by Jill Mansell
Obviously her choice of gift is awful, but maybe it isn’t a personal dig; in her mind, she may genuinely be trying to help. Yes, I’m giving your mother-in-law the benefit of the doubt here, but some people just have different priorities in life.
Here’s my suggestion: tell your in-laws that you’re only able to take two weeks off work, and you’ve decided to use the time to have the plastic surgery. Then get a refund on the voucher and spend the money on a brilliant holiday for you and your husband. Tell your mother-in-law that you had the lipo, wait a few weeks, then proudly show off your new body. Tell her you’re thrilled with it. If she says she can’t see any difference . . . well, that’s her problem, not yours. (If she says she can’t see any scars, tell her that’s because the plastic surgeon was a genius.)
Have a great holiday!
Love, Rose
The queue for the check-in desk at the airport was ridiculously long, snaking like a maze and composed of hundreds of travellers in various stages of impatience.
Rory, already checked in for his brief flight to Zurich on a two-day business trip, was waiting to meet up with his colleagues. He watched as a small child took a bite of an egg sandwich, pulled a face and shoved it, unwrapped, into his Thomas the Tank Engine knapsack.
A group of men heading off on a stag weekend and keen to reach the bar in Departures were complaining noisily about the queue. Teenagers attempting not to look as if they were with their parents were plugged into their headphones and lost in a world of music. An overly loved-up couple, possibly on their honeymoon, were passing the time with their arms wrapped around each other, locked in an emotional embrace. Which wouldn’t have been so bad if they hadn’t also been kissing. Noisily.
Rather like a couple of camels.
Oh well, each to his own. The corners of Rory’s mouth twitched as the pair pulled apart for a moment and the woman, gazing dreamily into the man’s eyes, murmured, ‘Wuv you.’
Oh God, don’t do it, don’t say it . . .
The man nuzzled her, nose to nose. ‘Wuv you too.’
Eurgh, he said it. And no one else in the queue had even noticed.
Then he realised he wasn’t the only one after all; at the very end of the check-in queue was a group of girls in their late twenties, one of whom was in a wheelchair. She had cropped wavy dark-red hair and plastic tubing across her face, mask-style, feeding her oxygen. She was chalk-pale beneath a scattering of freckles and there were violet shadows beneath her huge dark eyes, but she was watching the couple and trying hard not to laugh as well. The next moment, her gaze met Rory’s and they silently shared the comedy-gold moment that everyone else had been too distracted to witness.
She looked so unwell, so thin and frail, that Rory wondered if she were actually fit enough to travel. But she was there in the queue, so she must be. And despite the obvious fragility, she was evidently still capable of retaining her sense of fun. As the couple ahead of her in the queue exchanged another noisy kiss – mwahhh! – the girl discreetly mouthed the words Wuv you and mimed sticking her thin fingers down her throat.
Wuv you too, Rory mouthed back, and she started to laugh, provoking a helpless coughing fit.
One of the officials from the airline approached the girl with a clipboard. ‘Hello, you don’t need to queue here! If you’d like to come with me, we can fast-track you through.’
‘Really? Fantastic.’ The girl’s friend swivelled the chair round and detoured out of the snaking line, to the considerable annoyance of a group of people halfway along the queue.
‘Hey, hold on! Just ’cos she’s in a wheelchair, how come she gets better treatment than we do? We’ve been stuck here waiting for half an hour . . .’
The girl coughed, looked at them and said with a half-smile, ‘I know, it’s so unfair. I’m just lucky, I guess.’
What a bunch of imbeciles. They carried on whingeing and complaining as the girl was whisked up to the desk. When she lifted herself briefly out of the wheelchair in order to disentangle the strap on her shoulder bag from the plastic oxygen tubing, they howled with fresh outrage because she wasn’t completely paralysed and could stand up.
‘She’d better not be on our flight,’ snorted one of the angry family. ‘I saw someone who looked like that on one of those hospital programmes the other week. Turned out they had Aids.’
Jesus.
‘Look, and now she’s got someone pushing her along, taking her up to Departures in a lift. She’s probably only pretending to be ill for the special treatment.’
