Unhappy Ever After Girl (Irish Girl, Hospital Romance 3)

by Jenny O'Brien

  The front door took a couple of minutes of fiddling for him to pull back the bolt and manoeuvre the dead lock but he finally managed to drag it open with a scowl. Whoever was standing there had better have a bloody good reason for making him leave the warmth of his fireplace. An Irish man’s home was his castle, even if it did happen to be sited in Wales.

  Chapter Ten

  ‘Yes?’

  The tall dark stranger’s lips moved but Mabel didn’t hear any noise coming from his mouth. She didn’t hear the rain pitter patting like little feet running around a playground just as she didn’t hear the distant rush of the stream as it tumbled and swirled around the base of the bridge she’d just walked over. She didn’t hear anything. She didn’t hear anything because all her attention, all her focus was on examining the man in front of her. She wasn’t checking him out, that wasn’t it at all although she might very well have been because as a specimen of humanity he was certainly worth inspecting!

  No, here was the man she was going to have to care for over the coming week and, if she’d been nervous before she was worried sick now. As her preconceived notion of a frail little old man with an age related lens problem fell away part of her wondered at the cause of this man’s cataracts, but she’d think about that later. Now all she could think about was what lay behind the dark glasses hiding his eyes. All she could see was the scruffy Guernsey and the way it was frayed at the cuffs and pulled at the neck. Shabby deck shoes encased otherwise bare feet and well-worn denim shorts finished off the look – she wasn’t sure which look it was, but it was bound to take off – not!

  Her eyes flicked quickly back to his face even though she knew he couldn’t see behind the dark barrier. Just what eejit wore shorts in early February Wales? The man might be deranged amongst other things, her gaze taking advantage of his sightless stare to examine his face; the dark skin hiding an unhealthy pallor in its depths. The deep grooves running from his nose to his chin, and his mouth. Firm lips, slightly turned down at the edges – all framed by hair as black as the night just visible from the naked bulb dangling from a wire in the porch. Was it the operation and ultimate blindness that made him look so fierce? Was it the fact he’d had to suffer the ignominy of cataracts at such a young age, or was this indeed Wolf’s Castle?

  She pulled a wry grimace, remembering the station master’s words as she started to fold the umbrella and drag her case up that last step before he had time to slam the door in her face.

  Putting out her hand, she stuffed it back in her pocket for; of course there would be no handshake.

  ‘I’m here from the university.’ She said, and waited. As a sentence it wasn’t great, but as he wasn’t expecting her it was the best she could do. She saw him pause, his face an unreadable mask as he stared in her direction. She had no idea what he’d do, but she suddenly realised she didn’t care. She had money and she was miles away from Henry – Nothing else mattered.

  ‘What did you say? I thought you were those brats back from next door?’

  ‘What brats?’ She couldn’t help a smile from breaking out across her face at the sight of his down turned mouth. He reminded her of one of those yellow smiley sad faces they used to diagnose depression at the hospital – in fact, perhaps she could recommend him for some modelling for their next “Raising the mood” campaign.

  ‘Never mind.’ He scrunched up his face behind his glasses and she just knew he was squinting. ‘You mentioned the university?’

  ‘Yes, well Trinity were worried about you shooting over here all on your tod so to speak and they’ve employed me…’

  ‘They’ve what!’ He exploded. ‘They had no right to interfere…’

  Oh boy he really was angry, wasn’t he. She watched his hands clench into tight fists by his hips.

  ‘Well if you’re still in their employ they were probably only protecting their interests.’

  ‘I don’t need a baby si…’

  ‘What you need is to stop shouting on the porch.’ She heaved a sigh of annoyance before pushing past him with her case and, taking his hand pulling him inside before closing the door behind them. She’d come all this way to look after him, at least he could pretend to be grateful. ‘What you also need is a shave and…’ She grimaced. ‘A bloody good wash – you stink!’

