I look up into Clive's face.
'I just need some space,' I lie.
He studies me for a moment, and then he wraps me in his arms. It feels wrong and it smells wrong, but this one act of tenderness opens up the flood gates. Before I know it, I'm sobbing into his shirt, pouring out a guilty confession.
'It's all my fault. I caused this.'
He pulls back and examines my face, frowning in confusion.
'The row,' I explain.
'What about it?'
I blink away the tears.
'His sister. Layla.'
'Layla?' The confusion deepens. 'What's happened?'
I blurt out my story, the whole thing this time. Utterly convinced that I'm making no sense at all, I give him the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
'I should have asked her to leave,' I round off. 'But I couldn't. She was desperate.'
'It's not your fault.'
'It is. You should have seen him, Clive. He was furious. He wasn't thinking straight. That's why he crashed. It's all because of me.'
'Don't,' he says firmly. 'Don't blame yourself. He's been riding bikes for years. Whatever mood he was in, it wouldn't have caused this.'
I shake my head. He's just trying to make me feel better.
'Seriously,' he insists. 'When he's on his bike, he doesn't think about anything. He's told me that before. He just concentrates on the road. That's probably why he took it in the first place. To clear his head. It wouldn't have affected him, I promise you.'
I sob a little more.
'You had good intentions, Maya. You shouldn't blame yourself. You didn't cause this.'
'Then what did?'
His eyes cloud.
'We don't know anything yet. When Dan wakes up, he'll be able to tell us what happened.' He holds my gaze for a few moments before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a handkerchief. He hands it to me. 'Now, clean yourself up and get back in there.' He motions towards the waiting room. 'You'll be able to see him soon … and he's going to need you.'
***
When the time finally comes, I'm warned to prepare myself and ushered down yet another bland corridor. Clive holds my hand as we make our way through several sets of doors, eventually coming to a halt next to a desk. At the edge of my consciousness, I register a conversation, and then I'm led further into a world of quiet sterility, past beds, medical equipment, machines, until finally we arrive at our destination.
Taking in a few deep breaths, I steady myself as the scene comes into focus. He's flat on his back, head slightly to one side, eyes closed, mouth obscured by tape keeping a tube in place. And there are wires attached to his chest, more tubes slotted in to a cannula on his left hand. And then I notice the bruises. Bruises everywhere. His arms and legs are in splints, no casts as yet, but his right leg seems to have been pinned with rods. My eyes travel back up his body, past the sheet that lies across his groin, the edge of a dressing protruding from the top, past his chest that rises and falls every few seconds, and back to his face. He seems so peaceful, as if he's simply asleep.
I stand absolutely still. Rigid.
'Maya?'
I jolt. 'Can I touch him?'
'Of course.'
Taking a step forwards, I reach out and brush a finger across his hand, stopping where the cannula's been fitted, afraid to hurt him. And then I hear my own words, quietly uttered.
'I love him.'
'I know.'
'He asked me to marry him.' Tears prick at the corners of my eyes. 'I should have said yes.'
'It doesn't matter,' Clive reassures me. 'You can say yes when he wakes up.'
'If he wakes up.'
'He will.' As if he knows what's going through my mind, Clive brushes my arm. 'He's strong, he's a fighter, and he's got you. Sit with him for a while. I'll be in the waiting room.'
He pulls up a chair, looks at Dan, looks at me, and then leaves.
Staring blankly at the man on the bed, I sit down, unsure of what to do. It must be shock, I tell myself, because right now I seem to be faced with a stranger, nothing more than a body: motionless, empty, sensing nothing. I listen to the murmur of conversation behind me, the beeping and whirring of machines, the quiet, rhythmic rush of air through the ventilator. And at last, I find what I'm searching for: the steady beeping of Dan's heart monitor. It tells me he's alive, that he's still with me. And I hold on to it for dear life, silently willing it to continue from one second to the next.
At last, I rouse myself into action. Reaching out, I gently take his hand in mine, careful not to disturb the cannula. His skin is soft and warm. I stroke his palm, hoping he can feel me now, knowing deep down that he can't. And while time dissolves again, and my vision blurs with tears, I tell him I love him, and I tell him I need him. And I tell him I'm sorry.
