Читать книгу Peony Place - Jules Wake - Страница 9

I checked my emails and my palms turned clammy. Twelve already and it was only ten past nine. I studied the busy receptionist and prayed that the doctor was running to time. I was going to be an hour late into work. If the festering wound on my arm from trimming Alice’s hedge hadn’t started leaking greenish stuff I probably would have cancelled today’s appointment.

I typed a couple of quick responses to my emails, although it was like a game of whack-a-mole. No sooner had I answered five, another six had popped up.

With a heavy sigh, out of habit rather than any real hope, I checked my text messages.

Nothing. The familiar lump in my throat rose. Not one text from Ashwin Laghari in over two weeks.

Whatever had happened with him had burned fast and furious and like a firework. It had clearly been a one-time-only deal but it still left this odd, hollow pain in my chest.

I reread, for what must have been the hundred millionth time, the last text he’d sent. What had made him change his mind?

Hadn’t that brief, sizzling connection meant anything to him? I’d shared with him a glimpse of my fears because I’d thought he understood. The rejection hit hard. I’d even cried again at work one day but that had probably had as much to do with realising I was going to miss the Ashdown report deadline. It was the one and only deadline I’d ever missed and it felt like a huge great blot on my career. And the more I worried about it, the more I struggled to meet the next deadline and the one after that. It was as if I was caught upside down in some whirlwind and I couldn’t right myself.

‘Let’s have a look then,’ said Dr Boulter with a kind smile.

I rolled up my sleeve to show him the gash – thanks, Alice’s hedge – which had not healed properly and had been looking decidedly manky for weeks and this morning had reached a whole new level of manky. Around the wound my skin was red and inflamed and had acquired a furnace-level heat. My whole forearm was now tender to the touch.

‘Ouch.’ With gentle gloved fingers he prodded my arm and a glistening gob of greenish yellow pus welled up and oozed from the jagged edges. I flinched.

‘This is nasty. How long has it been like that?’

‘Er… a couple of weeks,’ I admitted, shamefaced.

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Why haven’t you been to see me before now? You’ve got a nasty infection. This needs antibiotics.’

For some stupid reason, tears filled my eyes and I had to swallow back the lump that had, if I was honest, taken up permanent residence in my throat.

‘Claire?’

That was the problem when your GP was an old golf buddy of your dad’s and had known you from when you were in ankle socks. No, I certainly didn’t come to see him about women’s things, instead opting for one of the female doctors in the practice, but I did come for minor things like stupid, flipping scratches that refused to heal.

Ashwin Laghari – bugger his gorgeous, indifferent soul – had probably been right about the Savlon but in that glorious immediate-post-date haze I’d completely forgotten about applying antibiotic cream. Yeah, I was holding him personally responsible for my infected arm. The bastard.

‘Claire?’ Dr Boulter’s voice broke into my thoughts. Damn, he was being kind. I didn’t want kind. I wanted brusque and curt.

‘Claire?’ he asked again gently as I struggled to stem the rising flood of tears. Shit, this was embarrassing. But it was no good. They were on a roll, and I knew I’d lost it when the sob burst free.

Suddenly I was in floods of tears and I had no idea why, and he was handing over tissues from the box on his desk. Snuffly and snotty, I grabbed them like a life belt but as fast as I mopped up, a fresh burst of sobs thrust their way out

Finally I was able to stutter, ‘Oh God, I’m… I don’t know w-what’s w-wrong with m-me.’

He gave me a kind but stern look. ‘Want to tell me what’s going on?’

‘It’s… nothing. Just… ev-everything. Just a lot on at work. It’s quite full-on at the moment.’ I found myself taking the step off the cliff. ‘I’ve got this horrible feeling that something bad is going to happen all the time and I didn’t get much sleep last night.’

‘Last night?’