  ‘Hey, you can’t just barge in here and…’

  ‘Yes I can.’ She took a big breath before slipping off her boots. ‘If I don’t tell you who else will?’ Pulling her case after her she headed for the stairs. ‘I’ll just take my bag upstairs and find an empty room…’ Bumping the end of the case against each step she regretted packing so much but it was too late now, and by the looks of it he wasn’t exactly overjoyed enough to help her!

  The little landing revealed two bedrooms and an old fashioned bathroom with what looked like a genuine Victorian bath complete with antique brass taps and a disturbing stain coating the bottom the same shade as baby poo! Wrinkling her nose in disgust she threw a brief look at the passably clean looking sink and decided on a strip wash. First thing tomorrow she was going to find some cream cleaner and give the bath a scrub before she allowed herself anywhere near it – with a bit of luck there’d be a shower lurking somewhere, but she very much doubted it.

  Opening the bedroom doors wasn’t really a surprise as the bathroom had prepared her for the worst. Both bedrooms were full of heavy mahogany furniture but at least it was easy to see which one was the unlived in one being as all it had was a bare mattress and a pile of dubious looking brownish coloured blankets heaped in the centre. With a sigh she started dragging open cupboards and, returning to the landing finally found the linen closet surprisingly full of neatly folded linen. Pulling out a matching set of sheets and pillowcases she took no time in making up the bed and plonking her case in the centre. It only took seconds to pull out a wisp of a nighty, instead of the warm fleecy PJ’s she was normally used to. All she had with her were sexy trifles, so with a further dig she found her socks and negligee before retracing her steps. She was suddenly desperately tired, but with hardly anything to eat since breakfast she was determined to raid the kitchen and, more importantly boil the kettle. However first she’d have to brave Mr Grump.

  The living room was a disaster zone. She’d have liked to have a proper look at the Welsh dresser packed with toby jugs and Lustreware but that would have to wait as her eyes swerved to the rug glittering with what looked like diamonds. Her eyes widened at the sight of Derry clutching a half full tumbler of presumably whiskey, seemingly unaware of the chaos lying at his feet.

  She stood by his chair, both hands ensconced on her hips.

  ‘Russian are you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well I thought it was only Russians that went around smashing glasses.’ She paused to look at the electric fire. ‘Not sure you’re meant to do it without the fireplace though.’

  She watched him leap out of his chair, his expression suddenly changed from annoyed to worried – it wasn’t much but it would do for now. She’d make him smile before she left this hole even if she died trying.

  ‘Don’t move.’ He took a step, lost his bearings and, wrapping his foot round the table sent the bottle flying across the room. He would have fallen too if she hadn’t grabbed him by the arm and pushed him none too gently back into the chair.

  ‘Calm down, you know as well as I do you shouldn’t be doing anything quickly,’ she said, staring at his erasable expression with a flicker of amusement. ‘So you’d be the eejit throwing around expensive crystal would you, either that or the little people have been sneaking in and having a rave when you’re in bed at night?’ She added, bending down and starting to pick up the larger shards.

  ‘What are you wittering on about woman?’

  She watched him fumbling around for the table with an outstretched hand and, folding it back on his lap tried to ignore the strength in those long tapering fingers. She might have the upper hand at the moment but if he tried to use the strength lying dor
mant under his decidedly grubby sweater she’d be in trouble.

  ‘No you don’t. Your last glass has gone the same way as the other ones and.’ Lifting the bottle off the floor with a grimace, ‘so has the last of your whiskey.’

  ‘There’s plenty more where that came from!’

  ‘Not for you there isn’t matey. Just where in the post-op Placo handbook does it say drink yourself into oblivion then?’

  ‘Just mind your own business and clear up this mess before we both end up in hospital with lockjaw.’

  ‘Lockjaw is it – more like haemorrhaging to death! Bejesus, just look at the state of…’ She paused, feeling the blush course up her cheeks. ‘Right, so where do you keep your dustpan and brush then?’

  ‘How the hell am I meant to know that?’ He lifted a black eyebrow. ‘Firstly I’m blind, or hadn’t you noticed and secondly I’m a man. Both of which preclude me from knowing anything so … wifely!’

