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rages as soon as Doctor Teddy has left the room. ‘This must be some sort of insurance scam. I do not need ten weeks to recover.’
    As I reach over to take his hand and squeeze it, he winces. So much for Piers keeping calm.
    ‘Pony, are you feeling OK?’ I ask gently.
    I hate seeing him like this, hooked up to scary-looking machines that are keeping him alive. There’s something about this room that is starting to make me feel so useless. I’ve realised that our lives can quite easily be taken out of our hands, that we can become reliant on machines to survive. A part of me feels somewhat thankful that Felicity didn’t have to endure a long drawn-out demise in hospital, fading away until her end – I understand how much she would have hated that – but then what end did she face?
    As much as I try and push down thoughts about Felicity, they keep popping to the surface. Did Etta do something to her, or is this all some awful misunderstanding? I mean, now I think about it, she’s always high and has never done anything to harm Felicity before... I don’t know what to think.
    ‘Piers?’
    He ignores me and presses a button that’s dangling at the side of his bed. A look of relief passes over Piers’ face as whatever he’s just activated kicks in, and I wish I could have a shot of it, but then I remember Etta and her addiction.
    ‘I am now,’ he replies.
    I smile at him, pushing away my bad thoughts. I need to focus on Piers and not dwell on them.
    ‘Can you do me a favour though?’ he asks.
    ‘Of course.’
    I expect it to be about getting a marriage licence, but his next words worry me.
    ‘Call my consultant at the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital and double-check how long he recommends I convalesce before flying,’ he barks. ‘Giles will have the number.’
    ‘I can,’ I say, as I realise that if Giles has the consultant’s number, Giles has known about this a lot longer than he let on. ‘Can’t it wait until you’re out of the hospital though?’
    ‘Arielle, please do this for me,’ Piers snaps, so I nod. Anything to keep his stress levels down. ‘Oh, and make sure London is talking to Doctor Teddy so they can co-ordinate my recovery back home. I’m not recovering here if I can help it.’
    ‘Maybe I should speak–’ I stop short at his stormy look.
    ‘Will you help me or not?’
    I understand Piers’ frustrations, I do, but he doesn’t seem to understand Doctor Teddy’s stern words about not getting stressed out. His recent operation should be a pretty clear warning to Piers that he needs to take it easy, and follow his doctor’s instructions.
    ‘Of course, but–’
    A booming voice interrupts me, and I’m slightly relieved. ‘Mr Bramley, how are you today?’
    There are two people in the doorway, and I know that the man on the left is the one who asked the question. He looks like an American football player, and he probably was back in high school. He’s the polar opposite of the man standing next to him who has tight, dark-brown curls, milky-white skin, and a pair of thick black frames resting on his wonky nose. The other man looks like a taller and more ripped version of LL Cool J; I bet he’s the physiotherapist, or physical therapist, as the Americans call them.
    ‘I’m Brett, your physical therapist.’
    See .
    ‘And I’m Bryce, your case worker,’ the other man says.
    Case worker?
    ‘Hi,’ Piers says with a nod.
    ‘I’m Arielle,’ I say, sticking out my hand as they walk towards us. ‘Sorry, what’s a case worker?’
    Back in the UK, a case worker would be here to take Piers away from me because I hadn’t looked after him properly but that would, quite frankly, be ridiculous since Piers is an adult . With thoughts like this, I evidently need some more sleep. I’m starting to get a horrid fuzzy head.
    ‘From the insurance company,’ Bryce explains as he shakes my hand. He turns to Piers. ‘I need to go over a few things about your situation.’
    That seems