by Zee Monodee
Things had also gone farther down the drain when one of the pilots had started to pester him for a purchase order for shoes.
Some days, he really hated being in administration, catering to such boring tasks like processing orders. Under normal circumstances, he could’ve dealt with the query in a jiffy, by asking the store department to send a pair of moccasins of such and such size to the cabin crew department.
But just his luck the pilot in question boasted a foot size of fifty-two. The company didn’t stock shoes bigger than forty-six, so it became Trent’s job to provide the giant with a right fit, which meant calling all their apparel suppliers to find one stocking such a size.
His relief morphed into a groan at the scene in his front room.
The TV flickered in the background, images of an as-yet-empty football pitch and the nagging, droning voices of the commentators giving the backdrop over which Diya and his sons exchanged animated chatter.
All three of them wore England’s white jersey and sported the Three Lions’ caps. They sat on the marble floor on cushions. Since when did he have cushions in his living room? A board stretched out in front of them, and Diya moved Matthew’s little soldiers on the surface.
Her voice reached his ears, and he paused to listen.
“See, if this bloke crosses the line of the last defender before the ball is launched, he’s committed an offside foul, so the game stops and the other team earns a free kick from the spot of the foul.”
Football. They were talking football. He should’ve known. What was it with the sport that even girls were raving fanatics nowadays?
Trent groaned again. He didn’t want to hear any noise with his headache, let alone the uproar of these hooligans. They hadn’t yet seen him. Maybe he could nip into the corridor without any one of them noticing him.
“Daddy!”
No such luck.
Josh jumped up and ran towards him, to fling his arms around Trent’s legs.
Trent braced his feet on the floor to prevent the lad from toppling him over. “Hey there, big guy.”
“Hi,” Diya said. “You’re early. I didn’t expect you for another couple of hours.”
Was there a question in her words?
“Yeah, I wasn’t feeling too well.”
Her intense dark eyes burned a hole in his conscience. No doubt she could bend the will of anyone with that stare.
“Anything I can do for you?” she asked.
“No, thanks. I need to change.” He dropped his briefcase in the hall and went into his room.
The heat flaming on his neck minutes before now raged upon his whole chest, and he undid his tie and shrugged off his suit jacket and shirt in an effort to cool his body. In the bathroom, he splashed cold water on his face, but his skin burnt harder as the droplets ran down his cheeks.
Could there be a heat wave on the island? Not likely. The scenario wouldn’t fit with the occasional chills that had run along his body throughout the day.
With a dull, restless ache in all his muscles, he pulled on a T-shirt and a pair of shorts.
Through the opened doorway of the bedroom, the noise from the TV grew louder. As he reached the bed with the only intention of lying down and closing his eyes, he could make out the quickened flow of the commentators’ ramblings. The boys’ voices competed with the din, until Diya let out a shriek.
“Oh my God, there’s Beckham!”
Less noise, for God’s sake. He’d have to go spell the request out.
He reached the living room and dropped his body on a large leather sofa next to where the trio sat on the floor. He darted a peek at the young woman.
Her gaze remained glued to the TV, her irises focused on the spot where the blond man sat in the VIP box. She’d parted her lips, her expression one of riveted focus.
“Diya? Hello?” He waved a hand in front of her face.
She swatted his hand away. “Stop it, Trent. I can’t see him if you block the screen.”
Blimey, she’d been hit worse than he’d thought. “He’s only a man. And it’s only a game.”
She shot her head around to face him so quickly, he was afraid her neck would snap. Colour flooded her cheeks, and her eyes narrowed on him, shooting flames, her expression one of are you insane?
As he took in her stricken appearance, a quiver started in his chest. Soon, he was laughing, and couldn’t stop.
When she slapped his knee, he peered at her.
“It’s not funny,” she said in a low growl.
“Diya.” He shook his head. “What is it with this bloke that so many women swoon over him?”
“I’m not swooning.”
“Sure, you aren’t.” He smiled.
She huffed. “He’s cute. No, he’s very good-looking.”
“If you’re into pretty dolls, then maybe, yes.”
“Oh, how dare you?” She balled her fists on her hips. “And what is it with you guys and Posh?”
Posh? “I beg your pardon?”
She rolled her eyes. “Posh Spice. Victoria. Beckham.”
She added the last two names when the first one failed to bring any response from him.
“You mean his wife. That designer-clad tall stick of a woman?”
A puzzled frown creased her forehead. “You don’t find her beautiful?”
Blimey, she had to be joking, right?
“Not at all.”
“That’s weird,” she replied, as if lost in thought. “I think they make a nice couple.”
“Yeah. Like two plastic dolls.”
She huffed again. “Even if you don’t like him, you can support the team.”
“What for?”
“Be patriotic like me and support your country.”
“What’s patriotic about twenty-two blokes running around a ball?” He grimaced. “And last I heard, you’re Mauritian, not British.”
“Wrong, mate. I was born—”
A cheer resounded from the TV, and Matthew increased the volume with the remote control.
“Diya, game’s starting.”