***
The days bleed into one. A single mass of emptiness and torpor. As time drags its heels, I'm lost in a nowhere land, like a cartoon character hovering in mid-air, waiting for the fall.
By day, I sit at his side, holding his hand, quietly talking about anything and everything that comes to mind, occasionally weeping, mostly gazing at his sleeping face. And he is just sleeping. I tell myself that, over and over again. Every now and then, a doctor checks on his monitors, administers drugs, or a nurse cleans the dressing, adjusts a tube or a bag. But nothing really seems to change. Sometimes I'm with Clive, sometimes with Norman or Betty, once or twice with Lily. I watch as Norman gently touches his palm against Dan's forehead and whispers into his ear, as Betty berates him for ever buying a motorbike, as Clive simply stares down at his friend, lost in thought, or Lily kisses him on the cheek and rearranges his hair. And never once do I call Layla. Her life's already in turmoil, and I just can't add to that.
Back at the apartment, the evenings are regimented by Clive and Lucy. Staying in the guest bedroom, they present me with food and drinks, make sure I take a shower in the morning, prise me off the sofa and guide me to the bedroom when it's time for sleep. But I hardly sleep. Once the door's shut, I lie alone in our bed, wrapped up in sheets that still smell of him. And I cry.
It's the third day when I finally begin to come back to life. I've spent the morning at the hospital, but on Clive's insistence – along with Beefy who's been a constant shadow – we've returned to the apartment for a rest while the doctors run yet another CT scan.
Only I can't rest. He'll be waking soon. I'm sure of it. And he'll need his things. Like an idiot, I pull a gym bag out of his wardrobe and rummage through the drawers, searching for anything he might need. The first thing I look for is pyjamas, but I find none. Of course, I remind myself, womanising sex gods just don't wear pyjamas, even when they're through with womanising. Instead, I stuff a pair of shorts and a T-shirt into the bag. Several pairs of pants, a toothbrush, toothpaste, a shaver and socks follow suit. I'm reaching for a pair of joggers when Clive appears in the doorway.
'I've just rung in,' he smiles. 'More good news.'
Suddenly super-excited, I drop the joggers.
'The CT scan was fine. They've brought him out of the coma.'
'What?' I stare at him, silently annoyed that he dragged me away. I should have been there when he opened his eyes. 'Already? He's awake?'
Clive nods.
'He woke up without me there?'
'Yes.'
'But … ' I stare at the bag and flap my arms.
'Calm down,' he says sternly. 'And he won't be needing that.' He glances at the mad bag, smiling wryly. 'Not yet. Come on. Let's get moving.'
***
With the streets of Central London throwing everything at us – jams, snarl-ups, red lights, the lot – the journey seems to take forever. It's almost two hours later when we eventually pull to a halt in the hospital car park. I'm out of the car in an instant, ready and raring to go but fully aware that I have no idea how to get to intensive care.
'This way,' Clive smiles, touching me on the shoulder.
Bouncing along in a blur of excitement, I follow in his wake, back through the maze of corridors. It's only when I'm sitting by Dan's side that I finally manage to calm down, helped along by my old friend disappointment. I expected him to be sitting up in bed, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, but he seems exactly the same as the last time I saw him, only now the tube in his mouth has been replaced by oxygen tubes in his nose.
'I'll leave you to talk to him,' Clive says gently. 'I'll be in the waiting room. I'd better let everyone know what's going on.'
As soon as Clive leaves, a nurse arrives at the bedside.
'I thought he'd woken up,' I mutter.
'He did.' She busies herself with changing a bag. 'He asked for you.'
'Me?'
After days in banishment, a smile creeps out of its hiding place. He asked for me. I was the first thing on his mind. But then again, maybe he just wanted to let me know that all is not forgiven. And oh shit, in the midst of all the excitement, I'd forgotten about that.
'Does he remember what happened?' I ask, terrified of the answer.
She shakes her head and relief courses through me.