He looks over, catches my eye. Gives me a big grin that it’s impossible not to return, no matter how crappy I feel.
This is the thing about Harry – even in these terrible circumstances, even as battered and bruised as he is, he can find some charm. Some humour. I know he is suffering. I’ve seen him crying in his sleep, the tears falling silently from the sides of his eyes as his nocturnal self processes his new future.
I know he’s struggling, physically and mentally. He is in pain, in every possible way – and yet he still has pretty young nurses fluttering around him. He still has Wendy Chin giggling. He still manages to make everyone in the room feel like he is just swell, thank you.
It’s one of his biggest attributes – finding the plus points. Faking positivity even if he isn’t really feeling it. Being willing to take unsure steps into the dark, confident that he will find his way.
He really is a great man in a lot of ways, and it’s easy to see why I have loved him. It’s not so easy to see why I fell out of love with him, and nothing feels certain any more. I am confused and conflicted and every attempt to untangle my thoughts seems to choke me.
‘Ready, gorgeous?’ he says, holding out a hand towards me. ‘You look beautiful.’
Someone pushes my chair closer to his bedside without warning, and my heart races. It seems a small thing, that unexpected shove, the sudden propulsion in a direction not of my choosing, but my nerves are not as steady as they once were. Most likely because of the ‘buried alive drama’ I’m going to have to talk about very soon, to a complete stranger, while trying hard not to just stare at her teeth in amazement.
An assistant checks the tiny microphones that are clipped to our clothing, and the man I think is the director claps his hands to get our attention. He is tall and scruffy and smells vaguely of weed, but everyone on the crew hangs on to his words. Various people tell him various things about light levels and angles. He nods at Wendy, who tilts her head in a question.
Harry gives a thumbs up, and I manage a half-smile. It’s okay to look sad, I decide – it’s probably even better, from a TV point of view.
There is a brief countdown, but disappointingly, nobody cries ‘action!’ Wendy simply turns to look at us, and magically transforms her face into something serious yet caring. She leans forward slightly, her silk blouse rustling, and introduces herself and us.
‘So, Harry, in your own words, take us through that night in Santa Maria de Alto …’
‘Well, Wendy,’ he says seriously. ‘It was just like any other night in a beautiful Mexican village – until it wasn’t …’
He tells his tale, and even though I know this story inside out, I still listen intently. There are gaps – his head trauma has left holes in his memory – but hearing him say it all out loud has me enraptured. He is calm, and open, and articulate, not shying away from anything, answering every question. He talks about the night itself, about the shock of waking up here, the even bigger shock of finding out about his long-term condition. About the pain, about his worries, about his hopes for the future.
It is an impressive performance, and one I know I will never manage. I am more likely to clam up, or fumble my words, or cry all the mascara off my face. And that’s a lot of mascara.
Harry is holding the whole room spellbound as he describes those first few days when he came out of the coma. As he says how much he’s been moved by the support of his family, his friends and colleagues back home, as well as total strangers.
‘It’s not a future I could ever have imagined, Wendy,’ he says sincerely, ‘and I’d be lying if I said it was one I was happy about. But I have to remember that at least I have a future. At least I have the chance to carry on with my life, even if it’s on a different path. So many people weren’t as lucky as me.’
‘Lucky?’ says Wendy, leaning even closer. ‘I don’t think many people would see themselves like that in your situation, Harry.’
He shakes his head and smiles. It’s a good smile. One I was first dazzled by in freshers’ week, queuing to get into a Liverpool club and finding myself next to him in the line.
‘Well, it’s all a matter of perception, I suppose,’ he replies. ‘I’m here, and I’m alive. I’m surrounded by people I love, I have devoted parents and of course Elena is here with me. The fact that we both survived is a miracle. There’s actually something I want to say about Elena, if that’s all right?’
Wendy nods enthusiastically, while I feel nothing but a sense of dread and borderline embarrassment. I am a fraud, sitting here playing the dutiful girlfriend, listening to these declarations of appreciation. I am an impostor, trapped in a role, typecast by circumstance.
Harry looks across at me, grins reassuringly, then continues. ‘Well, as you probably know, Wendy, Elena and I got separated during the quake. I left her having a drink and waiting for dinner, both of us assuming we’d be back together within minutes. It didn’t turn out like that, but even though she went through hell, at least Elena is still here with us.
‘She’s been brilliant, supporting me, supporting my parents, even though she’s got her own injuries and her own trauma to deal with. I’m not surprised – she’s always been a very kind and generous person. She couldn’t do the job she does, working with children with special needs, if she wasn’t.’
A slow wave of heat rises up through my body, making me feel itchy and uncomfortable. Like I need to burst out of this small, crowded room, and breathe real air again. Like I’m suffocating.
‘Well, what Elena doesn’t know,’ he says, ‘is what I was doing when I left her at the restaurant table. I was actually looking at the stalls, for something very specific. I knew what I wanted, and I’d just bought it when the earth literally started to move. It was a gift, for Elena. A gift to accompany a very important question – a question I should have asked her a long time ago, and that I planned to ask her that night.’
I, along with everyone else in the room, suddenly understand where this story is leading. I clasp one hand to my stomach, feeling a sudden lurch, a flood of vertigo even though I am sitting still. I blink rapidly, my eyes blurring over, tiny crackles of light zig-zagging from the corners of my peripheral vision. An emotional migraine.
Wendy is smiling so hard she might crack her face in two, and the camera crew is silent and rapt as they watch the drama unfold. This must be TV gold. A total scoop. The happy ending to beat them all. Except it’s not just entertainment – it’s my life.
I want to stop him. I want to tell him not to do this, that it isn’t right, for either of us. That this is something to discuss in private. To think about. Not to rush into. That he’s making a terrible mistake.
‘Elena,’ he asks slowly, fumbling with a small black box he’s pulled from beneath his sheets. ‘I’m sorry I can’t get down on one knee, but will you marry me?’
I see the ring. It is silver and topaz, and I remember the same type being displayed on the stall in the village. I remember thinking how pretty the display was, even trying one on, not realising that he noticed. That he cared. That he’d ever dream of doing this.
That he was buying this ring while I was thinking about leaving him.