  She took a deep breath, her eyes fixed on his still raised eyebrow, her temper managing to reach 0 to 60 in the blink of an eye.

  ‘Being blind, male and sexist doesn’t cut it with me. So just because you’re a man gives you the right to be a slob does it? My husband doesn’t behave like that and neither will you.’

  ‘Poor man!’

  She stilled, both hands now full to overflowing with broken glass; glass she was tempted to throw in his face. Okay so she shouldn’t have mentioned Henry, even by inference. But as they were going to be living in very close proximity she felt it was important to lay down some ground rules - being unavailable for one. After all she didn’t want him to think he could hit on her or anything stupid like that. Although, staring at his razor sharp cheekbones and firm jawline with the cutest little dimple in the centre part of her feared it wouldn’t be him doing the hitting! That didn’t change the fact he’d just been rude, and rude was one thing she wouldn’t tolerate in a man – not now.

  ‘What did you say,’ her voice quiet.

  ‘I take it back. Your husband, he’s not poor, just brave!’

  She didn’t reply, not just then. She would but only when she’d sorted out the glass so neither of them severed an artery. Heading for the only other door off the hall and pushing it open with her elbow she dumped the shards on the draining board and went in search of a dustpan and brush. It took her all of one second to find them under the sink and conveniently stored in one of those orange B&Q buckets that seemed to have taken over the world – they’d certainly flattened the bucket sales graph of all their competitors. She didn’t throw a thought to recycling; only bucket manufactures. The pleasure of dipping her toes into Betws-y-Coed’s waste management programme would come later. Being a sensible sort of girl and not the glamourous model type she craved she ignored anything other than the job in hand, although she did frown at her gel nails already looking in urgent need of some remedial help.

  He was still sitting there like Lord Muck; arms folded across his chest and the remains of what looked like baked beans splattered across his Guernsey. She was suddenly reminding of something she’d seen in the window of that posh art gallery in Dame Street last week – it wasn’t a pleasant comparison.

  ‘Lift your feet?’

  ‘Say please!’

  ‘I’ll please you in a minute – just lift your feet.’

  ‘I can’t wait.’

  She raised her head just in time to catch the tail end of a smirk. ‘You’d be so lucky – I’m not that desperate and…,’ pausing, ‘I’m married.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with the price of fish? So am I, or at least I was.’

  ‘Well as that’s our marital status sorted out perhaps we should introduce ourselves.’ Bucket now full and rug as clear of death traps as she could make it she knelt back on her heels. ‘I know you’re Professor Yeats and.’

  ‘Derry,’

  ‘Okay, Derry then. I’m Mabel,’ her voice wavering slightly. ‘Mabel Frederick.’

  ‘Mm old fashioned, but then I’m not surprised.’ He started to chortle. ‘Although come to think of it the last Mabel I knew had four legs and a fine pair of udders.’

  ‘Well you can talk; I thought Derry was a county!’

  The gold plated clock sitting proudly on the mantelpiece started to chime. ‘Mother of God, would you be looking at the time and me without having had me tea.’ She turned back to face him. ‘Right let’s be having you. It’s time for bed my lad, but first a bath I think and I’ll get these clothes washed.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘You heard.’ Reaching out her hand she plucked his glasses from his face to find herself looking into the bluest eyes she’d ever seen. Not that she paid them much attention then – there’d be time for that later.

  She was more interested in how well he was caring for them and not what they looked like. Thankfully there was no sign of the redness she’d been expecting, infection being her greatest worry from the moment she’d stepped through the door and taken one look at the state of him.

  She’d expected him at the very least to push her hand away whilst telling her off for invading his personal space, not to mention taking his glasses. He did none of these things. Instead he stayed exactly where he was, unmoving. His face was an unreadable canvas for what seemed like minutes but could only have been seconds until finally words appeared; words so rough they sounded as if they’d been dragged up from some place against their will.

  ‘How are they looking?’

