A loud fart rang out an impending stench warning. I gagged and hauled my top up to cover the lower part of my face, Georgie and Daphne doing the same, while Heath smothered his nose with his hands.
‘Sumo!’ everyone moaned, then started laughing. Abbie’s old bulldog was known for his flatulence. Thank goodness Mrs. Tibbles didn’t have that problem.
By the time Heath helped me into my house, and insisted on feeding Mrs. Tibbles before seeing me upstairs to my bedroom, I was exhausted.
I curled up in bed, a hot water bottle comforting my bruised lower back, and smiled as Mrs. Tibbles came to curl up next to me, pulling a face of distaste as she licked my plaster cast. I gave her a scratch behind the ears with my good hand and finally closed my eyes.
I planned on sleeping the day away and ringing Kitt for another pizza delivery. I was traumatised and had a cast that restricted my cooking ability, after all.
My dreams were filled with the hot doctor, giving me lots of material for a sexy new book, which I planned to start tapping out as soon as this cast was off.
Chapter Three
Hot Stuff
One Month Later – March
‘I’M SICK OF THIS damn plaster cast,’ I moaned to Tibbs as I fed her some dinner after a struggle to open the can of cat food. From now on, I’d forget trying to save money by buying tins of cat food and just buy her the fancy cuts in foil tubs that she loved so much. How people managed to do things when they had double casts on was beyond me. I mean, wiping my bottom with my left hand was a challenge, what did you do with both hands out of action? I shuddered at the thought of it.
I opened the fridge and stuck my head inside, letting out a sigh as I tried to decide what I could attempt to cook. I’d lived on microwave meals and takeout since the accident. My healthy eating plan had yet to happen, and I knew it was high time I tried cooking. I had a hob and oven I hadn’t even used since I’d moved in. Sadly, the fridge let me down, badly. I had cheese, butter, and milk. That was it. I cringed at my failings and inspected the kitchen cupboards, which were nearly as bare. I had loads of packets of chocolate chip cookies, my snack of choice when I was writing, but that was hardly a great option for a dinner substitute. I’d even run out of bread, so I couldn’t have any toast. I looked out of the window to see it was drizzling, and while I didn’t fancy walking to the shop and getting wet, neither did I want to get in the car just to drive around the corner.
‘Yes!’ I rejoiced, hoisting the solitary pack of chicken-flavoured Super Noodles up in the air with a triumphant flourish. Ok, not exactly haute cuisine, but they were quick and tasty, and involved using a saucepan, a spoon, and my hob. Surely that counted as cooking?
I flicked on the kettle, put the rectangular dry noodles in the pan, and emptied the sachet of flavouring on top of them. While I waited for the water to boil, I sighed. I was bored. So incredibly bored. I couldn’t write, as my plaster cast was getting in the way. Trying to type one handed, with my non-dominant hand no less, was far too frustrating when I was used to touch typing at speed with two, so I’d had to go cold turkey. There needed to be an “Authors Anonymous” for those of us that were suffering severe withdrawals from writing. The struggle was real. I’d watched so much TV, my eyes had turned square. When I’d run out of things to watch that held my interest, I’d read lots of my author friends’ books, but that just left me even more depressed about not being able to get on with writing my own.
My ankle was much better, but I wasn’t ready to even think about going out for long walks, let alone taking up jogging, which had been an inkling of an idea I’d had when I’d been pondering the benefits of keeping fit. Anyway, jogging didn’t look fun. Women all sweaty faced, arses and tits bouncing, risking black eyes from boob fling back, not to mention the stress on underdeveloped lungs and underused muscles. I’d need a personal trainer when I was better, someone to whip me into shape and give me nutritional advice. Until then, I was going to continue to be a couch potato and eat Super Noodles and takeout.
I measured out the boiling water in my measuring jug, remembering why I had one and what it was used for, other than as an emergency schnapps glass. I tipped the measured dose of hot water onto the noodles and placed the saucepan on the hob, fiddling with some buttons and hoping I’d managed to turn it on. I was starving. Mrs. Tibbles decided to weave around my ankles, rubbing her cheeks against my calves as she purred. I smiled down at her. Sometimes she was the most loving cat, but it was rare. She had the temperament of a cantankerous old moggie most of the time.