Her complete attention veered back to the screen, and Trent found himself caught in a cold war as all three of them shut him out of their football-fanatic clique.
Thoroughly dismissed, he shuffled back into his room, closing the door behind him. No way would they bring the sound down. Could he simply ignore them? The drums had returned with a vengeance in his skull, and he fell into bed and closed his eyes.
The noise from the living room wouldn’t dim, and he heard every scream and shout as they urged the players on. Like the poor fellas could hear them across the screen.
When the ruckus proved too much for his throbbing head, he forced himself back into the lounge. “Listen, guys. My head’s killing me. Can’t you go watch this at Diya’s place?”
Not one head turned around, but Matthew spoke up. “Diya has a twenty-four-inch TV. Here, we have the sixty-inch curved screen. Can’t watch the game there, Dad.”
Blimey. Why didn’t he have a twenty-four-inch screen, too? “Can you at least bring the volume down a little?”
Diya faced him.
“’Course, we can.” She trained her gaze over the length of him. “You want something for the pain?”
The solicitude in her voice took him aback. “Uh, no. Thanks.”
A small smile grazed her lips, and he found himself mesmerized by her face. Even the drums echoed less.
“You don’t like taking medicine?” she asked.
How had she guessed?
Her smile grew wider. He had no wish to be the subject of her amusement.
“I’m going to rest,” he said as he spun on his heel and went back to bed.
The noise decreased, and soon, his eyes grew heavy. He drifted into a deep sleep, only to awaken every now and then because of the ache in his body and the heat flushing his face. His legs tangled in the sheets, the cool cotton growing heated as he tossed and turned continuously. He sat up with a start when images of very
large shoes started to haunt his slumber.
Trent slowly got up, kinks and strains tugging at every muscle of his body. His T-shirt stuck to his skin, and his hair hung in a mass of humid locks as if he’d come out of a very steamy bathroom. Water. He needed water.
With a weary step, he trudged to the kitchen, where he found Diya fixing a bowl of popcorn in the microwave oven.
She stood right under the glass-door cupboard that held the glasses. The two of them would bump into each other in the relatively cramped confines between the counter and the table lining the back wall.
Too hot and uncomfortable to wait for her to move, he leaned his upper body over hers and grabbed a glass. His chest brushed her head, and she twisted around in a swift move.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“Getting a glass,” he said, the words coming in a grumble from his dry and scratchy throat.
“Couldn’t you wait for me to move?”
He filled the tumbler from the tap and took a long sip. The water burnt its path into his stomach, the cool temperature making him feel hotter.
“Idiot,” she said as she opened the microwave oven and picked the bowl of popcorn before walking past him.
Her arm came into contact with his, and she stopped in her tracks.
After putting the bowl down on the counter, she stepped back into the kitchen, right in front of him, and pressed her cool hand over his forehead.
“Oh my God. Trent, you’re burning hot.”
“What?” The touch of her skin was distracting him.
“You’re running a high fever. We need to bring it down. I’m calling the doctor.”
A doctor? He didn’t need to see a doctor. Granted, he felt lousy, but not enough to see a doctor.
Placing the empty glass next to the oven, he grabbed her arm as she started dialling a number on the phone.
“No, I’ll be fine. I need to rest …”
Blackness veiled his eyes as a wave of dizziness washed over him, and he keeled over from the onslaught.
*
As if in slow motion, Diya watched as Trent’s body lurched towards her. With his hand still on her arm, she’d fall along with him if she didn’t try to stop his collapse. Insight guided her to reach for his free arm and place the palm of his hand flat on the counter.
He gripped the countertop and regained his balance as he clung to the surface and to her. His head dropped to his chest, his breathing laboured as he struggled to overcome his dizziness.
“Is Dad okay?” Matthew asked.
She found the boy by her side. What to tell him now, when even she didn’t really know what was going on?
“Dad’s got a fever, darling. He needs to rest. Stay with Josh and watch the game. I’ll take care of him.”
When he remained in his spot, she ran her gaze around the room and noticed the popcorn. She picked up the large glass bowl and pressed it into his hands. “Here, take this with you.”
The weight on her arm lifted, and she turned back to Trent. Why was he moving? He shouldn’t move after nearly fainting. Trust him to act tough even under such circumstances. Well, she wouldn’t let him off the hook so easily this time. He was sick.
Her irritation however melted at how dejected he appeared.
Confusion swirled in his eyes, the pupils dilated. His skin had paled, and beads of sweat pearled on his forehead.
“What happened?” he asked.
“You nearly fainted.”
His eyes grew wide, and a frown settled on his forehead.
“You’re joking,” he said as he started to work her hand off his arm.
“Fat chance. You don’t even have a sense of humour.”
She braced a hand on his chest, and the burning heat from his skin scorched her palm through the damp fabric of his T-shirt. That had to be some fever to feel so hot. “Trent, you’re not well. You need to rest.”
“It’s nothing—”
“It’s not nothing! You’re probably running a forty-degree fever. May I remind you the body’s temperature should be thirty-seven-point-three Celsius—”
“Okay. You win.” His shoulders sagged as he conceded defeat.
