Page 52 of A Cornish Love Story
Ethan made a frustrated noise in his throat and ran his hands down my arms. ‘Sparks,’ he said, ‘please unlock the fucking door. Open a window. Let us out of this housenow.’
‘Ethan, I’m fine. I honestly feel fine.’
‘You are not fine, and I’ve had enough of this.’ He shifted and held his phone out in front of him. His screen was blank, with no notifications, his screensaver a photograph of Alperwick Bay coated in evening sunshine, the colours intense as the sun slid towards the sea. I wondered when he’d taken it. ‘Fuck.’ He pressed buttons, hit 999 and the green ‘call’ button, but nothing happened. ‘I’m so sorry, George,’ he murmured into my hair. ‘I’m going to get us out of here.’
‘I promise you I’m OK. I hit my shoulder, and it throbs a bit but that’s all. I would have noticed if I’d hit my head, and anyway, I know all the symptoms of concussion, because I reported on a life-saving course at the lifeboats about six months ago, and they made me take part. I don’t have any of them.’
‘What are they? Tell me.’
‘I hit my shoulder, Ethan.’
‘Tell me what they are, and I’ll stop worrying.’
‘OK, so—’
‘Hang on.’
‘What now?’
‘Sit forward a moment, if that’s all right?’
‘Of course.’ I moved forwards on the carpet, and Ethan pushed himself up. There was a bright flash of lightning, a crackle of angry thunder that made me jump. Ethan strode across the room, and I heard him opening cupboards in the kitchen. Then he was back, carrying a bundled-up tea towel. He held his hand out to me.
‘We’re not staying on the floor?’ I asked, but I took his hand.
He pulled me up gently, then led me over to the huge sofa that faced the front of the house, the manicured lawn and the wide stone pathway that led to the green gates, now firmly closed. He sat down, his legs wide, and patted the cushion between them.
I scooted over to him, mirroring the pose we’d been in on the carpet so I had my back to him, and he put his arm around my waist and pulled me against him.The sofa was big enough that only our feet were hanging over the edge of the cushion, mine bare and him with his fish socks.
Ethan pressed the tea towel gently against my shoulder, and I flinched, then sighed as the ice stemmed the throbbing.
‘One good thing about having champagne buckets for the open house,’ he said. ‘Now, what are the symptoms of concussion? I want them all.’
‘You really want me to go through them?’ On the cosy sofa, with Ethan behind me, I felt safe and slightly sleepy, but I knew he wouldn’t put up with me drifting off.
‘You have to, because if you hit your head without realizing and have got concussion, then I need to start breaking some windows.’
‘I thought you said they couldn’t be broken.’
I expected him to make a joke about his hidden strength, but he didn’t say anything. I twisted round to look at him. His jaw was clenched, his brown eyes stormy.
‘This is a disaster,’ he said. ‘I should never have been allowed to go ahead with any of it. You’re hurt, and it could be bad, and—’
‘It’s not, though.’
‘But what if itwas,and there was no way I could get you out? This is so much worse than anyone being able to get in. A fatal flaw in the Sparks system.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ll have to call Sarah, tell her the sale is off, that I’ve fucked it up so completely that this place is dangerous, but—’
‘But you can’t do any of that now,’ I finished. ‘So. Here are the symptoms of concussion.’
‘OK.’ His fingers drummed a light beat on my stomach, and I had to work very hard to remember what I was supposed to be telling him. I wasn’t sure he knew he was doing it.
‘One,’ I said. ‘Some kind of headache or pressure in the head.’
‘Have you got that?’ He moved the ice bundle, pressing it against a different spot.
‘I didn’t hit my head, Ethan. Two, being or feeling sick.’
‘Either of those? I mean, you haven’t been sick, but—’