‘Did I turn on the hob?’ I asked myself as I waited for the water to come back up to a boil. It seemed to be taking an age. I lifted the saucepan off and set it on another of the solid raised black plates, frowning to see that the one I’d thought was on wasn’t even glowing red yet. Without a second thought, I put three fingers onto it, then screamed as there was a loud sizzling noise and my fingertips heated up. ‘What the hell?’ I yelped as I whipped my hand back and nursed it.
Why wasn’t the hob red if it was on? My old glass one in Cheltenham glowed with an unmistakable warning that if you touched it, you were going to cook your fingers. I quickly turned the stupid thing off and rushed to the kitchen sink to turn on the cold tap. Thrusting my fingers underneath, I was careful not to get my plaster cast wet.
‘Owww,’ I moaned as my fingertips painfully pulsated. Well, that well and truly ruined my cooking plans. I was going to get Kitt over with a pizza and go online to find a replacement induction hob that made it clear it was actually working. Not that I was going to be in any rush to try cooking again, if this was the sort of thing that happened when I did.
I answered the door an hour later with my hand in a plastic bag full of ice cubes that I’d managed to parcel tape to my plaster cast to try and stop the burning pain.
‘What on earth have you done now, Charlie?’ Kitt exclaimed as he spotted my bizarre makeshift remedy. I shook my head and filled him in. He was a really nice guy. We’d spent many a time standing on the doorstep chatting when he’d dropped off my deliveries.
‘Honestly, I swear it’s more painful than if I’d accidently chopped off the ends of my fingers,’ I complained.
‘I think you ought to go to hospital.’
‘They haven’t blistered, I’ll be fine.’
‘When did you last check? It takes a while for a blister to develop and if it has, you need to get them looked at.’
‘You think?’ I asked with a frown. He nodded and I sighed.
‘Go check them now, I’ll wait. I’m assuming you can’t drive with your hand in that cast, so I can drop you off at the hospital on my way home. You were my last delivery for the night,’ he told me. That was no coincidence. I’d started timing my orders so he could drop them off on the way home. I enjoyed our chats. It was nice to have a male friend without the pressure of feeling like he was trying to worm his way into my knickers.
‘I don’t think I’d fit on your moped,’ I laughed, then took a soft gasp of surprise. ‘Where’s your pepperoni slice Pizzaman outfit?’
‘In the bin, thank God,’ he chuckled with a shake of his head. ‘I convinced them that it wasn’t a great sales tool. They also sold the moped when I said we could all deliver to more customers during our hours if they paid us mileage to use our own cars. Go on, go and check your hand. If you need it looked at, I’ll drive you in and you can eat your pizza on the way.’
‘Thanks, Kitt, that’s really kind of you.’ I gave him a grateful smile as I took the delicious smelling box off him. ‘Come in, I need to shut the door quickly before Mrs. Tibbles makes a bid for freedom.’
‘Mrs. Tibbles?’ he asked, as he stepped inside and pushed the door closed behind him.
‘My cat. She’s never been outside, which is why I always join you on the doorstep for a chat. I’m waiting for some sunny days so I can open the back doors and supervise her first adventure into the unknown. Follow me. I taped this bag on so tightly that I might need a hand t
aking it off, or I’m liable to lose a finger using the scissors left-handed.’
‘Kind of accident-prone, huh?’ he asked as we headed into the kitchen.
‘You could say that,’ I laughed, setting my pizza on the side and rummaging in the drawer. ‘Here you are, do you mind?’ I asked, offering them to him.
He made short work of snipping through the tape while I rested the bag in the kitchen sink. When I pulled my hand out, we both winced. I had three huge white blisters puffed up on my fingertips, which were full of fluid.
‘Ok, you definitely need to go to hospital. If one of those bursts, you’ll be at risk of an infection. Do you have your bag and keys handy?’ he asked as he grabbed my pizza.
‘I can’t put you to all of that trouble,’ I objected. He’d only come to deliver my dinner.
‘I live on Falcon’s Way, right opposite the hospital.’
