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

by Jenny O'Brien

  Glancing at her watch she raced upstairs only to pause at the door and knock.

  ‘Are you decent?’

  ‘As I’ll ever be - so where are those boxers then?’ He added, as she pushed open the door and found him standing swathed from head to foot in a bath sheet. The little worm burying into her brain telling her off for not just leaving him a hand towel was soon dismissed, although the smile lingered. The only part of him she could see were his feet and his head, so why was it her heart was hurtling around her chest like a recharging car battery then? Shifting her gaze to the brown slatted blind was an exercise in willpower she didn’t think she’d be able to keep up for long that’s for sure. Her mind shifted too, but backwards this time, backwards to – was it only yesterday and the sight of Henry waiting at the alter? Yesterday was another lifetime. Her dreams were shattered yesterday. All she had left of yesterday were nightmares and a ruddy great bill that someone was going to have to pay. She swivelled her eyes back to where they felt most comfortable. All she had was today. All she had was in front of her and, if yesterday had taught her one thing it was live for the moment.

  ‘Hey Mabel, are you there,’ his voice holding a sudden desperation within its tone.

  ‘Yes, I’m here.’ Her reply calm, much calmer than it had reason to be. ‘They’re over here on the chair.’ Picking them up and shaking them out so that they faced the right way before placing them in front of him.

  ‘I’ll just be outside while you…’ She added, bolting for the security of the landing when really she’d have liked to have seen what was under the towel; just out of curiosity mind. She wandered around the packed space picking up the odd wood carving here and there waiting for some sound from behind the door, but apart from the odd swear and hopping noises all was quiet. She was just examining a large four foot giraffe when she heard the door squeak open to find him leaning against the frame his eyes directed at her.

  ‘Ready for bed then?’ She grabbed his arm and directed him to his room, only to feel him pulling her to a stop.

  ‘That’s the wrong way, my bedroom is …’

  ‘No, that’s my one silly! I’ve just made it up with fresh…’ She stared at him with a frown. ‘You mean you’ve been slumming it without even a sheet?’

  ‘How the hell did you expect me to find a bloody sheet,’ his eyes glaring in her general direction. ‘I can’t even see my hands let alone find a linen cupboard.’

  ‘Okay, okay keep your hair on!’ She turned him round and directed him into her room and to the bed. Turning down the sheet she moved back to allow him to get in himself. He might be blind but she didn’t want to touch him more than that.

  Pulling the blanket over his shoulder and adding a warm throw on top she stood looking down at him before making her way to the door, only to pause at the sound of his voice.

  ‘Mm, you might be in need of this later, or not as the case may be.’

  She watched him withdraw his hand from beneath the covers and, propping himself up against the pillows hold up her nighty. But not just any nighty, one of those barely there scraps of nothing she’d bought as part of her trousseau.

  ‘And very nice too.’ He added, seconds before she dragged it out of his hands. ‘Although I could have sworn you were more of a flannelette pyjamas type of girl.’

  ‘Well I’m not.’ She retorted, closing her mind to the neatly folded PJ’s she’d left back at the vicarage ready for her return from her honeymoon. She felt her eyes suddenly fill with tears. There would be no return. There was no going back. She didn’t know what the future held for her stuck here in some village she couldn’t even pronounce let alone spell: the one certainty being she had no home left to go back to.

  Making her way to the door she turned off the light, all of a sudden her appetite gone.

  ‘Good night.’

  ‘Mabel,’ the sound of his voice slashing across her troubled thoughts. ‘What colour is it?’

  She smiled and, tasting the salt of her own tears decided not to snap at him, just this once.

  ‘What colour would you like it to be Derry?’

  ‘White.’

  ‘Lucky guess!’ Pulling the door closed she went to the other room and tucked the red nighty under her pillow.

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘What the hell…’ He cranked open one eye in near disbelief at the weak sunlight streaming in across his face. ‘Shut those bloody curtains; I’ve a splitting headache.’

  ‘Tut tut, mind your language – and anyway how do you know they’re open,’ her voice suddenly suspicious.

  ‘I may be blind but I can still sense really bright lights. Please Mabel,’ his voice pleading.

  ‘Alright, although it’s probably all that whiskey you had yesterday.’ He heard her drag the curtains closed, turning the pneumatic drill down a notch to a dull hammer.

  ‘I’ve tea and a couple of paracetamol.’

  He felt his hand suddenly lifted off his forehead before being curled around the outline of a mug. ‘Here,’ she added, dropping a couple of tablets in his other hand before continuing. ‘I’ve laid clean clothes on the end of your bed and your slippers are positioned by the side for you to step into. Give me a shout when you’re ready to come downstairs – I just need to flip the bacon.’

  ‘Listen Mrs er…’

  ‘Mabel.’

  ‘Listen Mabel, I really don’t eat breakfast and certainly not…’

  ‘After all that whiskey and no supper worth mentioning – not to mention the army of drills banging away inside my head – Was that what you were about to say Derry?’

  He heard her making her way to the door. ‘Have your tea and tablets and see where you are.’ Then all he heard was the creak of the hinges and the sound of the door being pulled closed with a gentle snap.