Under any other circumstance, she wouldn’t have let him get away scot-free for snapping at her like that. But not today.
“Come on.” She gentled her tone. “Go back to bed.”
“The children?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll look after them.”
She stepped on tiptoe to peer into his face. An intense need to have him trust her overwhelmed her, and she gulped back.
“Let me help you, Trent,” she said softly.
He stared at her for long seconds, before he finally nodded.
A cool competence she’d never believed she could possess took hold of her as she grasped his arm and guided him to his bed. The sheets lay crumpled and tangled, and she remembered the headache he’d complained about when he’d come back. His fever was probably hours old, and he had dismissed it. Stubborn man.
Carefully, she helped him lie down.
She touched his forehead again. No need for a thermometer; his fever ran very high. The quicker they brought the temperature down, the better. No time to wait for doctor’s orders, either.
Leaving his side, she went to the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, but found only paediatric syrups there. No meds, no painkiller, not even some paracetamol. She shook her head. So like the man to imagine he’d never be sick.
Throwing a quick peek at Trent as she walked out of the room, she reached the living room and squatted next to the boys.
“Listen, guys. Daddy’s sick. Nothing too serious, but I need to get him some medicine from my flat. Can I leave you for five minutes?”
Their little faces grew sombre, before both nodded with a seriousness very akin to their father.
Five minutes later, she’d returned. She went to the boys and hugged them. “You’ve been great. Now, I need to go take care of Daddy, okay?”
“Okay,” they said in unison.
In the kitchen, she filled a glass with water and dropped two tablets in. As the water fizzled and bubbled, she headed to the main bedroom and stopped on the threshold to watch the man sprawled on the bed.
His body jerked as he tossed and turned in his restlessness.
With quiet steps, she approached him and put the glass down on his bedside table. He startled when she touched his shoulder.
“I’ve brought you medicine.”
“I don’t need it,” he said gruffly.
“Don’t be silly. Come on, drink this.” She handed him the glass.
He downed the contents in one gulp, before his face contorted in a grimace. “What the hell is this?”
“Soluble paracetamol. It’ll bring the fever down.”
“Blimey, it tastes awful. Don’t you have pills instead of terrible potions at your place?”
What a whiny idiot. He became more irritating when sick. Exactly like most men.
“The only potion I’d give you would be to turn you into a frog.” She snorted. “Anyway, when was the last time you ate anything?”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“Will you please simply answer?”
“Breakfast,” he replied wearily.
“Breakfast? You didn’t eat anything at lunch time?”
“No, Mum. I wasn’t hungry.”
“Very funny. Anyway, it just goes to show I couldn’t give you pills. You’re not supposed to take pills on an empty stomach.”
“Why?”
Why was he making this conversation a round of Trivial Pursuit?
“Because hard pills can irritate the stomach lining if there’s no food to act as a buffer.” She sighed. “Now stop arguing, and try to sleep.”
Her tone this time brooked no argument, and she had the pleasure to notice she’d shut him up.
Diya closed the door softly behind her, after taking another glance at the man who’d already fallen into slumber.
The game had concluded by the time she reached the living room, and both boys waited for her on the couch.
“How’s Dad?” Matthew asked.
“He’s sleeping. We shouldn’t disturb him now. He needs to rest.”
“Daddy’s not gonna die, ith he?” Josh’s little voice quivered when he spoke.
The question stunned her. Had they lost their mother due to sickness?
She sat down before she cradled him in her lap. “No, sweetie. He won’t die. I’ll make sure of it.”
***
“So, is he gonna make it?” she asked.
The doctor stepped from the bed and pulled the stethoscope from his ears before he glanced down at her. “He’ll survive.”
She rolled her eyes. “Drop the humour, Daddy. I’m serious.”
“For once.”
When she narrowed her gaze, he became solemn again.
“It’s the flu, nothing worse. His chest isn’t congested, but the fever has to be monitored.”
“Thank God.” She heaved a sigh of relief.
Matthew popped his head in the doorway. “Diya?”
“Yes, sweetie?”
“Is Dad gonna be okay?”
“Yes, he is, darling. He needs to get over it, but he’ll be fine.”
“Okay,” the boy replied before leaving.
“Who’s gonna look after the children?”
“I will.” She paused. “There’s no one else to do it.”
He kept his attention on her, before he nodded. “I’ll prescribe him some drugs for the flu, and keep giving him the paracetamol until the fever disappears. And get him to drink often. Rehydrating serum, Lucozade, clear broth. You shouldn’t let him get dehydrated. Let’s leave him to rest now.”
They made their way into the living room where the boys were watching the DVD of Monsters, Inc. The older man stopped in the hallway, his gaze on the screen as Boo, the little girl in the flick, wreaked havoc in Sully’s house.
A small smile etched on Prem Hemant’s face. “You were just like her when you were little, you know that?”
Tenderness rang heavy in his voice, making heat sting her cheeks. “Not true.”
“You’re right. You were more of a hellion.” He laughed. “We had our hands full with you. Still do, actually.” He nodded towards the children. “You sure you can cope with this?”
