Page 25 of Hollywood Crush (West Wales Romance #2)

Daniel

The days had felt hazy, but I was somewhat aware of them passing.

Nice nurses and doctors with concerned frowns drawing their eyebrows together.

And Stacey, a constant presence at my side.

Each time I woke up, or looked up, or called out, she was there.

And I was grateful. But even through the fog of painkillers and being carted into operating theatres I was sad that it wasn’t him.

I finally started to come round from the painkillers properly and the world looked much clearer. I reached for the glass of water on the bedside table and took a deep drink.

“God, I feel gross,” I muttered through the fuzzy feeling in my teeth.

“You look it too,” said Stacey. She was sat up in an armchair and knitting something.

Next to her was a basic cot that I guessed she had been sleeping on.

The rest of the room was plain, but well equipped and private.

A flat screen TV adorned one wall and there was a big window on the other that showed a bright blue sky.

This certainly isn’t NHS, I thought. “How long have I been out?” I asked.

“Three days, on and off. The ankle injury was bad enough that the painkillers required were keeping you pretty comatose. We’ve chatted a bit, but I don’t know how lucid you’ve been.”

I groaned. “Dear God, what have I been saying?”

“Not a lot that made sense. Mostly talking about Tudor. You’ve wanted to call him a few times but I have no idea where your phone is.”

“Oh God, that’s embarrassing. Has anyone told him what’s going on? Is he here?”

Stacey looked down at her knitting for a moment.

“No, love. Patrick’s gone back to Hiraeth to talk to him.

He was going to go straight away but the paramedics would only let us in with you at first if we said we were next of kin.

Your 'relationship' with him was enough to convince them it would be OK.”

“So he’s been in the dark about this for 3 whole days?” I reached for my phone instinctually to send him a message but remembered that Stacey had said it was gone.

“Has anyone else called? My mum?”

“Yes, she gave us permission to be here and released Patrick. She’ll be on her way soon, love.”

My legs felt weird so I twisted to get out of bed and give them some air. “Ow, fuck.” It was hard to move my leg. I pulled away the covers. From toe to lower calf I was encased in plaster.

“Three hours in surgery and pins in the bones,” said Stacey. “You’ve got a little ways to go in terms of healing yet.”

Just then a doctor bustled in and noticed that I was awake. The next fifteen minutes consisted almost entirely of a lecture on how I should rest up, how to care for the plaster cast and what I should do to help recovery.

“How long is this going to take?” I asked.

“Well, it’s quite a bad break,” said the doctor.

He pulled a tablet off the end of my bed and showed me pictures of the bones in an X-ray.

The foot was at a completely unnatural angle and the bones looked like they were trying to push through the skin.

“I’d estimate around 8 weeks before you can put much weight on it, and a couple of months more before you’re fit to run or play sports. ”

I groaned. “This is going to kill the shoot, isn’t it?”

“Oh, honey. The shoot is suspended as long as you need it to be,” said Stacey.

“As it turned out, Roland was being a very naughty man and it took injuring you for all his past misdeeds to come to light. Production has been suspended until further notice. I hear they’re looking for a full production team to come in and replace the work he was trying to do by himself.

Dani made sure every mistake he made on set went out to the whole press. ”

Stacey passed me her phone, and there they were. Tens of close up pictures of me, still and lifeless as Patrick hugged my body. Headlines about bad work practice on Roland Haggerty’s sets and stories from previous employees and even a couple of lovers. “Wow. I knew it was bad, I just didn’t…”

“Well, he was pretty nice to his stars right up until the end,” Stacey sniffed. “Just not so much to us underlings. Turns out when you’re that horrible to so many people there are consequences.”

“I’m…I’m sorry I didn’t see. I should have been stronger, stood up for you more. I knew he was an arse.”

“Well, you breaking your ankle and getting hit in the head by explosive shrapnel helped us enough.” Stacey gave a quiet laugh. “The fact you’re OK is a bonus, I guess.”

“Cow.” I smiled. I absently flicked from the internet browser on her phone to the camera to get a look at myself. “Good God.”

I looked like a zombie. The side of my head had been shavedand a wound on the side stitched and I was pale and gaunt. I had looked better working on The Walking Dead .

Stacey snatched her phone back. “I don’t want you caring how you look right now. I want you focusing on getting better without worrying about how you look. Understand?”