‘Well, ok then,’ I relented, giving him a grateful smile. He gave me one in return, a pair of cute dimples appearing in his cheeks. He soaked one of my tea towels in cold water and wrung it out as I stuffed my phone and wallet in my handbag. When I said I was ready, he carefully wrapped the tea towel around my fingers, the coldness of it very soothing. As his fingers brushed mine, I kind of wished I’d felt that surge of electricity I had when I’d touched Dr. Fitton, as Kitt was so sweet. I was a firm believer that you needed great chemistry for great love. It was an idea that I based my living on, and all my fictional characters experienced it. He grabbed my pizza and pulled the door shut behind me as we made our way into the lane, where a little white Fiat 500 was sitting.
‘Sorry about the girlie car,’ he grimaced as he ran around to open the passenger door for me. ‘It’s Mum’s. She hadn’t had it long before I realised it wasn’t safe for her to drive. So I sold my old car, which was due to be replaced anyway, and use hers instead.’
He settled me in, leaning over me to buckle up my seat belt, and I felt myself breathing him in. As well as the scent of herbs that they sprinkled on their pizzas, his aftershave made him smell of a fresh ocean. It was nice. He opened my pizza box for me and handed me a few napkins from the side pocket in the door, telling me not to be shy about tucking in. I took a gigantic bite and quickly chewed and swallowed it before he climbed in and started the engine.
‘Do you mind me asking what happened to your mum?’ I took a more ladylike and delicate bite of pizza as he started to head up the lane. People had a tendency to judge me when they saw the amount I could stuff into my mouth in one go.
‘Rapid onset dementia,’ he sighed, rubbing his left hand over his face before returning it to rest on the gearstick. ‘It seemed like it came on overnight, but looking back, the warning signs were there. I should have visited her more often, maybe I’d have picked up on it sooner, but I was living in Newcastle-upon-Tyne at the time.’
‘You can’t blame yourself. It’s not like there’s a cure if she’d been diagnosed earlier, is it?’
‘No,’ he admitted. ‘But it doesn’t stop me from feeling guilty as hell for not being there to support her sooner or spending as much time with her before she forgot I even existed.’
‘I’m so sorry, Kitt.’ He nodded, but clenched his jaw and kept his focus on pulling out onto the main road. He seemed lost in his thoughts as he headed to Shrewsbury, so I stayed quiet and just continued eating. The silence might have been awkward. It should have been awkward. I mean, I was sitting in Pizzaman’s car after he’d shared something pretty personal. But it wasn’t. It was a comfortable silence, like we both understood that no words were going to make him feel any better about his situation.
‘You really like pizza, huh?’ he asked with a slight laugh as I closed the empty box with a contented sigh and noticed we were nearly at the hospital.
‘Just a bit, what gave it away? That I can polish off a large pizza all on my own?’ I flashed him a grin.
‘That, the frequent orders, and the noises you were making as you ate.’
‘Oh God no,’ I groaned, quickly closing my eyes as my cheeks flushed. Andy, my ex, had told me that I made sexual noises when I was enjoying my food.
‘Don’t worry,’ he laughed, flashing me a smile. ‘It’s just been a while since I’ve heard any sexy moans like that.’
‘You’re not seeing anyone?’ I asked.
‘Not since I moved here. It’s not like I have a lot of free time, and saying “Hey, I’m Kitt, a thirty-something who still lives with my mum, who likes to sit in the lounge in a self-inflatable rubber dinghy,” isn’t exactly the best sales pitch.’
‘A rubber dinghy?’ I made a concerted effort not to laugh, but he did anyway.
‘Yes. She’s convinced that the blue lounge carpet is the ocean and she’s going to drown or be mauled by sharks, so she was refusing to go in there. I wanted her to be comfortable and not sit on a hard chair in the dining room, so I brought a self-inflating dinghy and filled it with comfy cushions. Now she’ll go and sit in it. Sometimes I cover her with the duvet as she likes to sleep in it and I sleep on the sofa to watch over her.’ He indicated left at the roundabout to turn into the hospital.
‘You’re a special man, Kitt,’ I said sincerely. ‘One day, a woman will realise that and snap you up.’
‘Thanks,’ he replied with a tight-lipped smile. ‘But it’s not fair to anyone to date them while I have my hands full with Mum, she has to be my priority.’
