Page 1 of Broken Beyond Repair
CHAPTER1
Beatrice scowled over her large sunglasses at the television in the corner of her hospital suite. The sound of a press helicopter hovering outside buzzed around her room like an irritating fly. Its footage was streaming straight onto the screen. When she got her hands on whoever leaked her location to the media, they’d wish they’d never been born.
“Production of Beatrice Russell’s latest film has come to a halt following an unfortunate accident on set this morning,” the entertainment correspondent on the television was saying. “The actress is rumoured to have sustained a broken leg during the rehearsal of a fight scene and has arrived at Ronald Reagan Medical Center where our live feed is coming from. Fans are rallying outside the hospital in support; some may ask if the actress is too old for action fil—”
Beatrice cut the journalist off at the touch of the mute button.
“I’m fifty-one for fuck’s sake.”
Pain tore through her left leg as she tried to adjust herself in the bed. With her leg elevated in a brace, there was little room for movement, and with the increasing irritability clawing at her body, she couldn’t get comfortable.
The news of her accident having hit the headlines when she’d only been admitted an hour ago, wasn’t helping. It was so indicative of Hollywood to embellish a story. The journalist was right in one regard, though: the accident had been unfortunate. Unfortunate that an incompetent props department failed to secure part of the set, causing her to fall in the first place.
If her ability to participate in action films came under question, it could derail her career — something she’d feared happening since she passed forty. It was testament to her professionalism, acting talent, and youthful appearance that she was still being cast as the lead in very sought-after roles. She knew it couldn’t last forever, and although time was not on her side, she wasn’t ready to give up more physically demanding roles — especially not at the behest of a damned rumour.
The door of her large suite opened. A tall man, sporting salt-and-pepper hair and a matching beard, entered. The back of his white coat trailed out behind him as he strode across the suite in a pair of brogues. Beatrice rolled her eyes at the walking cliché.
“Mrs Russell.”
“Miss,” Beatrice corrected him through a wince as she tried to position herself to see him better. Being on your back with a leg in the air wasn’t a flattering look for anyone, let alone an internationally renowned actress.
“Miss Russell. I’m Dr Randall,” he said, placing a hand on the brace. “Do try to keep as still as you can until we have set the leg.”
“Set?” Beatrice barked, leaving a curl in her top lip.
The doctor recoiled and then blinked. “Yes. I’m sorry. The X-ray shows you’ve sustained a fracture to your fibula. You’ll need a cast. It’s only a minor fracture; you’ve been incredibly lucky considering. There’s minimal damage to the surrounding blood vessels, soft tissue, or nerves. I expect the impact from the fall wasn’t all that severe. It’s possible that the break was a result of reduced bone mass due to your age and gender.” His face softened with empathy as he finished his sentence.
Not normally lost for words, Beatrice opened her mouth in the hope something would come out. By the time she’d summoned a word, the doctor started up again. Her current irritable status upgraded itself to anger, which she tried her best to stifle.
“How long will I need a cast?”
“If all goes well, about six weeks.”
“Six weeks!”
“If you’re good, you could move into a walking boot in four weeks. That could bring about a swifter recovery.”
‘Good’. What did he mean by that? With a cast on one leg, she wouldn’t be partaking in her usual extreme sport of wearing heels anytime soon. What the hell was she going to do in a hotel suite for six weeks?
“Can I fly?”
Dr Randall pulled his nose from his iPad and considered his answer. “You are otherwise low risk, but give it a few days at the very least, just to make sure everything is okay with the cast.”
Beatrice’s phone rang.
“I’ll leave you to take that. If you have any questions, be sure to let me know.” He took a card from his top pocket and placed it on her bedside table.
She flashed him the briefest of smiles and answered the phone as soon as the door closed behind him.
“Bea. Are you okay? I was heading to bed when I saw the ten o’clock news, only to find you all over it.”
It was a relief to hear the voice of her agent Alison on the line.
“I fell on set,” Beatrice explained. “My bloody fibula is broken. I want the production company to admit liability, Ali. We need to release a statement that it wasn’t my fault before Hollywood pigeonholes me in the role of the neurotic mother in those tragic romcoms they seem so obsessed with.”
“I’ll get straight on it. Any ideas how long you’ll be out of action?”
“Six weeks. The damn doctor implied I might have low bone mass due to my age. The cheek!”
