by Alice Ross
Dragging herself out of her pit at the sound of the alarm, she’d then been forced to endure breakfast with the kids - Jess in a sulk, Harry yawning his head off, and Valentina making yet another barbed comment about the persistent lack of organic bloody honey. Chrissie hadn’t replied. So furious was she with their guest, she could scarcely look at her.
As a result of all the above, the last thing she needed was yet more talk of a spiritual nature.
‘We thought we’d leave an open box of After Eights Mints in the house. Just to see,’ Gwen informed her, proffering a box of said mints.
Chrissie crinkled her nose, wondering if she’d unintentionally dozed off and missed a significant point. ‘To see what?’
‘If any of them disappear. Maisie never could resist an after-dinner mint.’
Chrissie’s nose-crinkling stepped up a notch. Surely they didn’t think the ghost of the house’s former occupant would be floating about nibbling chocolate. But, by the expectant expressions on her neighbours’ faces, they clearly did.
‘Whatever,’ she huffed, too exhausted to even begin to tell them how ridiculous that sounded. ‘But I can’t guarantee, with Harry in the house, that they’ll last the evening.’
‘No problem. It’s just a little experiment of ours,’ chirruped Gwen excitedly. Then, with a giggle, ‘Olly says we three should form the Lovelace Lane Society of Scientific Researchers.’
‘Olly?’ echoed Chrissie.
‘Yes, dear. We’ve just seen him and his girlfriend. Apparently, she flew in from Bali last night on a surprise visit. A late birthday present for him. Isn’t that romantic?’
‘Very,’ uttered Chrissie, suddenly feeling sick.
‘It’s the magic of Lovelace Lane,’ pronounced Ruth. ‘Maisie used to say love is always in the air here.’
If only, mused Chrissie, concluding – after the news of Olly’s girlfriend – that the only thing in the air in her house was a load of building dust.
The email from Valentina’s father – Raphael of ridiculously-long-surname notoriety – pinged onto Chrissie’s phone just before lunch.
Dear Mrs Collins
Thank you for your note. I am sorry to hear that my daughter’s behaviour has offended you. Valentina is a fun, vibrant, independent young woman, who is normally a pleasure to have around. I have spoken to her, however, and she assures me that she, too, regrets any offence she may have caused. May I point out that as she is in the UK as part of a “cultural exchange” there will, as the name implies, be differences between our two nations, meaning behaviour which is acceptable in one country, may not find such favour in another.
Yours
Raphael Suárez-Hernández
By the time Chrissie reached the end of the note, her blood was simmering. How dare he imply that she was overreacting to something as simple as “cultural differences”? His daughter had been caught smoking, for heaven’s sake. And fluttering her eyelashes at anything in trousers. Anger surging through her, she whipped up her wooden mallet and began whacking a random piece of wood. Because, at that moment, she could think of nothing she’d rather do. Although, when she missed her target and struck her thumb, she wished she’d opted for screaming into a pillow instead. Not least of all because her throbbing digit made her think of Olly. Who wouldn’t be around to administer first aid this time. Because he’d be far too busy with Diana.
Chrissie lurched through the rest of the day on auto-pilot, feeling - with the exception of her pulsating thumb - completely empty. She had no idea why the arrival of Olly’s girlfriend had affected her so much. It wasn’t as if she’d been unaware of the woman’s existence before then. She’d known perfectly well that he was attached. Which led her to conclude that the reason she was so upset was due to his girlfriend’s birthday surprise providing yet another stark reminder of her own romance-free life, and how, as the years slipped by, it looked increasingly unlikely that anyone would ever go to such lengths to brighten up her day. Reminding herself, though, that there were far worse things than a passion-free existence, she was debating what to make for tea, when her mobile rang – Mrs Hardman’s name flashing angrily on the screen.
Chrissie’s floundering spirits edged a tad closer to rock-bottom as she suspected Valentina’s father had contacted the school and complained about her snotty email. Surely, however, after his daughter’s despicable behaviour at the weekend, even the Head couldn’t fail to see Chrissie’s point. Could she?
