Back After the Break

by Anita Notaro

  Lindsay turned away, feeling the familiar feelings rush in, but not before she’d seen the shock on her mother’s face. For a second, she wanted to collapse into those strong arms, but she wasn’t used to it and it didn’t come easy at this stage in her life – odd really, when you considered her other close relationships. Instead she turned back towards the older woman. ‘Anyway, it’s over and I’m getting on with my life and I feel quite good about things at the moment.’

  ‘I’m sorry, it must have been hard, I wish you’d told me sooner.’

  ‘You’re always busy.’ It was said matter-of-factly, no blame attached.

  ‘I’m always here if you need me.’

  ‘OK thanks.’ She saw the look of sorrow on her mother’s face and knew it was genuine. She suspected neither of them knew what to say next.

  They had a cup of tea and Lindsay made some small talk and left. Later she thought about their conversation and felt a bit down, knowing they needed to talk a lot more about a lot of things.

  Tuesday morning was the weekly meeting and it was fiery. The ratings had just come in and the show was down on the previous week. They had started on a high and held their viewers until after the Page Three girl, but lost out to a rival chat show after ten-fifteen.

  Tom Watts wasn’t shy about where the blame lay.

  ‘We’re all becoming too complacent. I don’t want anyone else on the show pushing a book.’

  Alan steered the discussion around to the last two programmes before Christmas. It had been agreed to keep the last show light, full of bits ‘n’ pieces – competitions, music, celebrity presents, etc. Lindsay thought this was a mistake, because it was precisely what every other daytime show would be doing that week. She felt the audience would want a more meaty show and said so.

  Tom Watts shot her down immediately. ‘Anyone at home on the Saturday before Christmas wants to be entertained, not depressed by debates on abortion or suicide.’

  ‘It doesn’t have to be either Christmas presents or suicide. I think there’s a fairly large middle ground.’ Lindsay was not about to be intimidated. A couple of the researchers agreed, although all admitted that finding celebrities willing to travel so close to the holiday period was a problem.

  They tossed the ideas round for an hour and agreed to have a further meeting later in the week. Meanwhile this week’s show needed attention, if the ratings problem was to be addressed. They all set to work.

  On Wednesday morning Lindsay got a text from Chris.

  SORRY, WILL B IN LONDON TILL THURS. C U AT W/END?

  It took her a few moments to realize how much she’d been looking forward to seeing him. She went ahead with her hair appointment just to convince herself it wasn’t for him.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  ON WEDNESDAY EVENING, Lindsay didn’t feel great and by Thursday she had all the symptoms of flu. She woke with a terrible headache and a temperature, feeling as if she had been put through a mangle. Even getting out of bed was a struggle. She swallowed some tablets and sat in the kitchen, shivering in spite of the warmth.

  Maybe a shower would improve things, she thought wearily, then suddenly realized that she couldn’t do it. Her body felt heavy, yet had the consistency of a bowl of jelly and she knew she’d have to go back to bed, feeling guilty as she always did when she got sick, as if it was her fault, somehow.

  She rang the office and spoke to Alan Morland, who was working although it was barely eight-fifteen. He assured her that they’d survive without her.

  She made a warm lemon drink, filled two hot-water bottles and crawled back to bed. She slept on and off all day, got up for an hour or two and made some soup, then tossed and turned all night.

  Friday morning was the same, except today her legs wouldn’t support her. She rang her local doctor’s surgery. They were inundated with patients, mostly with the same symptoms. Could she come in? ‘No, I feel too weak.’ Best they could offer was a visit from a locum who would give her a prescription for antibiotics. She accepted.

  She struggled downstairs for tea and toast but couldn’t taste either, so she crawled back to bed for the second morning, deciding to ring Tara and moan.

  ‘What will I do about Chris? I’m supposed to be going to his house tonight and I look like a witch!’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, call him and put it off. I’ll ring Debbie and one or both of us will be round after work. Meantime, do you need anything?’

  ‘Arsenic would be good.’

  ‘Stop feeling sorry for yourself, you’ll survive. It usually takes three days to hit, then three days when you feel like dying then three days to go.’

