The journey back to the hotel is a complete blur. I barely register the tourists with their oversized backpacks, or commuters engrossed in their mobile phones swirling around me as I clamber on and off the tubes. Trying to ignore the throbbing in my swollen hand.
It's not until I reach North Greenwich Station and step outside that I realise that it's raining and that my clothes are practically soaked through.
When did that happen? I wonder to myself as I hoist my guitar over my shoulder with my good hand and start the short walk to the InterContinental hotel where the crew are all staying tonight. At least I don't have to worry about running into Harry there. As his house is close to the venue, he'll be staying there tonight.
I can feel the dull vibration of my phone in my pocket as what seems to be a hundred messages come through now that I've got signal again and shift myself slightly so I can pull it out. Four missed calls and five texts. Dammit.
The missed calls are, predictably, all from Harry and there is a voicemail too which I don't bother listening to as I keep my head firmly down against the rain and make my way along by the river. Three of the texts seem to be from Harry too, for fuck's sake.
I clear the missed calls and decide to check the other two texts first, wanting to prolong the moment that I have to speak to Harry for as long as possible. What on earth am I going to say to him? 'Thanks for setting up the meeting with the massive pervert Harry, being sexually assaulted was at the top of my to-do list this week?' Argh but that's not fair, from what Novak told me, he doesn't even know Harry.
Suddenly, a horrible thought hits me square in the chest, and I feel my blood run cold. What if Harry knew what would be expected of me at this interview?
Novak sure as hell thought I had slept my way into his office. What if that's just standard practice in the music industry and I was just too naïve to realise? What if... what if Harry will be expecting me to repay him for setting this up? Just like Novak said?
The more rational part of my brain is telling me that the man who embellishes his merchandise with the words 'Treat People with Kindness' and has been nothing but sweet to me since the day I met him, isn't anything like Mr Novak. That he would never expect the kinds of things that he did. But unfortunately, right now, I am too shaken to be rational. All I want to do is get to the hotel and curl up in a ball under the covers of my tiny bed and sleep until my hand stops throbbing.
Trying to distract myself, I flick open my messages. The first is from Sammy, asking if I'll be heading back to the hotel or going straight to the venue this afternoon. The second is from my brother, asking how the interview went. God, I didn't even think about what I'm going to tell Michael. Why did I have to tell so many people about this fucking interview? I scold myself, and without thinking, I flick open the texts from Harry.
Harry:
How did it go? H x"
The curiosity is killing me here, Trouble! Give me a call when you can! H x
Ok, I'm assuming you've forgotten to take your phone off silent... call me. H x
The messages all seem innocent enough. Of course, he's going to want to know how I got on, he's just being a good friend checking in.
Isn't he? "Shit, I can't deal with this right now", I mutter under my breath as the hotel finally comes into view through the sheets of ice-cold rain which seem to be coming down even harder now. I shove my phone back into my pocket as I make my way into the lobby. Silently praying that Sammy has slunk off for an afternoon rendezvous with Freddie and that I'll have some peace and quiet for a little while.
Of course, though, I am just not that lucky. I've barely opened the door to our room before Sammy comes bouncing over to me. Loud and overexcited as usual and starts firing questions at me as if we're on fucking University Challenge.
"Mads! You're back!! How did it go? Are they going to sign you? Did they like the song you picked out? Was the person you saw nice? I bet they were nice, Harry wouldn't send you off to meet an arsehole now, would he! Tell me everything!!" she babbles at top speed as I sling my guitar down on a nearby chair and shrug off my jacket.
I can't control the hiss of pain that escapes my lips as I pull my injured hand through the wet sleeve and, instinctively, I cradle it against my chest.
"Maddie. What the fuck happened to your hand?" Sammy exclaims, reaching out to gingerly try and take my swollen digits in her own.
It's this simple act of kindness that breaks through the walls I've had up since the moment I ran out of that creeps office. The concern in Sammy's wide eyes as she carefully inspects my hand, which I notice has now turned a rather fetching shade of purple in places, breaks me. I feel the hot, wet tears streaming down my face before I've even registered that I am crying.
