Page 3 of Broken Beyond Repair
“I’ll get right on it,” Fleur replied.
“Not now, it’s late in the UK. Call tomorrow… early, very early!” Beatrice rolled her eyes and waved the woman away with her hand. How could a PA, a French one at that, be so unaware of simple time zones?
Fleur gave a light bow as she always did when she left Beatrice’s presence and backed her way out of the door.
Within an hour of her accident, Fleur had informed Beatrice that she’d found new employment and required a reference. Not that Beatrice would miss her; she was yet another in a long line of incompetent assistants. How did one write a reference for a PA of three months? It was enough time to discover everything she hated about the woman and realise how irritating she could be; it was hardly enough time to find one redeeming feature to recommend her.
She’d considered asking Fleur if she’d already lined up a new position before the accident or if the phone was in her hand as her current employer lay on the floor of the studio shouting for help. Either way, she feared the answer. There was no shortage of PA jobs in Hollywood, and she couldn’t blame the woman if she’d been straight on the phone before she’d jumped in the ambulance beside her. There, she’d found a redeeming feature for Fleur — self-preservation.
Most of Beatrice’s staff were supplied by the production company for the duration of her filming in the US. She knew they would be leaving like rats from a sinking ship once she announced she’d be heading to Highwood House for the summer. But it made sense to go back to England. She was exhausted from what had turned out to be a more physically demanding role than she’d expected, and she missed England. Her estate was always at its finest during the summer months, not that she would see much of it on her return.
Once back in the familiar territory of her hotel suite, her home for the last two months, Beatrice hiked herself onto the bed with assistance from Fleur. She’d made her escape in a wheelchair via the maintenance lift at the rear of the hospital, far from the prying eyes of her adoring fans and the press.
“Madame, we must elevate you,” Fleur said.
Beatrice’s leg was lifted with little grace as Fleur shoved two pillows underneath it.
A text flashed onto her phone.
Press release… check inbox. Prod Co will release own in due course, A x.
“My laptop.” Beatrice clicked her fingers at Fleur, who was already diving into her small bag to retrieve it yet somehow still couldn’t find it.
Finally out of patience, Beatrice opened her mailbox on her phone instead and found the email amongst a lengthy list of others which would need attending to.
Actress Beatrice Russell sustained a broken leg on set earlier today as she rehearsed action scenes as part of her latest film. The actress is resting at her hotel in Los Angeles after receiving excellent medical care at the Ronald Reagan Medical Center. She thanks her fans for their messages of support.
Fleur had mentioned that social media was on fire with the news; Beatrice resisted the urge to check herself — that was a rabbit hole she didn’t need to go down. Although most of her fans could be considered adoring, there were always the oddballs. It did no good for one’s self-esteem to read about how she was a slag, a slapper, a whore, an ugly bitch, or even a MILF who was gagging for a good seeing-to… although the last item was cutting it close to the bone. Even so, she’d existed long enough in the world without social media, and she was more than content to continue her life without it.
Beatrice stared up at the ceiling of her hotel bedroom in the early hours of the morning. A streak of light was glaring back at her, coming from a crack in her curtains; Fleur couldn’t even draw a pair of curtains correctly. Even out in Beverly Hills the light pollution was unavoidable. A mild panic sat with her as she’d lain awake. As a side sleeper, how on earth was she going to sleep for the next few nights with her leg elevated?
Her phone pinged, lighting the bedroom even further. It was a text from Xander.
Are you okay? What’s happened?
It must have been morning in the UK, Beatrice surmised. She tapped out a reply.
I’m fine. I’ve broken my leg. Coming home for the summer. I would have texted you earlier but knew you’d be asleep. Mum x.
K.
It pleased her that her son had asked what happened rather than listening to hearsay; it was a practice she had instilled in him from an early age. Though why he insisted on showing his agreement with aK, she had no clue. What even was that? What happened to ‘okay’, or even ‘ok’? Was this something all children did, or just hers?
She moved on to the question Alison had put in her brain:How would you feel if I wrote an autobiography?
Three little dots typed for a moment, then halted beforeMehappeared on her screen.
Was the youthful reply of indifference also one of approval? He hadn’t said no. Beatrice decided not to push the point; she would instead plough on with it. Alison was right—she would go crazy without something to occupy her mind.
Sinking back against her pillows, she wondered when she’d got so old and why she needed to pee again. Bloody Fleur with her, “Madame, you must drink.”
Eyeing the door to her ensuite bathroom, Beatrice checked in with her bladder to see if it was a ‘must’ or ‘can-wait’. It was a must. Although she was tempted to wake Fleur for assistance, she resisted. Getting to the toilet was hard enough; she didn’t need the annoying French woman in her ear with, “A little further, Madame.” The twenty-year-old made her feel like she was in her eighties. She’d be glad to see the back of her. Was this part of the problem with her PAs? They were all young; young and brainless.
Fleur at least had the foresight to leave the wheelchair by her bed. Beatrice pulled herself into it, lifting her leg onto the footrest. At least whilst she was up, she could take some more painkillers. She wedged an empty bottle of water between her legs and wheeled herself to the bathroom.
Her phone was illuminating the bed as she returned, another message. She heaved herself back onto the bed before checking it.
Are you awake? Ax.
