Chapter Seven #2
There were two doors leading off the room; one straight ahead and one directly opposite the window.
The straight ahead one turned out to be the kitchen and with a sigh of relief, Rosie put the pot in the fridge.
She looked around for something to scribble on, but the minimalist look extended into the kitchen.
Eventually she found a cardboard sleeve from a ready meal in a box under the sink, but there was no sign of a pen.
It was as she crept back into the living room that she heard the noise; a strange sort of groan, and she froze.
It was coming from somewhere behind the other door, which meant Dorothy was wrong and somebody was in, and from the sounds of it, they had company.
Her concerns about Connor finding her poking around in his kitchen paled into insignificance to the horror that she might unintentionally announce her presence in his flat while Connor was mid-orgasm.
In the intervening seconds that it took her shellshocked brain to instruct her feet to get the hell out of there, she heard another noise which was the unmistakeable sound of retching.
She dithered for a few seconds, wracked with indecision.
She had no reason to stay; she could just tiptoe out and leave the poor bugger in peace.
After all, he hadn’t exactly been keen on chit-chat the last time they met, and she very much doubted that now would be an appropriate opportunity to redress the balance.
She heard the loo flushing and another strange, rather pathetic sort of noise.
It reminded her of the time she went to a party at Emma’s sister’s house, and someone had accidentally trodden on the dog’s tail.
It was a mixture of pain, misery and indignity.
Since it was clearly obvious that he was not having wild sex with anyone, she decided she should at least see if he needed any help.
Tentatively Rosie opened the other door. An unmistakeable smell hit her and she put her hand over her nose.
Not wishing to alarm him she called out softly, ‘Connor? Are you okay?’
The bathroom door was wide open and Connor was lying on the vinyl floor almost curled into a foetal position. He was wearing a grey T-shirt and boxer shorts, so at least he was decent. Rosie rushed forward and dropped to her knees beside him.
‘Oh my god, what’s happened? Do you need me to call for help?’
Connor’s hand pushed against her arm. ‘Go away,’ he groaned. ‘Leave me to die in peace.’
‘You’re much too rude to be dying.’ Rosie felt his forehead. It was cold and slicked with sweat. ‘How long have you been like this?’
‘Since lunchtime. I had a sandwich and then I—’ He turned his head and retched again. Rosie held his forehead gently until the heaving stopped.
‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, trying to turn away.
‘I think we need to get you into bed.’ Rosie grabbed him under the armpits and hauled him into a sitting position. ‘Up we get.’
With Connor’s arm around her neck, they tottered together into the bedroom and he sank down gratefully onto the bed letting his head drop onto the pillow. Rosie lifted his feet up and then covered him with the duvet.
‘Thank you,’ he murmured.
‘I’ll get you a drink of water.’ She returned a few seconds later with a glass in her hand. ‘Try and take a few sips.’
Connor took the glass but his hand shook and some of the water slopped onto the sheet. He managed a few sips and then handed the glass back. She placed it carefully on the bedside table.
‘Can I call anyone for you?’
Connor shook his head.
‘Friends? Family?’
‘No,’ he whispered.
He closed his eyes. He looked rather pathetic, and Rosie felt a surprising maternal urge to stroke his hair and comfort him.
Why didn’t he want her to call any friends or family?
He had a brother, she knew that much, but whether Dorothy had a contact number for him was another matter.
He had clearly caught some bug or other, but any further questions would have to wait.
Connor’s eyes remained closed, either through exhaustion or a desire for privacy, so she might as well make herself useful.
She headed back into the bathroom which still had an unpleasant lingering odour and she quickly flushed the loo again and added a liberal amount of toilet cleaner.
She located some rubber gloves and cleaning equipment in the cupboard under the kitchen sink next to the recycling box, and set about wiping and then disinfecting the floor, followed by the basin and toilet for good measure.
Even though she hardly knew him and last time they spoke he’d been barely civil, the sight of him lying helpless on the floor had really shocked her.
And if she was being totally honest, she had missed having someone else to look after.
She wondered whether Connor would be hungry later; the last time she’d had a tummy bug, James had made her some dry toast, but she recalled it wasn’t very appetising once it had gone cold.
Crackers would be better, but a quick recce through the kitchen cupboards didn’t inspire her.