Rory marvelled at the morons’ staggering lack of empathy. He had no idea what was wrong with the girl, but she was clearly very unwell. Imagine feeling that ill and having to deal with the ignorance of people like that.
Maybe he’d stop for a chat with her if they happened to bump into each other again.
Meanwhile, here came Den and Ehjaz now . . .
The others were so thrilled to be here at the airport, about to fly to Paris for three days to celebrate Bea’s birthday. Hallie had been looking forward to it too; having made the decision to go, she’d found herself getting more and more excited about the prospect. Their rooms in Montmartre were all booked, she’d pored over the website for so long she practically knew every inch of the hotel off by heart, and people had recommended all sorts of brilliant restaurants to visit and fantastic places to go. Tomorrow they were taking a trip down the Seine on a Bateau Mouche . . .
Everything had seemed to be going so well. For the last week, praying that she’d be OK for the trip, Hallie had actually felt fine, if anything a bit better than usual.
Until this morning, when she’d woken up feeling just that bit less well and, deep down, had recognised the early symptoms and realised she was harbouring the beginnings of yet another infection. Whether her immune system would be up to the task of fighting it off was another matter.
Maybe in her heart she’d known the truth, but desperation had led her to deny it. Like waking up in the night feeling sick and trying hard to go back to sleep in the hope that the nausea might somehow magically disappear, Hallie had resolutely ignored the signs.
But that had been five hours ago, and the infection evidently had no intention of going anywhere. Rather than fighting it off, her hopeless, feeble body appeared to be surrendering completely. She was feeling shivery and weak all over, the backs of her eyes hurt and her chest was already tightening in that oh-so-familiar way.
In the confines of the disabled cubicle in the ladies’ loo, Hallie took the thermometer out of her medical bag, uncapped it and put it under her tongue. She already knew she was running a temperature. At a guess, 38.5°C.
OK, and take a look . . .
Damn, 39.2°C.
She took out her mobile, called the surgery and asked Mary on reception to see if Luke could possibly come to the phone.
He knew what she was doing today, obviously. Within twenty seconds she heard his voice.
‘Hallie. What is it?’
‘I’m at the airport. Feeling pretty rough. Just took my temp and it’s thirty nine point two.’
A pause at the other end, then: ‘Well, you can ask to be seen by a first-aider, but I think you already know the answer.’
‘Yes.’ There was no point getting upset and all why-me? about it. She wasn’t fit to travel, and even if she made it to Paris, she wouldn’t be well enough to enjoy the trip.
‘I’m sorry.’ Luke’s tone was compassionate.
‘I know. Me too.’ Such a waste of anticipation; all that looking forward to something that was no longer going to happen.
‘Have you told the others yet?’
‘No.’ Hallie coughed weakly. ‘Nor my mum. Oh God, I’m going to be messing up her plans too.’ Her mother, taking advantage of her absence, had booked a weekend away in Edinburgh. Which she would cancel in a heartbeat, naturally, but it all contributed to Hallie’s feelings of guilt. Her poor mum had little enough free time as it was.
Luke, who knew this too, said,
‘Look, don’t call Fay yet. Let’s see if we can work something out. I may be able to help.’
‘OK. Thanks. I’ll tell the girls now.’
Emerging from the disabled loo, she made her way back through Departures to the champagne bar, where Bea and the others were starting as they meant to go on.
‘Here she is! You’ve been ages. Come on, catch up, get this down you.’ Bea held out a brimming fizzing glass.
‘I’m so sorry, I have an infection.’ Hallie’s voice cracked; how she hated always having to be the bearer of bad news. ‘You’re going to have to have a brilliant time without me. I can’t fly.’
Oh well, at least the extortionate travel insurance meant she wouldn’t miss out financially too. Apart from the extortionate taxi back to Carranford, obviously. Once she’d been seen by the airport first-aider, who confirmed that she wasn’t fit to travel, Hallie completed the necessary paperwork and let the airline staff take her and her belongings along the covered walkway to the taxi office.