  ‘In that case I should be OK by January. Thanks, I really needed to hear that.’

  Tara laughed. ‘I’d forgotten what a grumpy old cow you are when you’re sick. Tuck yourself in and I’ll see you later.’

  Lindsay couldn’t sleep. She didn’t want to phone Chris because she felt so awful. Texting was the only option.

  I’VE GOT FLU. WON’T MAKE IT 2NITE. REALLY SORRY.

  She got a reply an hour later.

  I’M IN PARIS. WON’T GET HOME 2NITE. WAS JUST ABOUT 2 TEXT U. SORRY UR SICK. SPEAK 2 U 2MORO. XX

  She was disappointed and relieved. One look at her blotchy skin, greasy hair and goose pimples should see him off in record time, yet she wished he would just call in and give her a hug. She dozed on and off and rang her mother.

  ‘Oh dear, I am sorry. I’m just off to play golf. Will I get Anne to drop by?’

  Thanks a million.

  ‘No, I’m OK, don’t worry.’ She clearly wasn’t worried in the slightest.

  Anne rang. ‘Are you OK? Want some company?’

  ‘No thanks, but I may need someone to get a prescription later. Meantime, I think I just need to sleep it off.’

  ‘No problem, just call when the doc’s been. I’ll be round in a flash.’

  The afternoon dragged by and she couldn’t even watch TV. Her eyes hurt. Her bottom was sore. Every single bit of her had something wrong with it. The doctor was in and gone within five minutes, no sympathy, which didn’t help. The girls arrived at seven with flowers and Lucozade and grapes and a bottle of whiskey ‘for medicinal purposes only’.

  ‘God, you look awful. Be very glad Chris is not in the country.’

  ‘Thanks, I really needed that.’

  ‘I’ll make some soup,’ Tara said kindly.

  ‘No, please, I can’t face any more soup.’

  Anne dropped in briefly to collect the prescription. ‘God, you look awful.’

  ‘Go to hell and take Debbie with you.’

  Her sister left, grinning sheepishly, promising to drop the tablets through the letter box on her way home from the late-night pharmacy, after another round of shopping.

  ‘Let’s order in Chinese,’ Debbie grinned, ignoring the jibe. Lindsay wanted to throw up.

  They eventually settled on pizza – again, vile smells forgotten. Lindsay sat in her dressing gown beside a roaring fire and shivered as she nursed a hot lemon drink.

  Charlie glued himself to her feet, sensing her unhappiness. Tara had been out with Michael again, this time for dinner and he’d dropped her home.

  ‘Yes?’ Debbie was all ears.

  ‘Nothing happened, although he did kiss me good night.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘That’s all.’

  ‘Good kisser, bad kisser?’

  ‘Very good kisser.’

  ‘Whoopee, I see bridesmaids’ dresses.’

  They all laughed, even though it hurt Lindsay. By ten o’clock she was exhausted and they trooped into her bedroom where they watched a movie, all three of them curled up in bed with Charlie on their feet. It reminded Lindsay of the last night they’d stayed with her, after she’d bumped into Paul. They were still laughing as they tucked her up and left, promising to check-in in the morning. She slept for a couple of hours but woke early, feeling dehydrated, her skin even blotchier, if that were possible.

>   Even the girls couldn’t cheer her up and she refused all offers of help.

  She got another text at lunchtime.

  ON MY WAY 2 MANILA! PROBABLY NOT BACK 4 A WEEK. R U OK?

  She didn’t even trust herself to reply, she felt so full of self-pity.

  Luckily, she slept most of the day. Alan rang to check on her progress and left a message reminding her that she was invited to Christmas dinner the following night at Tom’s house.

  She rang him back late that afternoon, but got his answering machine.

  ‘Alan, it’s Lindsay. I’m still the same. Sorry but I won’t make dinner tomorrow. I’ll talk to you on Monday.’

  The truth was, she felt she wasn’t really entitled to be at the dinner but suddenly it only added to her misery. Besides, she would have loved to see where Tom Watts lived. She decided to sleep for another while then get up and watch the show. She woke at midnight, and then burst into tears because she’d missed the entire programme.