“Yessir,” I muttered. It was still disconcerting though. I reached up to brush the side of my head with my hand. I couldn’t feel any stitches but could feel where the skin puckered upwards.

“Have you heard from my agent?” I asked Stacey.

She rolled her eyes so far back I thought she might be able too see her brain. “Have I heard from her? I’ve heard nothing but her voice for days.”

“She’s in reception,” said the doctor. I’d almost forgotten he was there, as bland as he was. “We’ve refused her entry as she wan’t next of kin and we were worried with her…attitude…that she might distress you.”

“That sounds like Sandra,” I said. “Could you get her please?”

I could hear that Stacey was about to interject so I put up a hand. “I know, I know. But I just need to get things sorted now.”

The doctor nodded and left the room. I tried my best to steel myself for what was to come. Stacey was a force of nature at her best and at her worst, and I sensed the hell that was to be unleashed if this conversation took the turn that I thought it might.

“I’m staying here,” said Stacey with a tone that told me I didn’t have a choice. She looked down determinedly at her knitting needles and settled into a regular click-clack as I waited.

A minute passed before the door to the room banged open, and Sandra walked into the room like she was walking into a business meeting. She looked up from her phone and straight at me, then groaned .

“My God, I knew it was going to be bad. But did they really need to shave your hair? You look bloody awful.”

“Thanks,” I replied.

“I’ll have to call the sponsors. Tell them that you’ll do some promotions later, but not now. And the photographer I booked, I’ll cancel her too. Can’t have Patrick at your bedside with you looking like this, he’ll completely outshine you.”

“Thank God that’s one less thing to worry about,” I said.

“And how do you expect to get paid without sponsorships or work? No casting director is going to want you looking like this, unless they’re casting for Angels in America.”

I felt my blood begin to boil at the homophobic insinuation. “Sandra, I’d have thought I’d be insured for loss of work through injury? Isn’t that part of your job?”

“Well, yes, but that was…” Sandra tailed off and mumbled something. Something that sounded like expensive .

“Did you want to repeat that?” I asked.

Sandra shook her head. I’d rarely seen her look so submissive. She cast her eyes down.

“Just how much do I have saved up for a rainy day?” I asked.

I kicked myself mentally for ever allowing someone like Sandra to have so much control and power over every aspect of my life.

She had, as far as I knew, been investing my money for me so that I could afford to retire comfortably some day.

She shook her head. “Not enough,” she muttered after a second.

“Not enough for what? To last me my recovery?”

A longer hesitation, then. “Not enough to last a month.”

“ What?” I tried hard not to raise my voice. Stacey’s knitting needles had stopped clicking entirely.

“I-I invested your money from most of your jobs. It was for the best, I promise. But then some of the cryptocurrencies crashed and…” I could see Sandra’s old confidence returning.

Like now the confession was over and done with she could go back into super agent-manager-financial expert-arsewiper mode.

“But with the money coming in from Thrones of Blood , we’ll have a chance to get back in now, whilst the market is low.

Ride that upswing and get you back on track.

I can see if I can get you some lower paid sponsorships with scar oils, that kind of stuff whilst you recover. ”

“You’re insane,” I said. “Perhaps it’s taken me this long to realise that people like you just aren’t normal because I’ve been raised to expect it from a young age, or because you deliberately kept me sheltered, or people like Roland being worshipped…

but I’m starting to see now. What you are isn’t right. ”

I knew the real reason for my sudden clarity, but I didn’t say it out loud. Sandra didn’t deserve my explanations.

“Anyway, whatever kind of evil you are, you’re fired. I’m done with…all of this,” I gestured around the room lamely.

“You’d be nothing without me. Just another washed up wannabe actor with nothing to show for it.”

“And aren’t I?” I asked. “20 years of working with you and I’m no better off. Leave now.”

Sandra opened her mouth, but I’d no idea what she planned to say next as Stacey stood up, abandoning her scarf to hold one knitting needle aloft and point it at Sandra.

“Get the fuck out. Now.” Stacey took a step closer, and Sandra ran out of the room as fast as her stilettoed heels would carry her.

“That was satisfying,” she said with a grim smile then turned to face me. “You OK love?”

I shook my head quietly, all energy and anger gone. It had been replaced by a loss of hope and lethargy. “I’m just so tired, ” I said.