Answering the call, Chrissie discovered that Mrs Hardman was phoning about Valentina. But not about a heated email exchange.
About quite a different matter altogether.
One that sent tidal waves of guilt crashing over Chrissie.
‘Suspected appendicitis,’ the Head had explained, after informing Chrissie that her house guest had collapsed in the school yard. Driving to the hospital, the words pummelled Chrissie’s brain and guilt gnawed at her innards. She had no idea what – if any – factors contributed to appendicitis, but she sincerely hoped it wasn’t lack of clothing or breathing in too much builder’s dust. Perhaps she shouldn’t have been so hard on the girl. Valentina was, after all, only adhering to the teenagers’ code of conduct, where attitude and petulance reigned supreme. As did flirting with dishy young men like Lucas and smoking the odd fag – which even Chrissie had to admit to. And which, therefore, made her a stonking great hypocrite.
As if she wasn’t feeling bad enough, panic began prickling the back of her neck as her thoughts turned to Valentina’s father. Surely, if he had anything about him, he’d be flying over to see his daughter. But if he was, he couldn’t possibly be there yet, she assured herself. Not unless he had some super-duper transportation machine. Which, the way the day was panning out, would not have surprised her in the least.
In the waiting room Chrissie found Mrs Hardman sipping coffee from a cardboard cup, her normally spiky grey hair decidedly deflated.
‘How is she?’ Chrissie asked.
Mrs Hardman shook her head, causing her chandelier-like pink earrings to swing from side to side. ‘Not good. Her appendix has burst and they think she may have peritonitis. They’re operating on her now.’
Chrissie’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh God. I feel terrible. If I’d insisted she wear a proper jacket. Or—’
‘It wouldn’t have made any difference,’ soothed the Head. ‘It’s just one of those things. You can imagine how terrible I felt, though, when I had to inform her father. He’s on his way over here now. Should be in Newcastle first thing in the morning. Poor man. Imagine having to make a long journey like that, not knowing what you’re going to face when you arrive.’
‘Yes. Imagine,’ muttered Chrissie, not knowing what she would face when the man arrived. But convinced, after their terse emails, that whatever it was, it would not be pleasant.
Jess and Harry, still abuzz with the drama of Valentina’s flashing-blue-light-departure from school, pleaded with Chrissie to allow them to accompany her to the hospital the next morning. Chrissie, though, didn’t budge an inch. Despite Valentina’s operation going well, the girl certainly wouldn’t be up to visitors. She therefore bundled the pair off to school as if it was just another normal day. Only it wasn’t. Because, racked with guilt and dread, she would soon be meeting Valentina’s father.
Mrs Hardman had, once again, beaten Chrissie to the hospital, her colourful patchwork skirt and lilac jacket making Chrissie – in her jeans and cream sweater – feel dowdier than the grey day.
‘She’s had a settled night and is stable,’ Mrs Hardman informed her in hushed tones, at the patient’s bedside.
‘Thank goodness for that,’ whispered Chrissie on a breath of relief. Against the crisp white hospital sheets, the normally vibrant Valentina looked wan, vulnerable, and not one day older than her sixteen years.
‘Her father’s here. He’s talking to the nurse.’
Suddenly having the sensation of her neck being made of wood, Chrissie almost expected it to creak as s
he slowly eased it round, her gaze eventually landing on the back of a tall, athletic figure, with wavy dark hair and an expensive-looking navy suit.
‘He arrived half an hour ago. Literally came straight from his office the minute he received the call, and picked up whatever he needed at the airport. He must be exhausted.’
‘He must,’ muttered Chrissie, feeling so nauseous she gave silent thanks for the fact she was in a medical institution.
‘Well, I must be off,’ announced Mrs Hardman, the two huge green baubles in her ears trampolining off her temples as she retrieved her bag from a nearby chair. ‘Back-to-back meetings all day. I’ll phone the ward later to check on progress. In the meantime, would you mind looking after her father? I’m sure he’d welcome a friendly face and some warm British hospitality given the circs.’