  Another text message.

  JUST ARRIVED. GORGEOUS WEATHER. GOING 4 SWIM LATER. R U FEELING ANY BETTER?

  Her reply was brief.

  I’M OK. STILL IN BED. TALK SOON.

  Her phone rang.

  ‘Hi Rudolph.’

  ‘That’s not even remotely funny. Besides it doesn’t adequately convey to you that besides my gorgeous red nose I have the cutest blotchy, pasty face and particularly attractive hair that you could fry an egg on.’

  ‘Just as well I’m in the Philippines, so. I suppose sex is out of the question?’

  She burst out laughing.

  They chatted for ages. It turned out he was following up an international drugs scandal that appeared to have its roots in Manila, so he expected to be there for a while.

  Lindsay felt a bit better having talked to him. She abandoned what was left of the night and went back to sleep.

  Her sister did some shopping the following day and the girls arrived with more fruit and magazines. It was Tuesday before Lindsay even began to feel normal enough to phone the office. Alan insisted she stay at home for the rest of the week: she suspected he just didn’t want anyone else infected and she was not really essential to the production yet.

  ‘No point in giving us your germs for Christmas.’

  ‘Thanks, it’s nice to feel needed.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I intend to work you to death in the New Year. Get all the rest you can.’

  Suddenly, it was Christmas Eve. Lindsay still hadn’t got her energy back, despite gallons of juice and masses of fresh food. She knew Chris had hoped to get home the previous night but hadn’t heard from him.

  She had lunch in town with the girls before they all departed, Tara to her parents in their lavish country home in Wicklow and Debbie to her mum and brothers by the sea near Wexford, further down the east coast. They exchanged presents and drank hot chocolate. To their surprise, Tara had invited Michael Russell to spend Christmas with them and he’d accepted.

  ‘Well, he doesn’t have any plans.’

  They teased her mercilessly but they were secretly chuffed. Lindsay felt a bit lonely, thinking of how close her friend was to someone she’d met only a few weeks ago.

  She’d hardly seen Chris.

  After lunch she got her hair blow-dried, packed a bag, gathered her presents and Charlie and headed for her family home. Just as she was leaving she got a text.

  WHERE R U? HOPING 2 C U B4 I GO HOME.

  ON MY WAY 2 MUM’S. CALL ME IF U CAN.

  CAN I CALL ROUND ON MY WAY?

  I’D LIKE THAT.

  She gave him the address and headed off, happier than she had been earlier. She’d missed him, she realized suddenly. It had felt odd seeing him one night on the main news bulletin, via satellite phone. He looked tanned and healthy, his blue eyes intensified by the background of the bright sky and she’d felt a bit lonely for him, which was stupid as she barely knew him. He’d been away for nearly two weeks.

  She felt the familiar little-girl feelings she always experienced as she drove up the driveway of her family home. It looked great, a large double-fronted Edwardian house with imposing bay windows and beautiful grounds. Her parents had bought it for a song more than thirty years ago. They’d renovated it completely over the years and when her father died Miriam Davidson had thought about selling up and moving to an apartment, but thankfully decided against it. Lindsay loved this house, especially in winter with the vanilla-pod scent of jasmine and winter box and the magnificent variegated holly guarding the entrance.

  As usual the Christmas tree was in the front window and the hall door was weighed down with an oversized crown of greenery. She missed her father very much at this time of year. Lindsay’s mum was busy in the kitchen and greeted her enthusiastically.

  ‘Can you light the candles on the mantelpiece in the drawing room? It’s almost dark.’

  ‘Sure, just let me dump my bags and Charlie. By the way, a friend of mine is calling in for a drink on his way home.’

  ‘Fine, Anne and the gang will be here soon and I’ve got a couple of my golfing chums popping in.’

  ‘Will I do my usual job on the fireplace?’

  ‘I don’t think I could stop you.’

