Page 37 of Hollywood Crush

“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 tomove 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 onThe 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 headwith 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 regularclick-clackas I waited.

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