"Aww honey, please don't cry!" Sammy begs me, but I barely hear the words as she leads me carefully over to the nearest bed, which happens to be hers and sits me down. "I'm going to get you some ice, ok? Just, stay here for a minute," she says more firmly and turns towards the door.
A rush of fear creeps over me again, and I blurt out to her retreating back "Don't tell anyone I'm back yet. Please." she shoots me a confused look over her shoulder but nods slowly before heading out of our room.
Returning a few minutes later with a tea towel full of what I assume to be ice which is dripping slightly, leaving tiny puddles in her wake as she makes her way back over to my side. When she presses the compress against my hand, I let out an involuntary groan of pain and try to tug my hand away, but she holds me firmly by the elbow, keeping me in place. It's then that I notice that it's not just my hand that is purple, my wrist also sports a massive bruise from where his fingers encircled it.
I am willing to bet, from the throbbing in my thighs, that when I take my soaking wet jeans off, there will be matching marks on both of my legs as well. A trickle of bile works its way into my throat as I remember the feel of his weight pinning me to that chair and I have to forcefully swallow it and beg myself not to puke all over Sammy.
"Maddie, can you tell me what happened? Please?" Sammy asks in a low, soothing voice, all her usual bubbly-ness has disappeared. If I were able to register anything properly at the moment, I would see that her face is ashen and tears are glistening in the corners of her eyes. Still, I can't, I can't think about anything clearly enough to form a coherent sentence right now.
After a few minutes of silence, Sammy stands and makes her way to my suitcase, pulling out various items of clothing.
"We need to get you changed, you'll catch your death if we don't get you out of those wet clothes soon."
"I've made your bed wet" I reply blandly, looking down at the sheets below me which are a darker colour than the rest of the off-white bedspread.
"Don't worry about that" she replies as she bends and starts to remove my boots and soaked jeans. She gasps when she catches sight of the handprint-shaped bruises on both of my upper thighs, but thankfully, doesn't ask me about them.
She hands me a pair of comfy grey jogging bottoms before carefully peeling me out of my top, being extra gentle with my injured hand. Then she wraps me up in one of the substantial hotel towels and hands me my crew issued TPWK T-shirt, I pull a face at but accept it all the same.
"We need to get that hand looked at. Why don't you go have a hot shower? I'm going to call Paul and tell him..."
"NO!" I shout, interrupting her mid-sentence and grabbing hold of her arm with my good hand as she turns to get her phone, "You can't tell Paul.. you can't.." I am almost hyperventilating with the effort of forcing out the words through my clenched teeth.
The idea of Paul or worse still, Jeff hearing about the way I behaved this afternoon fills me with absolute horror, and I can't seem to catch my breath.
"Hey, hey, don't worry, I'll just tell them you had an accident, and I need to take you to A&E that's all. It's not like I could tell them what happened even if I wanted to, you've not told me yet. Remember?" she replies soothingly "They've already witnessed how clumsy you are so it's not like they won't believe me."
"Right, yeah.. sorry" She adds as I slowly make my way into the shower. Hopefully, I can rub off the feeling of his hands on me if I have the water hot enough.
After four hours of sitting in a freezing cold accident and emergency waiting room on rock hard plastic chairs which have got to be nearly as old as I am. I'm finally taken off for an x-ray and told that I have a sprained wrist and a fracture in my fifth metacarpal, which the kindly looking older nurse with the motherly face and hair greying at the temples, explains means that I have broken the bone that supports my little finger.
It's a common injury, most often caused by sustaining a blow to the hand whilst having a closed fist. Her words send flashes of images rushing in front of my eyes at breakneck speed. My hand, clenched into a tight fist, pressed up against the hard length of Mr Novak's dick. My knee shooting up between us and connecting hard with the flesh on the outside of my hand. The excruciating pain that followed.
Thankfully the nurse tells me that the fracture will not require surgery and all I need to do is wear a splint for a few weeks whilst it heels. If I were more myself, I'd be horrified that I won't be able to play the guitar for the foreseeable future. Or maybe glad that it's my left hand I've damaged and not my right, as at least I should still be able to work mostly as I am right-handed. But I can't seem to focus on anything at the moment other than the flashes of memory.