Chrissie’s mouth plunged to the floor at this request – which actually came out more as a command. She agreed that Valentina’s father would most likely welcome a friendly face given the circs. But she very much doubted he’d welcome hers. Which, apart from belonging to the woman who’d accused him of being a shoddy parent, currently veered more towards the mortified than the affable.
Mrs Hardman, meanwhile, evidently accustomed to having her “requests” obeyed, didn’t wait for a reply, hoisting her bag onto her shoulder, flashing Chrissie a smile, and whisking out of the ward in a multi-coloured whirl.
Leaving Chrissie feeling so nauseous, she contemplated crawling into the empty bed next to Valentina’s and yanking the covers over her head.
But she was too late.
Because, out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Valentina’s father striding towards her.
Heart pattering faster than rain on a tin roof, she snapped her gaze back to Valentina. Where it resolutely remained. Until the faint citrusy notes of expensive aftershave began tickling her nostrils and a deep masculine voice, tinged with only the slightest of accents, said:
‘Hello.’
Chrissie jerked up her head, feigning surprise. But all feigning exited the building as her gaze fused with a pair of cobalt blue eyes, framed with lashes so long she wondered they didn’t bat her off her now-jelly-like legs.
‘Raphael Suárez-Hernández,’ he said, extending a large brown hand to her.
‘C-Chrissie. Chrissie Collins,’ she stammered, cranking up the corners of her lips into what she hoped resembled a smile, while desperately trying not to be intimated by a face that could easily have inspired a bazillion romantic heroes. Alongside those dazzling eyes, every one of the requisite ingredients were there – chiselled cheekbones, tanned skin, and a tough masculine jaw with a smattering of stubble so perfect, it made her quiver just imagining what it would feel like brushing against her skin.
Swiftly realising there was more chance of Harry washing behind his ears, than of her – or indeed any red-blooded female - being undaunted by such an exquisite vision, she swallowed hard, before placing her shaking small hand in his large tanned one. At the bolt of electricity that shot down her spine at the contact, her free hand made a grab for the nearby chair, so she could steady herself.
No sooner had their hands parted, though, than there followed a noticeable tightening of that tough stubbled jaw.
‘Mrs Collins,’ he said, cobalt blue eyes burning into hers. ‘Delighted to meet you at last.’
Chrissie doubted that very much. But now was neither the time nor the place for them to pick up where their emails had left off. Besides, circumstances had changed since their written exchange, and, as a parent, she not only had great empathy with the man, but the speed at which he’d dashed to his daughter’s side had impressed her greatly.
Feeling more uncomfortable than a turkey in a cranberry bog, she asked, in a voice that sounded nothing like her own, ‘How was your journey?’
‘Long,’ he replied, on a weary breath. ‘Actually, I was about to go for a cup of coffee to try and keep myself awake. Will you join me?’
The hospital café – recently refurbished, so the sign outside informed them – was bright and modern, the cream décor punctuated by orange chairs and colourful wall canvasses. Despite the relatively early hour it bustled with activity, the clink of china, whoosh of coffee machines, and babble of chatter filling the air. Alongside the smell of frying bacon.
A smell so strong, Chrissie’s already churning stomach picked up pace.
‘What would you like?’ Raphael asked. Before raising his hand to his mouth to cover an almighty yawn.
Fearing she might throw up if she spent another second in the bacon-infused air, Chrissie heard herself saying, ‘Look, you’re exhausted. Why don’t you come back to my house and rest? I can bring you back here when Valentina’s awake.’
Two dark eyebrows shot up a tanned forehead. ‘I was going to book into a hotel.’
‘Well, now you don’t have to,’ said Chrissie, amazed at her own assertiveness – but suspecting it had much to do with her burning desire to escape the café. ‘You can come back with me. To Lovelace Lane.’
