'So people keep telling me,' I say grimly. I lie back on my beloved pillows for a while.
Lizzie natters inanely about this and that and I let her mindless chatter wash over me while I slowly wake up.
'Have you called Ben?'
'I spoke to him last night and this morning. He's coming over in his lunch break.'
'Good!' I exclaim enthusiastically, looking at my mother out of the corner of my eye. See? He does care. 'Have things improved at all with Alastair?'
Lizzie shakes her head slightly. 'No,' she says shortly.
We sit in silence for a second. Lizzie obviously isn't up to going into the whole Alastair debacle with my parents present.
'Have you seen the paper? I brought it down with me,' she says.
'Yeah, I've seen it, thanks.'
'So, IS there anything going on, Hol?'
'What do you mean?'
'Well, you know. Between you and the detective. There is no other topic of conversation in the office!'
There. Is. Nothing. Going. On. Between. Us,' I say angrily. 'You out of everybody must know that, Lizzie. Did you put her up to this?' I direct my last comment at my mother who is idly looking at her nails. My father has bought the
Guardian
and is rather sensibly hiding behind it.
My mother looks offended. 'Of course I didn't, darling. It's not just me who thinks it. I was talking to the lady in the canteen and she said I gape at her while she is saying all this, speechless for a second.
'You talked to the lady in the canteen?'
'Well, not exactly. We got chatting and I said I was visiting my daughter and that you were a reporter, and then she said were you
the
reporter, and I rather proudly said yes you were. And then she said that she and the rest of the staff read the diary every day, to which I said thank you very much, although I'm not quite sure why I was thanking her. By the way, she said she wasn't quite sure about one of the skirts you were wearing the other day. The others thought …' My father lowers the newspaper, makes eye contact with me, sighs theatrically and then re-erects the paper.
'Get to the point,' I say, sensing one of my mother's diversionary tangents.
'All right, darling, don't get your gown in a twist, I'm just relating what was said. I can't help it if …'
'GET TO THE SODDING POINT!'
'Well, then she asked if there was any chance you and the detective would get together.'
Lizzie interjects. 'I've got ten pounds on it in my office pool since this morning. But, Holly, I don't want that to influence you in any—'
'You have an office pool? On what?'
'On you and James, of course.'
'HE. IS. GETTING. MARRIED. IN. A. WEEK'S. TIME.'
'Who's getting married?' asks a voice from the doorway.
'You are,' I say in a very weak voice, staring in horror at James. 'Hooray! Lizzie was, er, just asking, er, when the wedding is,' I add, carefully avoiding further eye contact with him while surreptitiously trying to glare at my mother and Lizzie. No mean feat, I can tell you. I'm practically cross-eyed with the effort. 'How's work? Got Christine all tied up?' I continue quickly before he can cross-examine me. I wonder if it's at all possible that I could regain unconsciousness and start this day again.
'Yes, all done.' He pauses. 'The boys had a whip-round and got you these.' From behind his back he brings out a huge bunch of lilies.
'Oh, how gorgeous!' I breathe joyously, smelling the powerful, heady scent of the flowers. I can almost feel the nudges passing between my mother and Lizzie. I pick out the card nestling between the stems. It reads: 'SORRY DICK KEEPS GIVING YOU BLACK EYES. LOOK FORWARD TO HAVING YOU BACK SOON.'
'How nice of them,' I say pointedly. 'Please say thanks to them, won't you?'
'And I got you these.' He pulls out his other arm and presents me with a big bunch of freesias. I am so delighted that for a second I am caught off my guard.
'My favourites!'
'I know, I remember you mentioning them,' he says quietly. For a second I feel perilously close to tears. 'Robin is with me!' James says brightly. 'She's parking the car.' My grief is quickly replaced by annoyance.
'Great!' I say, putting my hand to my forehead. I wonder if I'm menopausal? A little premature perhaps but it would explain the mood swings and the hot flushes.
Dr Kirkpatrick comes in. He smiles generally around.
'Everyone still here?' Unfortunately. Yes.
'Is it lunchtime already?'
'It certainly is. So, how are you feeling, Holly? Any better?' he asks, moving around the bed and doing the usual checks.