I pulled a face as I acknowledged the truth. ‘Well, actually, I haven’t slept properly for weeks. I’m just so tired.’ Since missing my deadline, my confidence seemed to have crumbled. My anxiety levels were through the roof and I didn’t seem to be able to get them under control. Making the slightest decision at work suddenly had me tied up in knots. It terrified me. I’d always known what to do.

‘Are you eating properly?’ He eyed my face and I knew he was taking in the dark shadows under my eyes and the gaunt hollows under my cheekbones.

The gallic shrug didn’t fool him.

Five minutes later, while I was still feeling light-headed from the aftermath of the emotional outburst, he weighed me, took my blood pressure, shone a light in my eyes and asked lots of searching questions, especially about work.

After releasing the cuff on my arm, he sat heavily in his chair and pulled the lid from his fountain pen, holding it poised over a white pad he’d pulled out from the top drawer of his desk.

‘I think you’re suffering from stress, Claire. Your blood pressure is 180/100.’

I shrugged. ‘Everyone gets stressed at work. It’s okay, I just need to catch up on some sleep.’

‘No, Claire.’ Now Dr Boulter was brusque and curt. ‘You need to take a complete break.’

I laughed defensively. ‘I can’t do that. I’ve got far too much to do.’

He studied me through narrowed eyes and then began writing on the pad. ‘I’m going to sign you off from work for a month and give you some medication to reduce your blood pressure.’

‘What? No. I’m… I’m not that stressed. I mean, I’m a bit on edge and over-tired.’

He sat back in his chair, lifted his chin and then pointed to the framed certificate on the wall. ‘Do you have one of those?’

‘No.’

‘Exactly, so please extend me the professional courtesy of knowing what I’m talking about. I wouldn’t presume to tell you how to do your job.’ His serious tones shocked me. I’d never heard him speak like that before.

I stared at him for a moment before finding the words and it was only fear that gave them a voice.

‘But a month? That’s a long time. I can’t be off for a month. Can’t I just have the medication for my blood pressure? I’ll try to take it a bit easier.’

Didn’t he understand that if I took a month off my career could be over? People at my level didn’t take time off for stress.

‘If I believed you for a minute, I might consider it. This has been a long time coming, Claire. The last time you came to see me, I gave you the benefit of the doubt because you said it had been a particularly busy month. I can’t overlook it again. You need to look at your whole lifestyle. Start eating properly. Taking more exercise. And in the short term taking some time away from work.’

‘But—’

He held up a hand. ‘If I said you had a broken leg and couldn’t walk on it for a month, what would you do?’

I stared mutinously at him.

‘Your mind needs a rest. The work will be still be there. In fact, you need to talk to your HR people about your workload. You’ve said yourself that the department is a person down. They need to sort that out.’

Well of course they did, but complaining about such things was below my paygrade. I was the capable, efficient one. People like me did not get signed off with stress.

Apparently I was wrong. They did. Starting with immediate effect.

Feeling as if I was having an out of body experience, I left the doctor’s surgery and went home via the post office, standing for a full five minutes in front of the post box before I finally committed the toxic sick note to its open mouth so that it could wing its way to the HR department. Then I had to make the embarrassing phone call to my boss, Alastair, during which I had to admit the shameful truth. Me, Claire Harrison, rising star, had been mown down by stress. It was all I could do not to cry down the phone. He was surprisingly sympathetic and actually said he’d been a little worried about me and to take as much time off as I felt I needed since I was a valued member of staff. A small part of me wanted to say, ‘so why the bloody hell haven’t you done more about recruiting the missing body,’ but it wasn’t the sort of thing you said to your boss, no matter how understanding he sounded.

And now I was left, swollen eyed and lost, wondering what on earth I was going to do with myself. I couldn’t even phone Mum and invite myself into one of her soothing hugs because she was presently bobbing on a large boat probably somewhere in the Atlantic. She and Dad had left Southampton over a week ago.

