To Be Someone Read Free

but I’ll give you a regular night slot.”
    Oh no, not the graveyard shift after all my hard work. No.
    “But if my hearing returnth to normal, then thurely …?”
    I tried hard not to plead, but failed. How could I do a request show at two A.M.? The big audience was what made it work so well—telling your stories to the whole of London. I even had bumper stickers saying HELENA LET ME TELL LONDON MY SONG . Who would care in the middle of the night, when the only listeners were night watchmen and drug-addled losers? It just wouldn’t work.
    But Geoff was getting into his stride, possibly becoming used to the dreadful sight of my scarred and bruised face.
    “I’m sorry, Helena, but it’s not as simple as your health. You wouldn’t believe the amount of flak I’ve had from the press and the watchdogs, about allegations that you and Justin were on cocaine at the UKMAs. Frankly, you’re lucky I’m not firing you.”
    “You can’t prove anything,” I muttered sulkily.
    “Let’s hope not, for all our sakes. Personally I don’t need proof—I was at the same table as you that night, remember, I saw what you were like.”
    He got up, still holding the flowers. They dripped a spiteful puddle of water onto the floor.
    “I’m sorry, Helena. I know how hard you’ve worked. I’ll give these to the nurse to put in a vase on my way out, shall I? Let me know if you want to take the job, whenever you’re ready.”

A BEACH AT LOW TIDE
    T ODAY I LOOKED IN A MIRROR FOR THE FIRST TIME. INTENTIONALLY , I mean, not just the accidental glance in the reflection of the window at night, or like when the towel covering the mirror in the bathroom slipped as I was washing my hands (I made Nurse Grace rig it up there as soon as I was well enough to get myself in and out of the en suite). I’d turned away instantly without letting myself get a proper look, but even that split second was enough to inform me that, yes, I was in fact a dead ringer for the Elephant Man.
    But that morning Grace had said, “Ooh, Helena, you look so much better. The swelling’s really gone down. Once the stitches are out, you’ll almost be back to normal.”
    I had more movement in my jaw every day, and the dressings on my face had been reduced to one big one where my eye used to be. Physically, I was on the mend.
    The better I got, the more my vanity began to return. I made the nurses wash my hair (even though it hurt like mad to lean my head back) instead of tying a scarf over it, because it had gotten greasy enough to fry eggs on. Plus I became aware that my breath smelled foul. I hadn’t been able to clean my remaining teeth—ugh—since the accident. Mouthwash alone didn’t quite seem to hit the spot. I didn’t think anyone except me would care (Mum—well, she used to wipe my ass, so I was sure a spot of halitosis didn’t bother her; the nurses—ditto), but that wasn’t the point. Thankfully a dentist was booked to come in and cap my stumpy teeth at the end of the week, which meant I’d be able to talk normally again, too.
    This sudden resurgence of interest in my appearance made everyone very pleased with me, including the psychotherapist whom Mum summoned to my bedside twice a week to tell me that a spot of depression was Normal and To Be Expected. They all thought that it meant my gloom was subsiding and I was returning to my old self. But I was depressed before the accident! I felt like shouting.
    Once or twice, though, I did allow a minnow of optimism to flash in my chest. Perhaps it would be okay, perhaps I could be normal again. But the minnow always swam off again instantly. I’d always be half-blind and scarred, my deafness still hadn’t healed, and Sam would always be dead. Sorry, folks, I thought. It’s only vanity.
    I’d been afraid to look at myself before, but now I felt that I had to know how bad it really was. On some people scars could look quite distinguished. Suitably psyched up, I shuffled into the bathroom and