Startled, Jason stepped back in shock, slipped and fell, bashing the rear of his head against the far wall of the shower.
Numbingly cold water stung his skin as he lay, dazed, for some moments, before crying out in pain and rolling sideways on the slippery shower tray, out of the water jet. He lay there, still very dazed, staring up at the door.
No one was there.
But he’d seen a face.
The woman.
Clambering to his feet, carefully, his head hurting, he pressed the red button for hot water, waiting until the temperature was OK again. As soon as it was, he rinsed the shampoo and soap and quickly switched the shower off, stepped out and grabbed a towel, shaking.
Had he imagined it?
Again?
Five minutes later, he was dressed and downstairs. The integral door to the garage was open – Emily was in there sorting out her catering equipment. Feeling a little shaky, he walked across the kitchen, opened the fridge door and removed a block of Cheddar to make himself a sandwich.
Then he turned back to the fridge and looked around inside it for a jar of Branston pickle. Behind him, he heard Emily’s alarmed voice.
‘Darling, what’s happened to you?’
He turned. ‘What do you mean? I’m fine, just hungry, making a quick sandwich.’
She was staring, alarmed. ‘You’re bleeding. The back of your head’s covered in blood. It’s dripping on the floor.’
‘What?’ He spun round and saw bright red droplets of blood on the tiles.
She ran over to him. ‘Turn your head,’ she commanded.
He obeyed.
Pressing her hands against the wound and gently probing with her fingers, she said, ‘You’ve gashed it open. God – really deeply. My poor darling, what happened?’
Hesitantly, he said, ‘I slipped in the shower. Fell over.’
She grabbed a tea towel, ran it under the cold tap and pressed it against the back of his head. It stung.
‘You need to go to hospital to get it stitched!’
‘No way.’
‘You do!’
‘Em, if we go to hospital I’ll be there for ten hours waiting to be seen. No way!’
‘You’ve cut it right open.’
‘I am not going to hospital. I’m not sitting in A & E with twenty people sneezing and coughing germs all around me. We’ve both managed to avoid the flu that’s everywhere this winter, touch wood. A & E would be a bloody incubator for it.’
‘We’ll keep a close an eye on it. I’ll get the first-aid kit. Keep holding the towel, OK?’
He put an arm behind his head and held the wet cloth as she dashed out of the room, returning with the kit.
‘This may sting,’ she said.
‘It’s already stinging.’
‘I’m not surprised!’
‘Owwwwww!’ he yelled as she squeezed some antiseptic cream onto the wound.
‘I’ll try a pad – let’s see if that works. Otherwise I’m taking you to A & E whether you like it or not.’
‘I have to get the sketch finished tonight, hell or high water.’
‘And die from blood poisoning trying?’
‘I was in the shower – the wound’s clean.’
‘How did you fall over?’ she asked. ‘Old men fall over in showers, not you.’
Reluctantly, she dressed the back of his head. He thanked her and returned to the sandwich he was making.
‘You need a hot meal, not a sandwich,’ she said.
‘I’m fine with a sandwich.’
Shaking her head, she said, ‘No client’s worth killing yourself over.’
‘I’m OK, honestly.’
‘You are so not OK.’ She peered at him closely. ‘You really don’t look right.’
‘I’m shaken by what I saw and stressed over the sketch, that’s all – and tired; I’ll take it easy after I’ve finished it – have a chill day tomorrow.’
‘You need to.’
He gobbled down his sandwich and hurried back up to work, carrying a large, strong coffee. He stopped at their bedroom to take two paracetamols from the bathroom cabinet and swallow them, then went on up to his studio and sat briefly at his desk, logging on. A few emails that needed responses. They could wait until tomorrow. He glanced at Instagram, aware it was a week since he had last posted anything there. He quickly liked a number of new posts.
Then he walked to his easel, pencil in hand, and studied the photograph of the spaniel rested on the easel’s shelf. He liked drawing this breed of dog – with its big, floppy ears and this one’s regal pose – and it was his portfolio of spaniel sketches that had led to the Northcote Gallery first taking a serious interest in his work.
A few hours, he figured. That’s all it would take him. A £1000 fee. Good money – and for doing what he loved. What was not to like?
He sipped his coffee and set to work, all his concerns parked in another compartment of his mind.
Sometime after 2 a.m. he had finished the sketch. He went downstairs and, after undressing and brushing his teeth as quietly as he could, he took a further two paracetamols for his headache and slipped into bed. Emily stirred, murmuring, ‘Did you get it done?’
‘Yep.’
‘Love you.’
He kissed her and was asleep, exhausted, seconds later.