Rachel's Holiday
Page 111

‘Do you want to catch your death?’ he clicked. ‘Rachel Walsh, you’ll end up with pneumonia.’ By now he was down to my bra.
‘Wringing!’ he declared, deftly unhooking it.
Normally, by then, I’d be feeling pretty revved up, and might even start removing some of his clothing. But not that day.
‘Now for your skirt,’ he said, feeling for the button on the waistband. ‘My God, it’s sopping wet, the heavens must have opened out there…’
He must have noticed that I wasn’t responding with my usual enthusiasm because he faltered, then stopped. ‘Are you OK, babe?’ he asked, suddenly anxious.
‘Luke,’ I managed, ‘I feel a bit funny.’
‘What sort of funny?’ he asked, in alarm.
‘I think I might be sick.’
He put his hand on my forehead and I nearly swooned from the pleasure of his cool hand against my burning skin.
‘Christ!’ he declared. ‘You’re roasting.
‘Oh babe,’ he said, all abject, ‘I’m sorry, me taking off your clothes…’ He frantically draped my bra around my shoulders, then made me put my coat back on.
‘Come in to the fire,’ he ordered.
‘We haven’t got a fire,’ I objected weakly.
‘I’ll get you one,’ he offered. ‘Whatever you want, I’ll get it.’
‘I think I’d like to go to bed,’ I said. My voice sounded a long, long way away.
For a second his eyes lit up. ‘Great!’
Then he realized what I meant. ‘Oh yeah, of course, babe.’
I stripped off the rest of my clothes and just threw them on the floor. Although I didn’t have to be afflicted with flu to do that. Then I climbed in between the cool, cool sheets. For a moment I was in heaven. I must have dozed off, because next thing Luke was standing over me with a selection of milkshakes.
‘Chocolate or strawberry?’ he offered.
Mutely, I shook my head.
‘I knew it,’ he said, smiting his hand against his forehead. ‘I should have got vanilla!’
‘No, Luke,’ I mumbled. ‘Not hungry. Don’t want anything.
‘I must be dying.’ I managed a weak smile.
‘Don’t, Rachel,’ he ordered, with an anguished face. ‘Mocking is catching.’
‘No, mocking is a laugh,’ I mumbled. That was what Helen always said.
‘Will you be OK if I go out for a while?’ he asked gently.
I must have looked distraught.
‘Only to go to the drugstore,’ he explained hurriedly. ‘To get you things.’
He was back about half an hour later with a huge carrier bag, crammed with everything from a thermometer to magazines to chocolate to cough mixture.
‘I haven’t got a cough,’ I said weakly.
‘But you might get one,’ he pointed out. ‘Best to be prepared. Now let’s take your temperature.
‘A HUNDRED-AND-TWO!’ he yelled in alarm. He began frantically tucking in the duvet all around me, even under my feet, so I was in a little cocoon.
‘The woman in the drugstore said to keep you warm, but you are warm,’ he muttered.
By midnight my temperature was a hundred-and-four so Luke got a doctor for me. It cost roughly the same to buy a three-bedroom flat as to get a doctor in Manhattan to make a house call. Luke must have really loved me.
The doctor stayed three minutes, diagnosed me with flu – ‘Proper flu, real flu, not just a bad cold’ – said there was nothing he could prescribe for me, cleared Luke out of funds, then left.
For the next three days I was in bits. Delirious, not knowing where I was or what day it was. Aching, sweating, shivering, too weak to sit up unaided to sip the Gatorade that Luke kept pressing on me.
‘Try, babe,’ he urged. ‘You need your fluids and your glucose.’
Luke took Thursday and Friday off work to look after me. Whenever I came to, he was nearby. Either sitting on a chair in my room, watching me. Or sometimes he was in the next room, on the phone to his mates. ‘Proper flu,’ I heard him boast repeatedly. ‘Real flu. Not just a bad cold. No, nothing they can prescribe for her.’
On Saturday night, I felt better enough to be wrapped in the duvet and carried, carried, into the sitting-room. Where he lay me on the couch. I attempted to watch telly for about ten minutes, before it got too much for me. Never had I felt so cherished.
And now look at us. Best of enemies. Where had it all gone so wrong?
Assorted members of my family came to visit on Sunday. With narrowed eyes I greeted Mum and Dad, as they approached, bent double from the weight of the confectionery they’d brought. Look at them, the bastards, I thought. Trying to buy me off with chocolate. So I’m thick, am I? So I’m too tall, am I?
They didn’t seem to notice the nasty vibes I sent them. After all, conversation was usually stilted and that day was no exception.
Helen had also elected to visit me again. I was extremely suspicious of her motives and I kept a close eye on both her and Chris, in case they were looking at each other too often. Even though he’d been attentive to me since the night I’d caught him comforting Misty, I was always edgy and insecure around him.
Sunday’s surprise guest was Anna! I was thrilled to see her. Not just because she was nice, of course, but because she’d give me some yearned-for drugs.
We gave each other tight hugs, then she stood on the hem of her skirt and tripped. Even though she looked very like Helen, tiny, green-eyed and with long black hair, she had none of Helen’s confidence. She was a great one for tripping and falling over and banging into things. The vast quantities of recreational drugs she habitually ingested might have had something to do with her unsteadiness on her pins.
Helen was in great form, regaling all and sundry with a story about how an entire party of clerical officers hadn’t been able to attend work the day after a visit to Club Mexxx. Allegedly suffering from food poisoning.
‘They’re threatening to sue,’ she said gleefully. And I hope Mr stingy-arse, crappy-wage-payer Club Mexxx goes bust.’
‘Of course,’ she added, ‘we all know that the clerical officers were just sick as dogs from hangovers. Food poisoning is so obvious a hangover excuse it’s embarrassing. Anna there always uses it. So would’ve I, except I’ve never had a job before.’