  Shutting his eyes against what light remained he automatically lifted the tablets to his mouth and managed to find his tea with no further disaster in the smashing to smithereens front. Wasn’t she the bossy one? Mind you, after the amount of whiskey he’d downed last night she was probably right. She was probably right too about stuffing him in a bath come to think of it. He’d forgotten about the ancient bathroom, but four days without a shower was probably four days too long. Although, running his hand through his hair what he’d really like was a hair wash and a shave, his hand moving to brush against nearly a week’s worth of bristles. There was fat chance of that, he thought resting his head back against the now cold pillow. He wasn’t allowed to get his hair wet for another two days and if he tried to shave himself… He laughed as an image popped into his head from that Sweeney Todd movie he’d seen on TV a while ago. No, he’d stick with the designer stubble look for a bit longer, after all women were meant to find it sexy. Perhaps if she fancied him a bit he’d get preferential treatment like an extra slice of bacon.

  With the tablets starting to kick in his head told him in no uncertain terms that the best place for him was bed until the last tell-tale remnants of pain disappeared into memory. But his stomach rumbled in loud protest at the smells wafting up the stairs – smells he hadn’t experienced since he’d left home. Whilst he didn’t allow himself either the cholesterol or calories of a cooked breakfast that didn’t mean he didn’t like them, and being ill was as good an excuse as any for spoiling his waistline.

  However, leaping out of bed like a teenager proved to be the wrong decision. Swaying by the side of the bed he closed his eyes in an effort to stop the room spinning, although just why the room should be spinning when he couldn’t see a bloody thing was far beyond the capacity of a cardiac surgeon.

  He lifted his hands to his face to rub the morning grit from his eyes only to lower them in frustration. He couldn’t afford a second eye infection on the back of the uveitis he’d developed already. He’d thought it was going so well, which was the reason he’d pushed his ophthalmic surgeon for the second cataract removal before the first eye had totally recovered. How was he to know inflammation would rear its u
gly head and make him to all intents and purposes blind, even if they all assured him it would only be temporary. Rest, antibiotics, steroid eye drops and in a week to ten days he’d be back to normal, or so they told him. He wasn’t sure if he could believe them but the alternative wasn’t an option.

  It was his mother who’d suggested escaping to the cottage and even went as far as making sure he got on the right train at Holyhead on her way to a weekend shopping spree in London. But that’s as far as it went. There was no way she was going to miss out on her Fortnum and Mason’s afternoon tea with her old cronies and he couldn’t blame her. He’d been miserable company for months with his failing eyesight and he was lucky she hadn’t given up on him years ago. He was also lucky he’d ended up here and not some other part of Wales; he probably would have if it hadn’t been for a couple of old biddies she’d found to look after him at Llandudno Junction.

  Looking around the room he could make out the blurred shape of the dark-wood stained door but that was all. For instance he could tell she only came up to his chest, but nothing else. He couldn’t tell how old she was, but he’d have guessed at young that is until she’d actually opened her mouth and turned from sweet little nursey into Attila the Hun! He hadn’t been bossed around so much since Mrs O’Shea in reception nearly thirty years ago. The nurses he worked with wouldn’t dare and, as senior lecturer in cardiac surgery there was no one above him to try. But here in Wales it was open season. For some strange reason he found he liked it. It was nice to be told what to do for a change. It was nice not to have to make decisions. It was nice not to have to think more than that – She could do all the thinking for him!

  His frown changed into a smile and then broadened into a grin turning his serious face into that of a naughty schoolboy, very much the reason he’d gotten into trouble all those years ago at school. Then he’d been as mischievous as the next boy up to all the tricks in the unwritten naughty schoolboy’s handbook, even adding a fair few new ones. Trees were only made for climbing. Apples were only there to be scrumped: Conkers only invented to be conked! It was only later, when his lovely indomitable father collapsed and died from a heart attack he decided he wanted to study medicine – It was only then his smile changed into the perennial frown his students had learnt to hate.

  ‘I hope you haven’t fallen back to sleep up there or I’ll…’

  ‘Be down in a minute.’ He turned, and patting the top of the bed felt the outline of his clothes: clean and freshly ironed if he wasn’t very much mistaken. God it was like taking a trip down memory lane all of a sudden living with this strange girl with a penchant for cooked breakfasts and ironing. Shaking out his t-shirt, which smelt of pine forests he flung it over his head in a rush, keen to find out what she’d come up with next.

  ‘Ah, there you are, I was about to send a posse…’

  He felt a feather light touch on his arm and the sound of a chair being dragged back before finding himself being propelled into place.

  ‘Right there’s bacon at 12 o’clock, fried egg at 6 o’clock and sausages at 3 o’clock.’

  ‘What, nothing at 9 o’clock? That’s a bit of a swiz isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s where you’ll find the fried bread.’ He heard another clunk and then the sound of tea being poured out of what: a teapot? He didn’t even know they still existed except through the doors of some crummy antique shop.

  ‘Tea is by your right hand,’ she added, confirming his teapot guess even as he felt the handles of his cutlery being pushed gently under his fingers.

  ‘If you need me to cut anything…?’

