Free The Year of Taking Chances by Lucy Diamond Page A

again . . .
    She passed a hand through her hair, trying to breathe naturally. ‘I need to sort someone out to pick up the kids,’ she said, imagining the scared looks on their faces when they saw
their strong, capable daddy broken like this. Dear God, she couldn’t bear it. ‘I need to . . . ’ She swayed on her feet, suddenly dizzy, and Harry clutched her just in time.
    ‘You okay? Are you feeling faint? Sit down, Gem,’ he ordered, guiding her to a plastic chair. ‘Do you want a tea or something?’
    A cup of tea. Like that would make any difference. What she wanted was for Spencer to open his eyes and grin at her, to sit up and stretch his arms over his head as if he’d just woken from
a nap. ‘I’m fine,’ she said weakly, reaching out to take Spencer’s hand. His fingers felt warm in hers; if she shut her eyes, she could imagine everything was perfectly
normal. Almost.
    ‘We’ll let you know more, once we’ve done the MRI,’ the doctor said kindly. ‘Ah, here’s our porter now. Thanks, Mick.’
    And away they wheeled him, leaving Gemma and Harry alone and staring at one another. ‘Oh, Harry,’ she said, burying her face in her hands. ‘I’m really frightened. I’m so, so frightened. I just want him back.’
    ‘I know,’ Harry said wretchedly, staring after the porter in a daze. ‘Me too.’
    Cometh the hour, cometh the mums. After one single tearful call to her friend Eliza, Gemma had countless texts from other mothers from the school, offering help, sleepovers,
dinners, sympathy and wine.
OMG, just heard, hon. Is he going to be ok?
they wrote.
What’s the latest?
    Gemma didn’t know how to reply. The words were too huge to condense into a mere text.
Oh, possibly paralysed, head injury, you know . . .
No. She stuffed her phone back in her
handbag, feeling a wild sort of hysteria building. She hated herself for not hugging him that morning. She hadn’t even said goodbye! She’d been wearing her tartan flannel pyjamas, the
ones Spencer always groaned at and called the Passion Killers, and she’d rolled over in bed and put the pillow over her head to muffle the sound of his singing. What kind of wife did that? Why hadn’t she got out of bed too and kissed him goodbye before he left?
    It wasn’t until later that afternoon when the rain ceased for the first time all day that Spencer finally blinked, then opened his eyes. Thank God. ‘What . . . the . . . fuck . . . ?’ he croaked, bewildered.
    Trapped in the back-and-neck brace, his head was fixed so that he was staring up at the ceiling, and Gemma leapt to her feet, leaning over him. ‘You’re in hospital,
sweetheart,’ she said, her voice cracking on the words. ‘You had a fall at work.’
    His eyelids fluttered again, those sooty lashes sweeping his pale skin. ‘Did I?’
    ‘Hello, mate.’ Harry stood up, too. ‘We were doing the Melvilles’ development, remember? The scaffolding gave way and you fell.’
    ‘Jesus Christ,’ he groaned. ‘My head’s killing me.’
    ‘I’ll get the doctor,’ Harry said, vanishing.
    Spencer was still staring at Gemma as if he had never seen her before in his life. She felt a lurch of panic. ‘It’s me, Gemma. Can you remember who I am?’
    He shut his eyes. ‘Gemma,’ he repeated, slurring the syllables. ‘Gemma?’
    ‘Yes, that’s me, Gemma. Your wife,’ she said desperately, but he was already gone, slipping back into oblivion. ‘I’m your wife, Spencer, do you remember?’

Chapter Eight
    Maybe Caitlin had been kidding herself, but after the road trip with Harry she’d half-expected him to get in touch. Had it been a figment of her imagination that
he’d flirted with her? All those questions he’d asked, the growing feeling of intimacy as they swapped confessions in the One-Direction-stickered cab of his van, the way he’d even
(jokingly) offered to kill Flynn, as if he was allying himself with Team Caitlin . . . When they said goodbye and she thanked him for all