conscious he wouldn’t want you taking pictures of him looking like that, I told them. One or two of them turned up in person and I had to get George from the front hall to come and turf them out! Nice behaviour on a ward like this!’
‘But...why is he leaving us?’ pressed Luisa, not very interested in Fleet Street.
Mary bridled, sniffing crossly. ‘Well, apparently his agent...or his manager, or whatever...doesn’t think this hospital is good enough to treat such a famous man, so he wants him transferred to this London place where they specialise in skin grafts and plastic surgery. They would have taken him today, but our Mr Hallows put his foot down, told them he was in no condition to make that journey yet. It will be decided tomorrow when he’ll be ready to travel, when Mr Hallows makes his round.’
Luisa was appalled. ‘I wouldn’t have thought it was possible for him to bear that trip to London! It would be so painful for him.’
He was being fed intravenously and kept on continuous medication in order to get him over these first few days with as little pain as possible. Luisa stood beside him, staring at the grim mask he would show the world for many months to come, until he was fit enough for plastic surgery. From the photo she had seen of him, in the newspaper, he must have been an attractive man. It was terrible to see him the way he was now.
As Mary had said earlier, thank heavens he was physically strong. Otherwise he could never have survived that crash, or already begun to show the first faint signs of a recovery.
As it was, you could see that he was a powerfully built, lean man with slim hips and long legs and the muscles of someone used to exercise—or, perhaps, to constant work. His lower body had escaped the worst of the fire; his legs were almost unscathed, their skin tanned and dusted with dark hairs.
Suddenly his lids flicked up and she found herself looking into his eyes, pale eyes like polished silver, his enlarged black pupils dominating his gaze, a sure sign to her of the drugs they were having to give him to damp down his pain.
Luisa’s professionalism took over and she bent hurriedly towards him, smiling reassurance.
‘Hello,