‘Claire?’ The voice made me lift my head. I realised I must have looked a right idiot standing in the middle of the street, my mobile in my hand, with a vacant expression on my face. ‘Claire? What are you doing?’

My sister peered suspiciously at me. ‘Shouldn’t you be at work? Greasing the wheels of industry and making sackfuls of money?’

‘I’ve been to the doctor.’ Already I felt as if I was skiving.

‘Oh God, you’re not ill, are you?’ She peered at my saggy, red eyes. ‘Is it serious?’

And once again, completely against my control, tears flowed like tea from a leaky teapot.

‘It’s not cancer, is it?’

How like Alice to immediately jump to the worst conclusion.

‘No. I’ve…’ I could hardly bring myself to say it. In fact, she was the last person I wanted to admit it to. Our relationship was such that she’d probably say it was karma or something but I didn’t have the wherewithal to lie; I felt too battered, as if I’d just been rescued from a shipwreck. All that crying, probably, and so I said it: ‘I’ve been signed off with stress.’

‘Oh,’ she said with a slight air of disappointment as if to say, is that all?. Then her eyes brightened with sudden beady avarice. ‘Do you want to go to The Friendly Bean for a coffee?’

Even as listless and drained as I felt, like the last lone piece of spaghetti abandoned in the pan, some small part of my brain thought, that’s odd. Her response was quite un-Alice-like but I allowed myself to be steered down the street and across the road into the park, perhaps because I didn’t know what else to do.

The Friendly Bean, though it was situated in the middle of Victoria Park, was the place to go in Churchstone. It was a funky café run by Sascha, a statuesque young woman with wild, thick blonde curls piled up on top of her head, secured by a succession of paisley scarves that changed with the seasons. The old Victorian pavilion was eclectically furnished with a mix of church pews, softened by plump velvet cushions, old-fashioned school desks, stools made from tractor seats which were more comfortable than they appeared, and worn sofas that welcomed you into their lumpy embrace. It was always teeming with customers. This morning was no exception but Alice made a beeline for an empty corner with a battered leather chesterfield armchair and a padded stool, plumping for the armchair and calling over her shoulder, ‘Mine’s a cappuccino.’

Having a clear purpose stirred me from my fug, with the quick observation that Alice had neatly manoeuvred me into paying. I should have realised that altruism had little to do with her quick invitation.

I handed her the coffee and sat down on the stool next to her, taking a grateful sip of my own Americano. The noise and bustle of The Friendly Bean with its yummy mummies and smattering of people working at laptops made me feel more grounded and a bit more normal, although a headache was digging in, its tight bands of pain circling my skull.

‘So. Signed off. Stress. How long for?’ Alice’s sharp interest was palpable as she studied me, her nose almost quivering like a squirrel’s.

I sighed, not quite believing it. Nothing seemed real at the moment. It was as if I were floating through fog. ‘A month.’ A whole month. What on earth was I going to do with myself? The thought of it was causing me more anxiety than going to work had been doing for the last… longer than a week, I realised, at last facing up to the truth. I’d had this about-to-step-off-a-cliff feeling for the last two… go on then, three months. In my usual overachieving way, I’d been successful at masking it.

‘A month. Will they pay you?’

‘I guess so.’ I hadn’t even thought about it. Sick pay wasn’t something I’d ever had to consider before.

‘Well that’s good. You can still enjoy yourself then.’

‘Mmm.’ I nodded while thinking, enjoy myself? Doing what?

‘So what are you going to do with yourself?’

Why did she have to ask that? My stomach knotted itself like crazy macramé. What indeed? But I’d only just walked out of the surgery; I think I was still in shock.

‘I know.’ She straightened as if the thought had just light-bulbed its way into her head, at which point I knew her invitation to coffee had had an agenda.

‘You can look after the girls and I can go to India.’ Her beam was brilliant, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm and delight. ‘That will give you something to do.’

Funny how Alice managed to make it sound as if she were doing me a huge favour.