  Lindsay laughed and set to work, raiding the huge bowl of satsumas and studding a dozen or so with cloves, which she then placed on the mantelpiece in the big room. She could still remember seeing an American family on TV do it when she was about five years old and the tradition had stuck in the Davidson household, although Miriam felt it looked cheap and home-made. Lindsay loved the smell of the oranges and cloves that seemed to intensify with the heat of the blazing fire. She searched for her tiny little bottle of oil of orange, which her father had bought for her and which she’d kept hidden for years on the window sill behind the drapes, sprinkling it carefully over the log basket as she always did, enjoying the fact that nobody could work out how the smell became almost overpowering when a log was thrown on the fire. She’d giggled every year with her father over this, it became one of their many secrets. Now she laughed as Charlie settled himself in for a long, cosy evening, licking her hand to let her know that her secret was safe with him. The room looked perfect, yet somehow Lindsay had never really liked it. It had been furnished by an interior designer years ago and Lindsay had waited to be asked to re-do it when she took up her design job but the invitation never came. The room had everything yet lacked warmth and atmosphere, although Lindsay knew that the huge tree, glowing fire and candles (bought by her because Miriam thought them too messy) showed the room off to perfection. She ran upstairs and fixed her make-up. She was wearing her favourite black leather trousers with a tight black sweater, the severity of the look softened by a huge studded cross which nestled somewhere in her cleavage and gorgeous earrings, a last present from Paul. Her hair was wavy and shiny and she felt good, partly because she’d lost over half a stone during her illness.

  The doorbell rang: her mother’s friends who thankfully adjourned to the kitchen. Lindsay felt herself getting excited at the idea of seeing Chris again and by the time the bell chimed a second time she had to stop herself dashing to open it. Unfortunately, her nonchalant approach meant her mother got there first.

  ‘Hello.’ Lindsay could sense immediate interest.

  ‘Hello, I’m Chris.’ He held out his hand.

  ‘Hi.’ Lindsay lunged forward, almost tripping in her eagerness.

  ‘Hi, how are you?’ That smile again.

  ‘Come in, please. I’m Miriam.’

  Lindsay could hear her mother’s brain ticking over. Please don’t let him know how grateful you are for his interest in your spinster daughter, Lindsay pleaded silently, fixing her mother with what she hoped was a ‘back off’ stare. So intent was she that she didn’t see Chris lean over to kiss her – on the lips – which sent her stomach crashing and her mother’s antennae soaring.

  He grinned at her discomfort as all three of them entered the drawing room.

  ‘Now, woul
d you like a glass of champagne?’

  Oh oh, he’s getting the full treatment, Lindsay thought maliciously, wishing her mother would just leave them alone.

  ‘Actually, a beer would be fine, if you have one.’

  ‘Lindsay?’

  ‘I’d love a glass but don’t worry, Mum, I’ll organize it. You go back to your friends.’ Lindsay headed for the kitchen with her mother’s sleeve firmly in her hand.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me HE was coming?’

  ‘You know him?’ Lindsay was amazed, her mother had no interest in television.

  ‘Not exactly, but I know he’s somebody. How long has he been your boyfriend?’

  ‘He’s just a friend.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Mum, back off.’

  You’re only interested because of who he is. Bet he makes up for me losing Paul, Lindsay wanted to say but held back. It was Christmas and anyway she was probably being a bit unfair. Her mother had always made her friends welcome, no matter who they were.

  Lindsay got the drinks, leaving her mother name-dropping, no doubt, and returned to Chris.

  ‘What’s the smell in this room? It’s great.’

  Lindsay laughed out loud and told him her secret recipe for creating Christmas.

  Charlie came in to check out the intruder and received a present for his trouble.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Open it, I bought it in Paris in a dog boutique. Can you believe it?’

  ‘A dog boutique, now I know you’re definitely mad.’

  It was a sun visor for dogs, in lurid lime green. The idea was that it was kept on with Velcro, behind the ears, and it came complete with a pair of sunglasses, clipped on to the visor. Lindsay couldn’t stop laughing as they tried it on. Charlie pranced around the room, trying to eat the glasses, a bit like trying to bite his tail. It was hilarious.

  ‘And these are for you and I promise they came from a slightly more tasteful shop.’

  Lindsay was mortified. ‘I didn’t get you anything, I didn’t expect to see you over the holidays. And I was sick,’ she added lamely.