The choice appeared to be breakfast cereal or digestive biscuits.
She opened the pack of biscuits and put three on a plate for him, then found a jug and filled it with water.
Connor was still asleep when she crept back and she put the plate next to the water glass and tiptoed out again.
What should she do now? It wasn’t as if she was responsible for him; heck, she hardly even knew him.
But the idea of creeping out while he was so ill felt very wrong.
What if he took a turn for the worse? Rosie sat down on the sofa, extracted her phone from her handbag and pulled up her mother’s contact details.
Sorry, Mum, bit of an emergency, might not be able to make dinner. Will update you in an hour.
She then added a postscript: The emergency is not me, it’s someone else, to forestall any maternal panicking.
She put her phone on silent in case her mother decided to ring demanding more of an explanation, and then went in to the kitchen to make herself a drink.
If she was going to play Florence Nightingale she was entitled to refreshments.
She made herself a cup of tea and ate a couple of the digestive biscuits, then amused herself by looking at Connor’s mugs.
You could tell a lot about people from their mug collection; her mother’s were generally bone china mugs with country scenes or pictures of wildlife, whereas Emma’s generally had funny sayings.
Rosie’s favourite was the one that said I’m a hairdresser because punching people is frowned upon.
Not that Emma had ever punched anyone, but she was a fiercely loyal friend and had seen Rosie through a miserable time.
They’d known each other ever since college days; Rosie was doing a course in fashion and textiles, and Emma was training to be a hairdresser.
The students learnt to cut hair (under supervision) and only charged a nominal fee so as a hard-up second-year student, Rosie was happy to avail herself of their services.
After a twenty-minute appointment followed by an hour of chatting in the canteen, they were firm friends.
A sound from the bedroom interrupted Rosie’s trip down memory lane and as she poked her face around the bedroom door, she could see Connor was awake.
‘Just making sure you haven’t died yet,’ she said cheerily.
‘Not yet,’ groaned Connor. ‘But there’s plenty of time.’
Rosie moved closer to the bed and put her hand on his forehead. ‘Less clammy; that’s a good sign.’
His face still looked pale and drawn though, and his eyes seemed almost sunk into his face.
‘Look, are you sure you don’t want me to call anyone? What about your brother?’ she added tentatively. ‘Does he live nearby?’
‘No, don’t. He’s not…’ Connor shook his head without explaining further. He looked up at her, his dark eyes fixed on hers. Clearly there was some family history between them, but Rosie didn’t want to pry.
‘Do you want me to get you anything or would you prefer me to leave you in peace and quiet?’
‘I’m fine,’ he mumbled.
‘Apart from collapsing in the bathroom and throwing up.’
Connor smiled weakly. ‘Yeah.’ He stretched out his hand. ‘Thanks for coming and helping. I’ve no idea how you got in but you’re a lifesaver.’
Rosie felt her cheeks colour but she took his outstretched hand and squeezed it gently, then laid it back on the bed. ‘Don’t worry; I’ll be putting it all on your bill.’
‘Does that cover follow-up visits?’
‘It may,’ replied Rosie with a smile, as she wagged her finger at him. ‘Depending on how poorly you are tomorrow.’
‘What if I’m dying in the night? I might need to ring you urgently.’
‘That’s sensationally melodramatic as well as highly unlikely.’
‘Humour me.’
Rosie sighed. ‘Okay. Give me your phone and I’ll update my details. But no ringing at three am just to tell me you’ve been sick again.’
Connor sat up slowly and looked around. ‘Crap. I must have left it somewhere.’
To speed up proceedings Rosie entered his number in her contacts list and then called his mobile. She located the phone under a cushion in the lounge and placed it by his bed.
‘Am I okay to go now?’
‘I suppose so,’ Connor replied with a sigh.
‘Just keep drinking plenty of water. The rest of the biscuits are in the kitchen if you get peckish, and I’ll lock your front door again so you don’t have to worry about intruders.’
Dorothy was not hanging around as she left, probably having got bored of watching out for her, so she pocketed the keys as she might need them for her follow-up visit. She took her phone off silent and noticed a flurry of text messages from her mum. She tapped out a quick reply.
On my way. It’s 6.45. If too late for dinner, I’ll have toast.