‘You can’t put your life on hold,’ I reminded him, thinking he sounded too good to be true. ‘You deserve some happiness, too.’
‘She is my life, Charlie,’ he said as he pulled into the car park, sounding as if he really meant it and didn’t begrudge it. ‘She put hers on hold to raise me when my dad left us, it’s my turn to return the favour. She has a shortened life expectancy with the disease. Offering her my full support for her remaining years is the least I can do.’
‘And here I was feeling sorry for myself with my burnt fingers, I feel ashamed,’ I admitted.
‘God, please don’t,’ he replied, flashing a smile in my direction. ‘I’m coming across as a real attention seeker, telling you all of this. Truth is, I don’t get much adult conversation that doesn’t involve pizza, and it feels good to talk to someone. Ok, shove the box on the floor and I’ll undo your belt for you and come around to open your door.’
‘Don’t make yourself late,’ I told him as I saw him quickly check his watch.
‘I’m ok for a while. I’ll see you inside, make sure you’re settled.’
He was true to his word and offered to sit with me after filling in the paperwork for me, seeing how I couldn’t even hold a pen to do it. I noticed the receptionist casting a few furtive glances our way, then blushing and looking back down at her computer when I caught her.
‘You have an admirer,’ I giggled as I elbowed him and nodded in her direction. He just scoffed and stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankles as he folded his arms across his chest. He was a seriously good-looking guy, with a decent body from what I could see. It was a shame he was keeping himself off the market when women were obviously interested. ‘Now, I need to ask a favour, and I warn you it might not be pretty.’
‘You want me to check your gross blisters again?’ he asked as he held my gaze.
‘No, my teeth. I can’t risk seeing McFitty again if I have oregano stuck between my teeth. Now, I’ll probably look like a horse with an overcrowded mouth, too many teeth is one of my flaws. Do you mind?’ I didn’t give him the chance to object as I grinned at him and bared them, and quite possibly a whole load of pink gums at the same time, as I tilted my head from side to side. He laughed and shook his head.
‘I pronounce you oregano, and all other herbs, free. And who the hell is Mc … what did you call him?’ he asked.
‘McFitty, my nickname for Dr. Fitton,’ I replied, hushing him with a finger to my lips. ‘Only the sexiest doctor I ever laid eyes on, and I’ve seen enough doctors to be confident in my claim. I have a serious crush on
him and don’t want him to see me looking anything but my best.’
‘You’re in a plaster cast with an “I Love Cats” tea towel wrapped around your fingers,’ he reminded me.
‘Damn it,’ I uttered, hastily unravelling the tea towel. If I was lucky enough to see him, I didn’t want him thinking I was a crazy cat lady. Which of course I was. But he didn’t need to know that, not yet anyway.
‘You’re a very attractive woman, Charlie. I doubt a tea towel will affect him seeing you as one.’
‘Well, thanks, but I’m not taking any chances. I’ve got it so bad for him.’
‘I’ll get going then,’ Kitt said, abruptly standing up and straightening the black jumper he was wearing over a white t-shirt, with his trademark black jeans and boots. ‘You won’t want him seeing you sitting with another guy, in case he gets the wrong impression.’
‘Kitt, thank you so much. I really appreciate the lift. I’ll find a way to repay you. Oh God, pay you, I haven’t paid you for the pizza.’
‘On the house,’ he smiled. ‘You’ve tipped me enough over the last few months for me to offer you a free pizza in your hour of need.’
‘Thank you,’ I repeated sincerely. I’d have to find a way to make it up to him.
‘Good luck, hope you don’t lose those fingers,’ he teased.
‘Me too,’ I gasped, looking down as I gave them a wiggle to make sure they were still in working order. How would I write books with no fingers?
‘See you soon, Charlie.’ He shoved his hands into the front pockets of his jeans as he smiled at me.
‘Yes, see you soon, Kitt. Hope your mum isn’t too much trouble tonight.’
‘God, me too,’ he sighed, before he turned and headed out. The receptionist cocked her head to check out his backside, which made me have a quick look too. With his hands in his pockets, it had the effect of pulling his jeans tightly around a nicely toned backside that I’d not noticed before.
The Best Medicine Page 4