Before we leave, the nurse takes me to one side and asks me in a gentle voice how I sustained my injuries, but I can't bring myself to tell her. Her hand rests on my forearm as she speaks softly, asking if I would like for her to contact the police, or maybe my parents? But I shrug her off. I know she's just trying to help, but this isn't the kind of thing you go to the police about is it? It's my word against his, he's a respected record executive, and I'm just some nobody.
Why would anyone believe me? I just want to forget. And sleep. I'd really like to sleep.
As Sammy and I make our way out of the hospital, my hand in its splint and a support around my wrist, my phone begins to vibrate in my handbag, and she shoots me a knowing look.
"Harry?" she asks
"Probably," I shrug. Not even bothering to check.
He's called at least once an hour since we got here and each time I've let the call go to voicemail. While we were sat in the waiting room, I went over and over a million different conversations with him in my head. Still, I've yet to find one with a positive outcome.
The way I see it, either he's going to be utterly confused that I didn't just give Novak what he wanted, and be pissed at me for causing a scene. Or he's going to feel guilty and be angry at himself for putting me in that situation. Or maybe, he'll just not care at all. None of these options seems good to me, so for now, I am going to go with silence.
Once we get back to the hotel, Sammy sets me up in bed with the TV remote whilst she goes off to get us a takeaway and some junk food, despite me having told her that I'm really not hungry. She's not gone long, and when she returns with enough food to feed the entire crew, I am shocked to see that she's not alone.
"Hey, Kiddo" Clark's familiar voice echoes across the room as he takes a seat on the end of my bed and puts a warm oversized hand on my ankle. Instantly I shrink away from his masculine touch, but regret it when I see the look of concern that floods his large blue eyes, have they always been that blue I wonder? Sammy takes a seat on her bed opposite us and position her elbows on her knees, leaning forward towards me.
"Maddie, you have to tell us what happened." She says in a calm voice.
"I.. I don't think I can. I just want to forget about it," I mumble back, staring down at the bedspread and picking at a loose thread with my good hand.
"Kiddo, how long have you known me? Come on, I've seen you crying hysterically when your first boyfriend broke up with you. Watched you fall face-first off the swing when you were trying to go over the top bar and ended up with that huge gash in your head, remember? I've seen you puking your guts up. And happy as Larry. You can tell me anything." Clark says.
"You'll tell Michael" I accuse him unfairly, not knowing for sure that he'd do any such thing, but hoping it might give me an excuse not to have to relive what happened.
"Not if you don't want me to. I did promise him I'd take care of you though, so please Matilda, let me?"
I look up at him then, our eyes meeting for the first time since he entered the room. He never calls me Matilda, or even Maddie or Mads, I'm always 'Kiddo' to him. Something about him using my given name softens me to him, and I start to speak, focusing my eyes back on the loose thread in the bedding as I do so.
It doesn't take long for me to recount my story. My voice wavers in places and a pool of wetness appears next to my hand on the bedspread as the tears slip freely from my eyes, but once I start, it's like I can't stop. I jabber so quickly that I am not sure that either Sammy or Clark can actually follow what I am saying.
Especially when my voice gets all thick and husky with tears and snot, but they don't interrupt me. I keep my eyes down, right up until I hear a resounding crash rebound around the small room and my head jerks up to locate the source of the noise.
"Sorry," Clark says regretfully, and I see a small streak of blood on the whitewashed wall beside him.
"I'm not sure how you breaking your hand too is going to help," I say quietly.
"Fucking bastard. I'll kill him" He says, but the tone in his voice doesn't match his words, he's not shouting, this isn't anger, its pure fury, and that scares me more than him punching the walls.
I glance over at Sammy who is unusually quiet, and see the tear stains on her pale cheeks, I reach my good hand out across the space between us and clasp her hand in mine.
"I'm sorry," I whisper.
"Don't. Don't apologise Maddie. You have nothing to apologise for, you hear me?" She says, more forcefully than I would have expected.
"That...that...creep," she stumbles, trying to find a word that accurately describes her feelings towards Novak and coming up short, "Had NO right to touch you, none. Do you understand? You. Did. Nothing. Wrong." She enunciates clearly, punctuating each word.
Then she says the sentence that I cannot bear to hear.
"Maddie, we have to tell Harry."