‘Shhh, Angel! I know, you want to say hello. You’re such a girl’s girl!’ He strode across the hall, opened a door, and dropped the dog in, before shutting it again quickly. He turned back to me and grinned. ‘All safe. Come this way.’
I followed him through yet another set of double doors, which, this time, opened into a cavernous cream kitchen/diner and TV area, complete with a dazzling ceramic floor that a thousand ceiling spotlights appeared to be bouncing off. I blinked and saw first my own reflection in the acre of wall-length bifold doors opposite – incongruous in my navy trench coat against the otherwise completely sterile palette – before my gaze moved left to where a woman was perched on a bar stool next to an island, on which sat three fizzing glasses of what appeared to be champagne.
She was wearing white, tight jeans – an odd choice for a woman with chronic D&V – and a soft, grey sweater that clung to an obviously still fabulous figure. She flicked back Farrah Fawcett hair, gave me a megawatt Charlie’s Angel smile, and stood up, before putting an immaculately French-polished nail in her mouth and saying coyly: ‘Hello, Dr Inglis, I’m Christy Day. Please don’t hate me, but I’ve been a little bit naughty.’ She picked up one of the flutes and offered it to me.
I stayed exactly where I was. ‘Mrs Day, I’m confused. You told me you needed urgent medical attention.’
Gary came round and stood between us, before adding smoothly: ‘We’ll cut straight to the chase, Als. We want you to come and work for us.’
Als? I looked at them blankly. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘We moved to this house about eight months ago to finish developing and overseeing the opening of our fifth new spa and country club. It’s about six miles away from here; you’ll have seen the plans in the local press,’ Christy said cosily. ‘Gary’s heading up the gym side – that’s his area of expertise – and I’m doing the spa. I know you used to run a Botox clinic locally. A friend had some filler work done by you and it was fab.u.lous!’ She twinkled at me. ‘She also knows your friend Stef Knowles, actually, who said you might be keen to talk to us? The trouble is, we joined your practice when we moved to this catchment area, and I knew that if I called the surgery legitimately and was up front about what we wanted, because I’m your patient, you would probably have just thought “conflict of interest” and dismissed it; whereas I was sure if I could just get you over here to look at our plans and see how exciting what we have to offer is…’
My mouth fell open in disbelief. She wasn’t ill at all.
‘We need someone with proper experience and the credentials, you see,’ Gary interrupted. ‘We’ve done some digging around, and you’ve got both.’ He closed one eye, pretended to take aim and fired at me with his thumb and finger. ‘We know we’ve found our girl.’
I tried not to think about the very ill little four-year-old I’d seen just before them, and her frightened mum, who had apologised profusely for dragging me out, even though she’d been quite right to. Then I thought about Maisie and Tilly, patiently waiting for me to get home, and cleared my throat. OK, so it seemed we loosely had friends in common, but they couldn’t possibly think getting me here under false pretences on NHS time was acceptable? That I should be flattered? ‘As you don’t actually require any medical attention, Mrs Day, I’m going to leave now.’
‘Oh, you’re not, not really?’ Christy’s smile slipped, and she pouted.
Who on earth did she think she was? And what made them think I’d want to work with them after this anyway, when they’d been prepared to adopt such underhand techniques?
‘You’re here now,’ Gary wheedled, friendly wide smile at the ready again. ‘Just a quick look at the plans, Als. Come on.’
His tone had become firm. It was almost an instruction. I turned and stared at him, as I considered the elderly patient I’d seen earlier in the day who had somehow managed to get himself to the surgery on the bus despite being in severe pain. He wouldn’t have dreamt of asking me to come out to his house. I began to feel very angry indeed. ‘It’s Dr Inglis, thank you.’
He looked surprised, and Christy put her hands on her hips. ‘All right, I don’t think there’s any need to be a snotty bitch about it.’
I sighed wearily. Great. She was one of those sorts of women.
‘Chris,’ Gary said warningly.
‘No, I think perhaps we have actually made a mistake, Gary.’ She stared challengingly at me and crossed her arms.
I ignored her insult. Experience had taught me not to go there. ‘Mrs Day, if you had been honest with me and asked me to come and meet you here to discuss your business opportunity, I would have quickly run it past a colleague, but I probably would have said yes.’ I addressed her politely and sincerely. ‘As things stand now, I think I’ll see myself out.’
I turned on my heels, clutching my bag tightly, smugly pleased that I’d kept both my temper and the moral high ground.
I’d almost made it to the kitchen door when voices and laughter carrying down the hall towards us grew suddenly much louder and an extremely pretty teenage girl burst into the room. She was clutching her phone in one hand and giggling flirtatiously, winding a piece of long blonde hair round her finger with the other. Her school shirt was untucked over a grey miniskirt that just about covered her arse, and a tall boy in school uniform behind her was yanking on a bag slung across her body, trying to pull her back towards him.
Everyone jumped as my bag, having slipped from my fingers, dropped onto the hard tiles with the dull crack of something smashing within. The girl pulled an ‘awkward!’ face – clearly thinking that they’d had the house to themselves – and added a slightly insincere ‘sorry.’
But I was paralysed, my limbs hanging useless by my side as I stared at the young couple, or rather the boy.
It was him.
The twenty-five-year-old from Pacha I’d woken up next to four days ago.
Right in front of me.
In school uniform.
It was like feeling someone’s outstretched fingers dragging across the bare skin on my shoulders, then clawing up the back of my scalp, before hands settled around my neck and started to squeeze. I was literally unable to breathe.
He stared back at me, those big brown eyes wide with confusion, his mouth slightly open. He knew exactly who I was too. I simply couldn’t make any sense of how he was dressed. Without the ridiculous nub of a school tie at his neck – worn deliberately short to tick a box – he could have been mistaken for an office junior. He didn’t have any of the gawkiness or angular thinness of a typical male teenager, rather the solid arms that I remembered holding me – and there was the bottom of his tattoo just visible under the edge of his rolled-up sleeve – but there was no mistaking that it was a school uniform he was wearing.
My mind began to panic and scramble. I had to do, or say, something; they were all looking at me. Why was he even here? He must be their daughter’s boyfriend. I needed to leave. I had to get out. I bent wildly to grab my belongings, almost going over on my ankle in my haste. Gary put an arm out to steady me, only for us all to see – as I righted myself and snatched up the handles – a wide crack snaking through the centre of the glossy tile underneath. The medical equipment in the bag had been heavy enough to break it on impact.
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’ exploded Christy, marching straight across, all pretence at sweetness and light now completely gone. ‘Look what’s she’s done!’