As they waited for the next cab to become available, Hallie’s phone rang. Answering it, she assumed a cheerful holiday voice. ‘Hi, Mum! Everything OK?’
‘Just wondering how it’s all going, darling. Checking you haven’t forgotten anything. Not that there’s much you can do about it now if you have!’
Hallie’s heart went out to her mum, who had worried about her her whole life. As any parent would, obviously, under their particular circumstances. But when it was just the two of them, Fay and Hallie Kingsley against the world, maybe the worry was that much more intense.
Luke was right: she couldn’t let her mother cancel her own plans for a weekend away from Carranford. More than anyone, she deserved a break.
‘I have everything I need. We’ve all had a glass of champagne.’ Well, she’d forced herself to take a couple of sips. ‘And they’ve just called our flight, so we’ll be getting on the plane any minute. I’ve got priority boarding!’ Chirpily she added, ‘Because I’m extra special!’
‘Of course you are. Have a fantastic time, sweetheart.’
‘We will. What time are you leaving for Edinburgh?’
‘Not until six. Pete can’t get away before then.’
Six? Bugger. Hallie looked up at the ticking clock on the wall. Subterfuge wasn’t so much fun when you were shivery and feverish and it was still only two o’clock. But her mum had been so looking forward to this weekend away with Pete, her boyfriend; nothing must be allowed to spoil it.
Aloud she said, ‘Ooh, better go, they’re calling for me to board. I’ll see you on Sunday night, OK? Have fun!’
Chapter 15
It was fine, Luke told himself. It was completely fine and there was no need whatsoever to feel guilty. He wasn’t doing anything wrong. Hallie was a friend. She currently happened to be a friend in need, and all he was doing was offering to help her out.
The fact that she was also his patient was entirely irrelevant. It wasn’t as if anything untoward was going to happen.
He left the surgery at three and drove back to the cottage he’d been renting on the edge of the village since moving to Carranford. Hallie had texted to let him know she was twenty minutes away. Panicking slightly, he’d pictured the place through her eyes. Not having been expecting a visitor, he needed to do a speedy tidy-up. He unlocked the front door, gazed wildly around and headed for the kitchen. Right, OK, go.
For fifteen minutes he worked like lightning. Stuff was shoved back into cupboards and windows were flung open to dispel the lingering smell of last night’s fish and chips. Not wanting to irritate Hallie’s lungs, he didn’t risk spraying air freshener but splashed a bit of his best aftershave on to the curtains instead. Magazines were collected up and cleared away, coffee mugs and a couple of plates were thrown into the sink, and in the living room the cushions he never bothered with were retrieved from behind the sofa and placed at jaunty angles next to each arm. No time to vacuum, but he picked a few crumbs off the carpet and did a bit of emergency dusting with a J Cloth. Gym clothes and trainers were stuffed into his sports bag and hidden in the utility room. The empty tube of paprika Pringles he’d finished last night went into the bin. God, preparing the place for unexpected guests was exhausting.
Just as he was finishing, he heard the sound of tyres on gravel and looked out of the window – great, a bird had left its calling card all the way down the glass – to see the airport cab pulling up outside.
Hallie was here.
He went outside to greet her. She was looking pale, feverish and exhausted.
‘Thanks so much. Sorry to be a pain. I feel like a right Nellie No-Mates.’ Hallie coughed into a tissue and managed a weak smile.
‘Hey, no problem, happy to help.’ He lifted her wheelchair out of the cab, followed by the boxes of equipment and her suitcase. ‘And you do have mates. They just all happen to be in Paris for the next three days.’
‘But you stepped up. Like a complete star. And as soon as my mum’s left, I can go home.’
‘You don’t have to. You’re welcome to stay.’
‘I know. I hate to be a nuisance, though.’ She shrugged and coughed again. ‘You don’t want your weekend messed up too.’
Luke shook his head. ‘Come on, let’s get you inside for now. You’re not well. We can argue about the rest later.’
He carried everything into the cottage, closed the windows, settled Hallie on the cushion-strewn sofa and fixed up the oxygen feed. She administered her next dose of IV medication via the portacath in her chest.