'I'm fine.' He wraps a black swathe around my arm to check my blood pressure and we wait while it electronically calibrates. Robin comes into the room and I wave from the solace of my bed.
'How are you feeling?' she asks. I bob my head about in an 'OK' mode. She stares a little at the fair doctor, which doesn't surprise me at all. He's very stare-able. Easy on the eye, as they say. He smiles at her. She smiles back. He smiles some more. The electronic monitor is beeping. Hello? Hello? Remember me? The patient? I pointedly clear my throat.
'Hmmm? Oh yes, sorry, Holly.' He turns his attention back to my blood pressure. 'You're fine. Give yourself a few hours before you leave. Now, do you need any painkillers?'
I look darkly around the roomful of people. That depends on what context he means … 'Not for my head,' I murmur.
'If I don't see you before you go, try to take it easy over the next couple of days and I have no doubt that I'll see you soon.'
He smiles at Robin. 'Nice to meet you,' he says to her, before turning on his heel and leaving.
Robin stares after him. 'Blimey Holly! You get all the luck!' Yes. Don't I just? She looks back at me. 'He's divine!'
I smile. 'He is, isn't he? And you should see him when …'
'All right, all right, I don't think you and Robin need to drool quite so blatantly over the doctor. Besides, we can't stay long, we need to get back. Holly, your boyfriend is here,' snaps James and gestures his head towards the door, obviously jealous that Robin likes the beautiful doctor. He does lead a complicated life. I look over to where Ben's handsome silhouette is framed in the doorway.
'Ben!' I exclaim as he comes in, covering the distance between the doorway and the bed in three easy strides.
'Lizzie called last night, I've been so worried! I didn't come down though as she said there was no point.' He bends over and kisses me. 'How are you feeling?'
'Fine. Absolutely fine.' I make the appropriate introductions and Ben duly shakes everyone's hand. He then sits on the end of the bed.
'So how did it happen?'
I give lengthy explanations about the tree and now and again gesture to James, who is leaning against the far wall and still looking fairly bad-tempered. I am greatly relieved that Ben has put in an appearance. This may sway his critics a little.
'So how long are you in for?'
'They're letting me out today, thank God!'
He frowns. 'I've got a training session later but your folks could bring you home, couldn't they?'
'Sure, no problem.'
A nurse bustles in. She has a kindly, motherly face that is creased with life, and bright red hair peeps out from underneath her cap like flames framing her face. She gives a cheerful 'All right?' to everyone as a greeting. 'Bit crowded in here, isn't it? Why don't you all go off and get a cup of tea and let the patient have her lunch in peace? Come back in half an hour.' Glory hallelujah! Hurray for the health service! James, Robin and Ben all make their goodbyes while my parents and Lizzie head off towards the canteen.
'Are you all right, love? All those people are likely to give you a headache!'
I smile and lie back on my pillows gratefully. The nurse bustles around, straightening my covers and picking up a stray pillow which has fallen on the floor.
'You're the reporter, aren't you? The Dick Tracy girl?'
'Yes. Yes, I am.'
'I was on yesterday when they brought you in. That detective of yours was in a right state.' I involuntarily stiffen under the covers. Here we go. This woman is obviously a mole planted by my mother. 'He was barely registering anything at all. After we got you settled in, I said to him, I said, "Jack! You look just like your photos!" and he stared at me as if I were mad!'
. I relax a little. Of course James would look at her as though she were mad. He wasn't in a 'right state'; he had just forgotten that his stage name was Jack.
'So which one is your boyfriend?' she continues chattily.
At last, someone who sees sense. Someone who understands that just because I write about a person doesn't mean we're engrossed in a passionate affair.
I grin at her, pleased at her question. 'The really tall blond one. He's a rugby player for Bristol.'
'Is he? He looks lovely.'
'Yes, yes, he is,' I say staunchly.
'You must love him an awful lot.'
'Yes, I …' I stop suddenly and frown. 'Why do you say that?'
She looks over at me. 'Because you were calling out all night for him. Ooh yes, all through the night. Getting yourself in a right little state, you were. I sat with you for a while until you quietened down but an hour later you started up again.'
'I'm sorry,' I say contritely.
