Lainie’s existence had narrowed to a series of brief, uncomfortable intervals between naps. Her mum stayed in her flat, sleeping on her couch—fortunately with no idea what other activities occasionally took place upon its cushions—and ferried her back and forth from the loo. They both balked at assisted showering, but Rachel did hover outside the bathroom door and insisted it be left open a crack so she could hear if Lainie face-planted into the tiles.
“I’ll shut my eyes and grab for a towel if I have to come in and save you. Although in case you’ve forgotten, fruit of my loins, I have seen your bare bottom before.”
“There was less of it then,” Lainie managed to retort through her congested misery.
Richard was quite often present during her periods of consciousness, and even Will made a number of determined appearances. She was amazed he even ventured past her bedroom door. He wasn’t the type to mop a fevered brow and hold back hair to facilitate puking. It might be gratifying if he didn’t spend ninety percent of his visits scowling at Richard.
She would usually be self-conscious about men sitting by her bedside when she hadn’t had the strength to wash her hair. However, it was hard to care when she felt like something that had recently been dug out of a sarcophagus.
Her fever peaked on the third day, and she was almost delirious when Richard forced his way past her mother. The back of his hand pressed against her forehead and her cheeks.
“Shouldn’t she be getting better by now? Does she need the hospital?” he asked through a fog. Her mum’s voice was a low, soothing murmur. She smiled into her pillow. He was getting the “oh, these silly children” parental tone. Her dad never managed quite the same blend of reassurance and condescension.
Then she was drifting again in a pleasant, dozy sea, carried along on a boat of Paracetamol. Will swam by at one point, and she hastily rowed away. He tried to steal her hand, and she jerked it free of his grasp.
“Don’t touch her.” It was a captain’s voice. Cool. Commanding.
Will, sneering, “Think you have exclusive rights, do you?”
“I think she doesn’t even want your hands on her when she’s unconscious. Wise woman.”
Blessed quiet, and a sense of receding heat. Her eyes opened a crack. The room was dim and the strip of visible window between the curtains was black. Night. There was someone sitting on her bed. She could smell warmth and spice and man.
“Will?” she asked blearily, apprehensively.
A hand gently touched her cracked lips. “No. The better option.”
She closed her eyes again and smiled against his fingers. “Richard.”
The stroking touch moved to her cheek and played at the edge of her hairline.
“You smell nice,” she said drowsily.
“Thank you. You smell like cherries and chemicals. I think it’s the cough syrup.”
“Sorry.” The word was a sigh.
“It grows on you.”
“What happened to Will?” she asked, a faint frown tugging at her brows. “Did he drown?”
There was a long pause. “Not unless he took a very circuitous route home via the Thames.” And, with an edge, “Do you want him?”
She moved her head fractionally on the pillow. It hurt too much to shake. He shifted, and she quickly moved her hand. Gripped a knee. “Don’t go.”
A feather-soft kiss on the tip of her nose, so lightly that it might have been part of the dream. “I’m not. Not yet.”
“‘S it late?”
“Almost midnight.”
“Tired.”
“Sleep, then.” Another light touch on her cheek.
“No. You. Tired.”
“I’m all right. I’m a hardy soul. Unlike those wee weaklings who go to pieces after one workout.”
“It was raining.”
She heard his muffled laugh.
“Play,” she muttered. Worry was niggling at her, but she couldn’t quite...
“Certainly, if you think you’re up to it. I vote for strip poker.”
Her body temperature was still at a level where humour didn’t resonate. “No,” she managed crossly. “Play.”
“Is surviving without you, although only just. Your understudy is rubbish.” He rubbed her fingers. “Don’t worry about it yet. The theatre-going public are still getting their night out and their box of Smarties, and Farmer is leaving the stage in one piece on a regular basis.”
“Don’t hurt him,” she said sleepily. She arched her back against the mattress, impatient with the persistent ache in her joints.
He slid a hand beneath her hips, gently kneading up her spine, and she made a soft sound of relief.
“Don’t moan like that,” he ordered with a husky half laugh. His face was close to hers; she could feel the tickle of his hair against her ear. “It gives me ideas, and the timing is inappropriate.”
“Sicko.” She smiled again without opening her eyes.
“Yes, you are. Hence my hesitation.” His breath fanned her ear as he spoke. “You seem awfully concerned about Farmer there, Tig.” He nudged her cheek with his nose. “You’re obviously delirious in your weakened state. Repeat after me: I have no interest in Will Farmer.”
“No interest,” Lainie murmured obediently, and Richard carefully tucked a piece of hair behind her ear.
“He’s an ugly bastard who doesn’t have a quarter of Richard’s talent.”
“Richard...no talent...”
“We’ll work on the deplorable ad-libbing when you’re better.”