  Lifting his head he found the dim outline of a shape just distinguishable from the light streaming in from the window behind her head.

  ‘Er, thanks – just what the doctor ordered.’

  ‘That’s what I’m here for.’

  ‘And thanks for the ironing.’ He let out a small laugh. ‘I’m not used to being spoilt.’

  ‘I thought you used to be married?’

  He clattered his knife and fork against the plate before picking them up. ‘That was a very long time ago, and Claudette didn’t believe in spoiling anyone but herself.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

  He looked up again mid chew, annoyed he couldn’t make out more than the shape of her head surrounded by a halo of hair. ‘There’s no need to be – it was a very long time ago.’

  Lifting up his mug he took a tentative sip before replacing it gently on the table. ‘What about your husband, doesn’t he mind you swanning off looking after strange men?’

  ‘I wouldn’t call you strange.’ It was her turn to laugh; it was more of a giggle really. ‘Unusual, but not strange.’

  ‘And your husband?’ He prompted, for some reason wanting to know.

  ‘Oh, we have an open marriage so he doesn’t mind.’

  ‘That’s very er modern of you both - any children?’

  ‘No, we never got around to it.’ He heard her scrap back her chair and start clearing plates presumably to wash.

  ‘I’m afraid uncle never ran to a dishwasher and I won’t be much help as either a washer or a drier.’

  ‘I had noticed.’ He heard her chuckle again and joined her in a smile. ‘You’d used every clean plate in the house, including one with doggy written on it.’

  ‘Oh well, as long as it was clean…’

  ‘It is now!’ There was a sound of the tap running before she continued. ‘So I take it there’s no dog?’

  ‘I don’t think so. As you’ve probably guessed it’s not my house.’ He paused before continuing. ‘No, that’s not right – it is my house but I’ve only just inherited it and…’

  ‘And you thought it would be a good idea to come over here where you probably don’t know anyone and don’t know the house – very clever!’ She interrupted.

  ‘I’d been managing fine…’

  ‘What! The lounge was a death trap with all the broken glass - One trip and you’d have been mince-meat – literally.’

  ‘It wasn’t that bad!’

  ‘Derry, I’m telling you – it was that bad, worse than bad. All that lovely crystal…’

  ‘More like all that lovely whiskey.’ He moaned, placing his knife and fork on his plate and, lifting it up - hopefully in her direction before he dropped it.

  ‘Thank you.’ She said, taking it from him.

  ‘So what time did you get up this morning to…’ He waved a hand across the table. ‘I’m sure there was no bacon in the house and as for my ironing – I don’t even do my ironing!’

  He didn’t really want to know. He was a man and as such was meant to be the less observant of the species. If a woman wanted to spoil him he wasn’t going to put obstacles in her way. But funnily enough he was interested, not so much in her words but she had a lovely voice; soft and full of expression with laughter lurking on the edge of each nuance and inflection. God, he hoped she turned out to be younger than his mother. But the way his luck was running she’d be in her nineties with a face like the back end of a bus and a bottom to match.

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘Oh, a little after 5. I was banging on the door of the Spar at opening time.’ Adding his plate to the sink she had it washed and stacked along with the other 15 she’d sorted in no time – She didn’t even think the vicarage had 15 plates let alone the assortment of bowls she’d found ingrained with baked beans and what she hoped was Weetabix.

  She kept her mind as busy as her hands because at the moment it was the right thing to do. Her dad was always saying there was no good in crying over spilt milk and, as a phrase it was a good one. There was no point in comparing her morning to the one she should have been having waking up in Spain with the sun on her back. There was no point in mulling over the wedding just as there was no point in mulling over Henry. She kept her disappointment like a hot water bottle going cold under the duvet: it was annoying but she couldn’t be bothered to do anything about it at present. She was the one who’d been foolish en
ough to answer yes when he’d asked. She’d made her bed, now she’d have to lie in it – Another one of her father’s favourite quotes, which funnily enough usually followed the first. It didn’t matter that the bed she was lying in was in a different part of the world. This was only an interlude to tide her over - at some point she’d have to go back and face him.

  With a final squeeze of the dishcloth she hung it over the tap to dry.

  ‘So who does your shirts and all?’

  ‘I’m a cardiac surgeon not a fashion plate Mabel. My cleaner sorts out my work shirts but that’s all she can be bothered to do.’ He smiled again. ‘That must be the first time I’ve had my boxers ironed.’

  ‘How did you know I...?’

  ‘They were still warm.’ He added, ‘any warmer and I’d have burnt my…’

  ‘Would you like anymore?’ She interrupted, draining the rest of her tea before swilling the mug out and leaving it upside down on the draining board. She might be a Twenty First Century girl but getting into conversations about bums across the breakfast table from someone she counted as a stranger was more than her strict church upbringing allowed. Who knew where the conversation might end up if she let him take the lead - Before she knew it he’d be asking her to help him to wash his… Stifling a giggle her eyes travelled that forbidden distance, thankfully hidden just below the table. Strike her down with a lightning bolt but just for one second she was glad he couldn’t see what her eyes were up to for she had no control of them all of a sudden.