'No problem, love. It's what I'm here for; besides, it did my heart good to hear it.'
I really wish Lizzie and my mother could be here to witness all this. It would prove there is nothing in that silly notion of theirs … A nasty little thought occurs to me. I firmly squash it but a second later it comes wriggling back. My palms become sweaty and I just don't know how to ask this lady what I need to know.
'Was I using his name or his nickname?' I say lightly. 'Just so I can tease him later.'
'His name, love. Definitely his name.' There is a pause. 'James doesn't sound like much of a nickname, now does it?'
I
stare down at the lunch tray she has left me, trying to grab hold of one of the thoughts that are rushing through my mind. James. I was saying James' name. So what? He had just knocked me on the head;
obviously
I was thinking about him. Right. Yes, that must be it. I mean, he must have been one of the last people I saw before I was knocked out. It is only natural I was calling his name. It was probably in a 'James, you complete git' sort of way.
I pick up my fork determinedly and look at the potato salad. It is on one of those little plastic trays that you have your meal out of on aeroplanes. I prod the ham. But what was it the nurse said? 'It warmed my heart' or something. I gulp. She also mentioned how much I must love him. I drop my plastic fork, fall back on to my pillows and feel a slow blush coming right up from my toes. Oh turnips. What if he had been there, at my bedside, at that point? What if he had heard me?
And how
do
I feel about him? Really feel? I think intently for a second about the past few weeks together. Of his face, his eyes, his smile. And then I think about his wedding, and of Fleur. And I know. The force of it hits me squarely between the eyes. I can't bear to even think about his wedding. I know that I love him.
My bottom lip starts to tremble a little. How on earth could this have happened? Another awful thought occurs to me. My God, it must be
so
obvious. My bottom lip is starting a lively new dance step now. Everyone, EVERYONE has picked up on the fact that something might be going on between us. My mother, Lizzie, Mrs Murdoch from the village – even the hospital canteen lady. And how? BECAUSE I WROTE ABOUT IT, THAT'S HOW. Not him, me. Not his testimony to how he feels about me but mine to him. And simply because my feelings were transparently there, down in black and white for all to see, people have naturally presumed he may be romantically inclined that way too. Because I have gleefully related over the last couple of weeks the instances when we have been able to have a conversation without snarling at each other, which let's face it has been quite a progression, people have presumed there is 'something going on'. How embarrassing.
How I wish there was.
I clamp my hand over my mouth. How could I think that? How could I? When Fleur has been so nice to me?
The blood is burning my face now and tears fill my eyes. I feel like disappearing under my bed covers and not coming out until, ooh, shall we say Christmas? Do you think the hospital would notice if they lost a patient? Surely it happens all the time? I look wildly round the room; where is the oxygen kept? Better still, where's that gas they give expectant mothers?
Seeing the room is sadly empty of mind-numbing drugs, I resort to chewing my fingernails instead, which is something I haven't done for a good ten years. I concentrate on not crying because I know that once I start I won't be able to stop. I try to think of non-passionate things. The Euro. The local by-elections. But my mind drags itself back to James Sabine.
My diaries must have practically been love letters for people to jump to these conclusions. Everyone is laughing at me. They must all be saying 'There goes that reporter, the one with the thumping great crush on the detective who is getting married in a week's time'. And although that alone is awful enough to contemplate, there is also James. James, who is getting married
in a week's time
. To Fleur. I repeat those words again, trying to get them firmly lodged into my consciousness. And it becomes obvious to me that I have been deliberately avoiding thinking about his wedding. In a slow, tortuous fashion I play a video to myself of their wedding day – of Fleur walking down the aisle, looking beautiful in cream lace, James waiting for her at the altar – and I force myself to look at it. I'm going to lose him. Lose him as soon as I have found him.
Now I really am going to cry. A lone tear rolls down my cheek. That's fine, I tell myself. Just limit it to that. No hysterical weeping.
Maybe this isn't love, I think hopefully. Maybe this is just some sort of crush, an infatuation. Let's face it, he's a good-looking bloke and I have been practically locked up with him for the last few weeks. Don't they say kidnapped girls sometimes fall in love with their kidnappers? Don't they? Well, maybe it's something like that. Absolutely, that must be it …