Chapter Thirty-One
Thirty-One
Stranger
An indisputably attractive man, but oddly dressed.
For reasons unclear, he’s wearing a green beanie hat with matching boxers and no shirt, and I am acutely aware of great abs, but my eyes go to his face, where there are twin plugs of toilet tissue in his nostrils.
‘Who are you?’ he says croakily, turning to look at me, and then sneezes so monstrously that the tissue plugs dislodge from his nose and shoot across the bed, landing soggily on the carpet at my feet.
‘Lindy. Gross,’ I say, taking a step backwards.
‘Lindy Gross,’ he echoes, groggily. ‘Who’s that?’
I point to my chest. ‘Me… I am Lindy. You are gross. Or rather, that sneeze was. My surname is not Gross.’
Well, technically it is, the way that Scotty says it.
He sneezes twice more, his hand scrabbling around the bed, looking for the roll of toilet paper, which is lodged between his pillows.
‘It’s behind you,’ I say, pantomime-style.
He seizes the roll, blows his nose and replaces the soiled nostril plugs with fresh ones that he rolls out of ripped little scraps of tissue.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asks, groaning through the sheer effort of having to speak.
‘Getting infected with whatever it is you have there, I would imagine.’
‘Sorry,’ he groans again. ‘It came on suddenly. I was a bit under the weather this morning, but nothing like this. This must be flu.’
I take a step backwards and accidentally step on the dog’s foot, which makes him yelp.
‘Oops, my bad. Sorry,’ I say to Ted, and then turn back to the man in the bed. ‘There’s a ten-pound note blowing around outside,’ I say, narrowing my eyes. ‘You should go and get it.’
‘Huh?’ he gasps in the breath before another sneeze.
‘It’s the flu test.’
‘The what?’
‘You know,’ I say, with a tone of superiority that even annoys me. ‘That’s how you know if you have the flu or a cold. If it’s just a cold, you’d still go outside to get the money. With the flu, you’d be too ill to bother.’
‘Who are you?’ he says, looking completely confused by this line of conversation.
‘I’m the petsitter,’ I say. ‘Lindy.’
‘What? The petsitter’s not supposed to be here for another two days.’
Every word comes out like a groan, and he’s started to shiver.
‘No, this was the day I was supposed to arrive – Tuesday.’
‘Frank told me Thursday,’ he says, hand scrabbling desperately to find the toilet tissue roll again.
‘Well, I was told Tuesday,’ I insist.
But… am I, in fact, quite sure I’m supposed to be here today?
No, I’ve never been less sure of anything. For one thing, Thursday would explain why the summer ferry timetable hasn’t started up yet.
‘Ah,’ I say. ‘Erm.’
‘Either they told you wrong, or you read it wrong,’ he says, teeth chattering now.
‘This is probably my cock-up,’ I say, with a deep sigh. ‘Historically speaking, I have been the upper of major cocks… Hang on, that didn’t come out quite right.’
Thankfully, I don’t think he hears, as he simply clutches his head and lies back down. The duvet is hanging off the bed and I can see the fine mist of sweat on his incredibly toned torso.
Am I perving at this strange, snotty man?
What is wrong with me?
He has a stinking cold, a teddy-bear dog, good abdominals and a baffled manner. That’s all I know about him. At first glance, he doesn’t appear to be a serial killer. Or, if he is, he’s currently so incapacitated by viral load as to be a non-threat to me.
‘Drugs,’ he says, pleading.
‘Drugs?’
‘Yes,’ he croaks. ‘Need drugs.’
Is he in some sort of withdrawal? Perhaps this is what cold turkey looks like?
‘I don’t have drugs on me, sorry.’
‘Ibuprofen. Paracetamol. Please. I’ll take anything you’ve got.’
‘Oh, right. I probably do have something in my handbag,’ I say, starting to rummage.
I hand him a blister pack of aspirin pills.
‘Thank you,’ he gasps. ‘Water,’ he whispers to me, as if his mouth has dried to a husk.
Obediently, I go into the kitchen and run the tap until the water clears. I’ve known him for thirty seconds and I’m already nursemaiding.
Who is this man? Why is he being ill here and not in his own home? Is this all an elaborate joke? Am I being pranked? Is that why the cart driver was saying all that weird stuff? Did he deliberately take me to the wrong accommodation for some sort of island hazing thing?
I carry the tumbler of water back into the bedroom, but the man is already curled up in the foetal position, his covers thrown aside, sound asleep.
The beanie on his head is pulled down so low that it’s impossible to see if he has a shaved head under there or a mass of golden locks. I have the strangest temptation to lift a corner of the beanie to check, but how weird would that be?
Leaving the pills and water on the bedside table, I retreat to the living room and try to figure out what’s happening here.
Whatever it is, I get the distinct feeling that it is not going to end well for either the strange man in the bed, or – most crucially – me.