Ella stirs in her sleep, murmuring Phil's name. He still isn't here yet. I pull out my phone and text him, reading aloud as I type.

"Ella's had the baby. she's fine apart from some stitching and a scar from the c section. the baby was in an incubator until something happened and he was taken to surgery. i don't know much else- they told me to stay here. call me when you get this."

"What did you say?" I turn to see Phil in the doorway. He looks battered with his fringe grungey and dirt smeared on his face. The hem of his coat swings at his knees. He limps over and holds himself upright next to Ella. His hand cups her's.

"Leigh- what did you just say." Before I can answer, his phone buzzes. I watch him read the screen with a crushed expression. A small tear rolls down his cheek. "W-w-why did he need surgery?"

"I don't know. The nurse said he was having breathing problems because the umbilical cord was around his neck. Then his heartbeat raised and he was wheeled into another room."

Phil collapses into the seat beside Ella's bed- tracing circles in her hand like I do to Dan. Correction, did to Dan.

"I wish I hadn't broke my leg. I wish the baby didn't have the cord around his neck. I wish I hadn't overworked Ella. I wish I could rewind four weeks before everything happened and stop it at the source." I cry into my hands. "I wish we could start over."

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As Dan's footstep become faint, I listen out for other sounds. There's nothing but muffled shouting from the beach below my window. I glance out to see some surfers running on the sand. Kyle is bringing up the rear, pushing back his fringe with one hand. I wave down at him but he doesn't seem to notice. Or at least if he does, he doesn't show it.

"Mademoiselle, room service." A strong French accent calls from the hall, followed by clashing metal. I pounce off the bed and rush to swing open the door. A small black haired man is there on his knees, collecting assorted pieces of cutlery. "Oh, je suis désolé mademoiselle." (Oh, I am sorry, Miss.)

I bend down and help him. "De rien, monsieur." (It's fine, Mr) He smiles as I pick up the last fork, placing it back onto the tray.

"Vous parlez français?" (You speak French?)

"De temps en temps. Je m'appelle Leigh." (From time to time. My name is Leigh.)

"Je m'appelle Pierre." (My name is Pierre.) He passes me my food, frowning at the messy organisation of the cutlery.

"Merci beaucoup, Pierre." (Thank you very much, Pierre.)

"Au revoir, mademoiselle Leigh. Je suis désolé." (Goodbye, Miss Leigh. I am sorry.)

Pierre waves goodbye as I shut the door. It's nice to freshen up my French skills sometimes, even if it's only a few simple phrases. Now it's just you and me sandwich, just you and me.

As I sink my teeth into my late lunch, I taste a strong flavour of vinegar. I hate vinegar. Peeling back the bread, I find a thick layer of gherkins- also known as the devil's curse. They are the single worst food known to mankind.

I pick off the pickled cucumbers and attempt to relax back into my meal. It doesn't work. The juices from the gherkins have coated the cheese in sour vinegar. I want to call back and ask for another sandwich but what if they punish poor Pierre? I couldn't do that to him! Guess I'll just make do with my lemonade. I wish I had specified more when ordering...