‘I can, can I?’ I raised a sarcastic eyebrow feeling a little more like myself. This was so typical of Alice.

‘Yes. It’s perfect.’

I stared at her, noting the heightened colour on her cheeks as she clapped her hands together. ‘Serendipity. It was meant to happen.’

‘And how do you figure that?’ Sometimes I did think she was barking mad, although more often than not, she was just manipulative.

‘You being signed off at exactly the time I’m supposed to go to India. It’s karma. You’ve got to say yes, Claire. I’ll never get this chance again. Jon will let me have all my board and lodgings for free. And it’s only for a week, so you’ll still have three whole weeks of holiday. And the girls will love it. And I’ve always, always wanted to go to India. I might have to get you to lend me the money for the flight, though.’

‘Whoa, whoa!’ I held up my hand. ‘Slow down. What are you talking about?’

‘India,’ she said with exasperation as if I were completely stupid. ‘I’ve been invited to go. I only have to pay for my flights.’

‘Alice, you can’t just go to India. You need jabs and things.

‘Poo, don’t be silly. Of course, I can. I’m not you. Don’t even think about being a mean, old stiff and making me turn down this amazing opportunity. It’s been my dream to go to India forever.’

Translated as, since she met Jon at Yoga class six months ago.

‘But what about the girls? You can’t take them with you. Don’t they have school?’

‘Of course I’m not taking them. Don’t be silly.’

‘Well who’s going to look after them?’

‘You are, of course. It makes perfect sense. It’s not as if you’ve got anything else to do.’ She folded her arms and gave me a bright look of triumph. ‘You were complaining you never saw them.’

‘I think what I actually said was that you don’t ask me to babysit anymore. It was an observation rather than a complaint. Not quite the same thing.’

‘Well, here’s your chance. You can babysit every night for a week.’

‘Gosh, how kind of you. I don’t suppose it’s occurred to you that I have my own life, thank you very much.’

‘Yeah and how’s that going right now?’ Alice’s eyes gleamed maliciously. ‘All those friends of yours queuing up to see you, are they?’

I bit my lip and kept my expression bland even though she’d touched a raw nerve. Friends were few and far between. With the unexpected precision of a well-targeted dart, I remembered my conversation with Ashwin Laghari. I’d lost some good friends over the years, sacrificed on the altar of my job. They tend to give up when you repeatedly turn down invitations, but when you’re snowed under it doesn’t seem to matter. You only realise the loss when it’s too late.

‘I’ve got plenty of things to do. A whole house to decorate, actually.’ There, that’s what I would do. As soon as I’d finished my coffee I’d go and buy some magazines, Ideal Home or something. And a BBC Good Food Magazine. I’d start cooking, so that I ate properly. And I’d take some of those exercise classes. Get really fit. I’d alternate between Pilates and HIIT classes. Go running every morning. Dave, a colleague, had been badgering me to join the company team to do a charity 5k run. I could use the time to train. Or I might even learn a language.

‘Claire, are you listening to me?’

She waved a hand across my face and I realised with a wry smile that I hadn’t heard a word.

‘Alice, you can’t go to India. Not without planning it properly. Why don’t you wait until the school holidays when Mum and Dad are back? The girls are used to staying with them.’

‘Don’t you understand? If I don’t go now I’ll never be able to go. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. This place is booked up years in advance. I’d never be able to afford it. Please, Claire. I’m suffocating. I’ve been with the children night and day for the last ten years. I deserve some time off for good behaviour. They can spend some quality time with their favourite auntie.’

‘I’m their only auntie.’ My dry sarcasm was wasted on her.

‘And they’ll be at school most of the time, so you’ll have the days to yourself.’

‘Alice, I can’t have the girls.’

‘Why not? Give me one good reason. It’s only for a week.’

I opened my mouth, about to tell her all the reasons why, but then it struck me that perhaps I might enjoy getting to know my nieces. After all, it would only be for a week and I had four to fill.