There have been no more temper tantrums, no more tears – just a quiet, grim acceptance, which in its own way has been almost as disturbing. Seeing him like this again, enthused and interested and engaged, will make this ordeal worth it.
There are cameras and lights and metal boxes and coiled wires and way too many people crammed into the room, and I can tell he is feeding off the bustle and the buzz.
‘Are you okay?’ he asks, reaching out for my hand. ‘It’s exciting, isn’t it?’
In truth, I feel like a mannequin in a shop window, being dressed and made up and posed in various positions. Look, Ma, no strings.
He might be feeding off the buzz – but I feel deafened by it. There are too many people. Too much noise. Not enough air. I feel stifled, and know that at least some of that comes from the trauma of being recently trapped underground. The rest of it comes from the sense that I am being swept away here, carried on a current I can’t swim against.
I want to help Harry. I want to do everything I can for him. I have committed to this interview, and I will do it, but I cannot wait to escape this crowded, stuffy room. To head to the balcony. To breathe again.
‘I’m fine,’ I reply reassuringly. ‘You’re going to be great.’
‘So are you … and thank you. For doing this. For everything. I know it’s not been easy, and I want you to know I don’t take it for granted.’
‘Take what for granted?’
‘The fact that you’re here, with me. It makes all the difference. When I feel overwhelmed, just knowing you are nearby helps. So thank you. For that, and for agreeing to do this interview – because you’re not fooling me Elena – I can see you’d rather be doing anything else. I bet you’d even prefer watchingMatch of the Day…’
That makes me laugh, and the laughter makes me relax, and I feel a surge of deep warmth for this man – his bravery, his humour. The part he has played in my life. I have no idea what the future holds for us – but right now, I am just happy to see him smiling again.
I look around the room, see the lady who will be interviewing us studying her notes, a man with a light meter, the young nurses wearing more lipstick than usual. Harry’s mum seems to be enjoying the fuss, getting her make-up done and her hair bouffed, and John is looking smart in a shirt and tie.
A cameraman comes over to us, asks to take some test shots. I have been coated in slap, and poked and prodded, and now I am moved around and told which way to look and how loud to talk.
Harry engages with banter, a glimpse of the old him peeking out. I do everything on autopilot, and try not to feel guilty.
Guilty about the fact that Harry is right, and I don’t want to do this. Guilty about the fact I survived with such minor injuries and he has been left paralysed. Guilty that I resent the fact that none of them knows about the baby, even though it was my choice to keep it a secret.
Mainly, I feel guilty about Alex. The way I can’t stop thinking about the time we’ve spent together, both above and below ground. The way the fading sunlight as we sit on the balcony always catches the sheen of his blonde hair; the way his long fingers wrap around mine. The way he smiles, and makes me feel like the world could still be a wondrous place …
When I see Harry, I see a man I was in love with when I was someone else. Someone who showed me what love was about when I was a naive eighteen-year-old. But when I look at Alex, I see a man who makes me feel on fire as much as he makes me feel safe. Who makes me feel as excited as I do comforted. Who makes me feel known, makes me feel seen, makes me feel alive.
It’s not real, I tell myself again. It is an emotional aftershock. Harry is real. Harry needs me, and maybe I need Harry. Who knows?
There is sudden laughter. Harry is making the interviewer, a lady called Wendy Chin, giggle. I recognise his flirtatious tone of voice, and watch as he chats to her.
He will be good on camera; I know that already.
None of the complex thoughts whirling around in my mind bear any relevance to what is going on around me right now. To this busy room that smells of hairspray and medicine, a weird alcoholic mix that makes me fear for anyone near a naked flame. I need to get my head in the game.
‘Elena? Are you okay with that?’ asks Wendy Chin. I have no idea what she asked me, but I nod anyway.
Wendy has a firmly placed helmet of shining black hair and the whitest teeth I’ve ever seen. She seems focused and professional, but also nice – genuinely interested.
‘We’ve already filmed with John and Linda, and with the lovely Dr Martinez,’ she says.
‘He should have his own TV show,’ replies Harry. ‘I’d be jealous of his good looks if I wasn’t such a confident man.’
I roll my eyes at his bravado, but again it makes me laugh. Wendy and Harry are both trying to calm me, I realise, as though they can sense my reluctance and are handling me carefully, like a hunter tiptoeing through the forest with gentle steps so the deer in their sights doesn’t bolt.
Of course, that scenario doesn’t end so well for the deer.
‘And as you know, I’ve already spent some time with Harry. So today, we’re going to start with Harry, and then I’d like to talk to you, Elena – about your experiences that night.’
Ugh, I think, as someone gently slides my wheelie chair back and starts to dab my face with a sponge. We’ve arrived at the moment I’ve been dreading – my ‘buried alive drama’ moment.
I nod as Rosa, one of the young nurses, bustles around making sure Harry is comfortable, getting him juice to sip. He winks at her and she actually blushes.