  Her smile waned as she put herself in his place; as she felt what he was feeling. He wanted to know and yet he didn’t. As a nurse she could understand that. He was a medical man. He knew enough to have read all the small print dangers and think that he’d be the unlucky one in ten million to suffer the worst consequence of all. She herself didn’t know what that was but she was pretty sure if she asked him he’d be able to explain it to her at length - she knew because she would have done the exact same.

  ‘Remarkably well considering - you’ve been bathing them each day and instilling your eye drops?’

  ‘Religiously!’

  ‘Good, but as for the rest of you…’

  ‘Point taken,’ he said, running his hand through his hair. ‘I didn’t think it would matter, being as I’m here all alone with no one…’

  ‘Well I’m here now and as the university has paid up front I can’t very well leave now can I?’

  ‘If you could just lead me to the shower I’m sure I can manage.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘No?’ The frown was back, which was a shame. She regretted the frown. ‘Look Mrs…’

  ‘Mabel.’

  ‘Look Mabel, I haven’t had a bath since I was six.’

  ‘That’s not my problem. Showers are banned until the risk of infection is less than zero. Come on now there’s a lovely bath upstairs, one of those antique clawed feet jobs.’ She deliberately closed her mind to the stains. He wouldn’t mind – he couldn’t see to mind and what he didn’t know couldn’t hurt him!

  ‘No,’ he repeated, his face well past a frown. If his mouth turned down any more she’d paint it red and send him out to join the circus.

  ‘I don’t know why you’re making such a fuss.’ She said, catching him unawares and dragging his sweater over his head before he could do anything other than grunt his annoyance. ‘A nice hot bath and a warm milky drink…’

  ‘For the second time – I’m not six!’

  ‘Well don’t act like it then,’ adding his shirt to the pile on the floor her gaze determinedly looking anywhere other than the hunk in the chair. After all she had to look after him. It would be so much easier if her image of him was the one of him contained inside that filthy jumper and not the one of him reclining back half naked as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

  ‘Come on now, I’ll even warm your jimjams in front of the fire…’

  ‘I don’t wear them!’

  ‘Well your boxers then.’ She watched him start to open his mouth and just knew the wo
rds about to be released into the room; words she was determined to stop at all costs. Sleeping in the buff was just too much information this late on a Sunday night. She was tired, fed up and believe it or not lonely. Yesterday she’d been the loving daughter, the loved wife, the supported best friend and today: today she’d just moved in with a handsome stranger who was about to tell her he slept in the buff. It didn’t matter she was his live-in carer – it didn’t matter at all.

  ‘When I’m living here you’re wearing your boxers – no arguments!’

  She was surprised how easily she managed to get him up the stairs and into the bathroom. If she didn’t know better she’d think he had some ulterior motive unbeknownst to her for being so pliable all of a sudden. She sat him down on the edge of the bath waiting for it to fill while she raced around sorting out towels and flannels. She found an old towelling robe behind the door and his best behaviour continued as she helped him into it and fastened the belt securely around his waist.

  ‘Right, my back’s turned - just take all your clothes off and kick them in my direction. I’ll nip downstairs for ten minutes.’ She closed her ears to the sound of his zip opening and then clothes being kicked across the room.

  ‘I thought you’d stay and wash my back?’

  ‘In your dreams!’ She replied, only leaving the room at the sound of water sloshing about.

  She found the washing machine housed in a tiny scullery off the kitchen and soon had the jumper soaking in the sink and the clothes set to boil.

  The kitchen was a nightmare just waiting for someone to clean it and as there was only her… Rolling up her sleeves she filled the sink with hot soapy water and set the dishes to soak while boiling the kettle and searching the cupboards for food. Peering in the fridge she found milk and eggs and little else but, sniffing the top of the milk carton, at least it was in date. There was the end of a loaf on the table, which she cut a couple of thick slices from and set about making a speedy scrambled egg supper in the microwave while she eyed the tins of baked beans and tomato soup piled up on the work surface. Presumably that’s what he’d been living on since he’d arrived on Thursday, beans on toast.