Chapter Nine
By the time she and Raphael had checked on Valentina again, requested they be informed the moment she woke, negotiated their way out of the hospital, and located the car, all Chrissie’s fleeting assertiveness had dissipated. Replaced with yet more dread, and an incessant silent scream of ‘What the hell was I thinking inviting this man back to the house?’ But she had invited him. And, consequently, now had to deal with the situation. Thankfully, the crisp, fresh air during the walk to the car park had eased her nausea a little. But the moment she clambered into the driver’s seat, and Raphael eased his muscular frame into that on the passenger side, every one of her nerves returned. Heavens. How was she going to manage the drive back to Lovelace Lane? And what were they going to talk about?
To her relief, she was spared any further worry about the latter because, no sooner had she driven out of the hospital environs and pulled onto the main road, than one surreptitious glance at her passenger told her the last thing he wanted was banal small talk. Reclining against the headrest, eyes closed, long dark lashes fanned against chiselled cheekbones, he was evidently in serious need of slumber. Wondering if he’d notice if she pulled over to savour the glorious picture he presented, Chrissie concluded that he might consider her a bit odd if he opened those fabulous eyes and discovered her salivating. A situation she deemed best to avoid, given he must think her odd enough already.
Courtesy of Raphael’s dozing, the journey back to Lovelace Lane passed in silence and without incident. Apart from Chrissie stalling the car at a set of traffic lights, after sneaking another glance at her travelling companion and coming over all of a quiver.
Her quivering increased as the distance to Lovelace Lane decreased. Lord only knew what the man would make of Yew Tree House. Perhaps it might be best to give him a bit of a heads-up before he stepped inside and discovered a cement mixer in the living room.
‘Here we are,’ she announced – a little shakily - as she pulled up outside.
Raphael opened his ridiculously blue eyes and, after a few seconds of bearing-gathering, focussed them first on Chrissie, then on the window next to her.
‘Yew Tree House?’ he said, reading the brass plate on the wall. ‘It sounds very… English.’
‘Yes. I suppose it does,’ agreed Chrissie, wishing his voice didn’t match his appearance quite so perfectly. That amount of sexiness bundled into one package, was nothing short of lethal. ‘But I should warn you that it’s a bit of a building site.’
He laughed. ‘As long as it has a bed I can make use of for the next couple of hours, it will be fine.’
Shunting aside images of what use she could make of him in her bed, Chrissie opened the car door and all but toppled out onto the pavement.
Aside from a few polite utterings about period features, Raphael commented little on the house, looking straight through the cement mixer, bags of plaster mix, smattering of flexi tubs, plethora of tools and two boxed toilets.
Chrissie attributed his lack of remarks to a combination of good manners and being dead on his feet.
Her own good manners prevailing, she offered him some refreshment, heaving a sigh of relief when he informed her that he’d prefer to go straight to bed and sleep for a couple of hours, before returning to the hospital.
Chrissie wasted no time in showing him to Valentina’s room, then, back downstairs at the kitchen table, wondered what to do with herself. Anything noisy was out of the question as it would disturb her guest. But she could catch up on some paperwork; update her spreadsheets. Geared up to do just that, she carried her laptop through to the lounge, tucked herself up in a throw on the second-hand sofa and, three minutes later, slid into a deep sleep.
She woke to the sound of someone coughing in the kitchen. Surely the kids weren’t home yet? Tugging her arm out from under the throw, she glanced at her watch, amazed to discover that she’d slept for over three hours. Three hours! That was more than she’d been averaging most nights. But it still made it too early for the children. So who was coughing? The answer barrelled into her harder than a freewheeling cannonball. Raphael!
Well, as much as she’d like to, she couldn’t hide from him. It was nobody’s fault but hers that he was here, so she’d just have to paste on a brave face and get on with it. Dragging in a fortifying breath, she heaved herself up from the sofa, adjusted her wonky ponytail and, with yet another pair of jelly-legs, padded across the hall.
Raphael was at the table. Wearing a casual cream top and stonewashed jeans, and looking every bit as delectable as he had in his expensive suit.