‘Now, what can I get you? Coffee? Tea? Anything to eat?’
‘Actually, don’t worry. I’m feeling a bit wiped out. All that pretending to be well earlier . . . it’s pretty exhausting.’ She half smiled. ‘Whatever it is you’re cooking, by the way, I think it’s done.’
‘What? Oh God . . .’ In his desperation to cover up the fish-and-chip smell, he’d switched the oven up high and thrown in a slice of bread because an estate agent had once recommended it for giving potential properties that fresh-baked air of homeliness.
In the kitchen, he discovered that the bread was now charcoal. Feeling like a complete idiot, he flung open the windows once more and energetically dispersed the billowing clouds of smoke with a tea towel.
By the time he’d finished fumigating the kitchen, making tea, unwrapping a cake from the village store – because he wasn’t Superman – and carrying everything through to the living room – Hallie was fast asleep.
He paused in the doorway, holding the tray in front of him. She was lying on her side on the faded red sofa, her breathing shallow but regular. The nasal specs were in place, boosting her oxygen intake by a couple of litres a minute. If she needed it, she could switch to the portable non-invasive ventilator he’d unpacked and left on the table beside her.
But for now he’d leave her in peace, to sleep and regain some energy.
She looked beautiful, with her cheek resting on her hand and her other arm dangling over the edge of the sofa. Those dark lashes covered the shadows beneath her eyes, and her delicate bone structure was accentuated by the glow of the fringed table lamp behind her. She was wearing a navy jersey top and skirt, navy tights and a deep purple wraparound cardigan-type thing. She’d taken off her boots. Were her feet cold? Her circulation wasn’t good . . .
And look at me, standing here in the doorway like Mrs Overall. Luke glanced down at the tray in his hands, turned around and took it back to the kitchen. He would get on with some paperwork in the office, leave Hallie to sleep for now and check up on her in an hour.
At nine o’clock, she was still sound asleep. Luke had checked on her regularly, in between catching up on admin, cooking a roast dinner and watching a mind-boggling documentary on the tiny kitchen TV about extreme cosmetic surgery in Beverly Hills. God, some people were weird. The pain they chose to put themselves through. One woman was undergoing her seventh procedure in order to correct her slightly asymmetric toes.
The chicken was rest
ing and was ready to be carved, gravy made, vegetables keeping warm in the oven. He returned to the living room and saw Hallie’s lashes flicker as the door creaked open.
It wasn’t wrong, was it, to have her staying here?
But the flicker of guilt was still there, because no matter that he would never dream of acting on his feelings for her, they still existed. And if she weren’t his patient, if they were simply two friends who lived in the same village and enjoyed each other’s company . . . well, then of course at some stage he would let her know how he felt.
Luke felt his stomach muscles tighten at the thought of it. Whether Hallie would ever be interested in him in return was quite another matter, but since it was never going to happen anyway, it was irrelevant.
He was a GP and Hallie Kingsley was his patient. Apart from a single visit to his colleague Jennifer for a gynae concern, since his arrival in Carranford she’d always been seen by him. Furthermore, he knew from her mother how relieved Hallie was to no longer have to cope with Jennifer’s brusque attitude. His partner in the practice might be an excellent doctor, but her manner was unfortunate.
Anyway, that was the situation and nothing was going to change it. Luke exhaled. For the sake of all involved, he’d learned to keep his emotions absolutely in check. She would never know how much she—
‘What time is it?’ Hallie’s dark eyes were open and she was blinking, getting her bearings.
‘Nine.’
‘Wow. I was tired.’ She flexed her shoulders and sat up. ‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t be sorry. You needed the rest. How are you feeling now?’
‘Bit better.’ She smiled. ‘Hungry.’
‘Excellent. I have food.’
‘I know, I can tell. My amazing super-powers tell me it’s roast chicken.’
He shrugged modestly. ‘My signature dish.’
‘Really?’ Her gaze was innocent. ‘I thought your signature dish was charcoal toast.’
Wow, Luke did actually know how to cook. By eleven o’clock, Hallie was finishing her second plateful of food.
