Chapter 3
Noah
Igave in far too easily, with my mother’s persistent knocking on the door making my frazzled head hurt.
I had a sneaky feeling it was somewhere in the middle of the night where my body clock was, but the obvious sunshine streaming through the gap in the curtains revealed something I didn’t like very much. Daylight. No more sleep.
I needed all the sleep.
Also, Mother? This was supposed to be a holiday, something she just laughed at as I demanded five minutes to get myself in order.
I could hear her standing outside the door, tutting and complaining to my dad. This was my life. No mercy for the poor soul who worked full-on weeks, did too much overtime and never got out of the surgery on time.
The life of a bog-standard GP, in a suburban practice where every ailment under the sun magically became my personal responsibility.
I shouldn’t complain because I was not only very lucky, very comfortable in life and very, very…
wrung out. I had colleagues off with stress, with horrific illness and family matters that would make anyone falter.
I just had me, and still? I was exhausted most of the time.
I went home every day, and sometimes? I just rolled into bed and slept in my clothes.
Not ideal. Not fancy or smart, but it was just me, so why did it matter?
Well, today it did because I had to throw myself in the weird-ass hotel shower and scrub off not only sleep but also sand and sweat and sun cream, and dress myself in something fittingly holidaysy-yet-decent to please my parents’ disapproving looks as I stepped out onto the sandy path outside.
“Better,” Mum said, rather sternly. “If we are to impress Mr Riley, we need to up our game, Noah.”
“Oh stop it,” I whined. “Mum, please let me have a break.”
“Nope!” She cackled. “First night and I already have a contender. Who would have thought?”
“You don’t even know him!” I threw my hands in the air.
A futile gesture, because I knew I stood no chance here.
“I’m going to have the day off, Mum, read my book and enjoy the weather.
Just me on my own in bed with a nice dinner tonight and a bottle of red.
I am going to enjoy the ideal holiday. And you can’t stop me. ”
“Bah.” Mum shrugged. “Watch me.”
Breakfast? I wolfed it down and let myself sit there like the useless blob I was.
The table in the corner that had held my undivided attention last night?
This morning, it housed only four very hungover men, and none of them was Ringlet-man.
I saw Mum’s point, though. Two of them were definitely a couple, and the other two were animatedly retelling stories that I was pretty sure weren’t…
great. Lots of shaking of heads and rolling of eyes. Enough drama that even I was invested.
“See?” Mum whispered, having returned from a slightly weird detour to inspect the plastic flower arrangements alongside the back wall. Also? Here it was, more gossip.
“So, they were talking about Thomas. Not sure who Thomas is, but he’s done it now. And he’s a bit of an arsehole. I’m very intrigued.”
“You don’t know these people, dear,” Dad pointed out, as Mum just threw up jazz hands in frustration.
“No, but they are Mr Riley’s friends, and he looked most distressed last night. He’s single, and handsome, and should be here having the time of his life. Instead, he looked positively heartbroken. I didn’t like it. Don’t you worry, I’ll get to the bottom of it.”
“You should go back to volunteering, Gill.” Dad sighed, “This gossipmongering is all good and entertaining, I agree, but perhaps you could put your skills to better use where needed.”
I had to laugh, because yes, like that would happen. Mum lived for things like this. Me? I preferred to just read the book. Much less traumatic for everyone involved.
“He’s obviously having a lie-in. You should go bring him a coffee, Noah. Knock on his door. Wildly romantic.”
Yes. That was me spluttering out my coffee over the pristine tablecloth.
Then having to wipe my T-shirt down with a napkin.
Not a good look for anyone involved. And of course, here was the attentive waiter offering up another napkin and a fresh cup, like I hadn’t just misbehaved at the children’s table.
I felt like it, almost forty or not.
Having hung around breakfast far too long and then installing my parents at the bar to indulge in an early morning glass of bubbles, the party-pooper-of-the-day, aka me, decided to go and remove myself from any risk of public humiliation by my mother and just sit on the private sundeck outside my room.
Bungalow-villa-room-thing. It was basically just a room with a private patio and some silly little fence leading onto the path down the beach.
Very fancy. Mum and Dad next door, and a couple on the other side who were already out on their deckchairs, baking in the morning sun.
I shuddered, my medical head back in action, imagining all the doom and gloom. I wasn’t about to sit in the sun and fry my skin into oblivion. Not like the…
Crap. There was someone fast asleep on my little deck, thankfully in the shade, apart from one foot that was glowing alarmingly red in the sun. The sole of a male foot.
I had to stop and double-check that it was definitely my room-villa-thing. That I hadn’t got lost and missed a turn. Nope. This was… Yes.
There was someone asleep on my deckchair with a towel over their head.
My towel. Probably. The one I had left outside to dry. On my private deck. Like…my space. That I had… Crap.
Okay. Deep breath. Professional mode on.
I was in the middle of the Indian Ocean, no police force around. Did this island have security? Could I ring reception and ask them to remove the obviously lost intruder on my deckchair?
Nah. I was a grown-up; surely someone had just got drunk and confused.
Which is why I got down on my haunches and carefully lifted the edge of the towel.
“Hey,” I said softly.
Bad move. Incredibly bad move. Because here came a hand flying as the dude on the deckchair jerked into life and flailed helplessly under the towel, making me lose my balance and fall straight onto my arse.
And now the second deckchair was sliding into the flowerbed with me attached, and here was…
Ringlet-man, standing up and then wailing in pain as his reddened foot hit the patio slabs.
Jumping up and down and staring at me in shock. And pain. And… Fuck.
“Sorry!” came out of my mouth as I tried to get myself up…and away. He was going to fall over any second, so I did what any respectable human would have done. I grabbed his arm and tried to steady him.
“Did your mum get you up to this?” he snarled, then whined pathetically as he once again tried to stand on his foot.
“Sit,” I said sternly.
He just glared at me, still standing there on his good foot, hanging on to me for support.
“Okay.”
I said that more to calm myself than to calm him; tears were forming in his eyes.
Pain. That foot looked horrible, and how long had he been lying there?
“Let’s get you inside.”
“The fuck?” he screeched. Okay. Unhinged. Confused?
“Mate, you’ve burnt the sole of your foot to a crisp, and I need to put something cooling on it right now. Wanna destroy your foot? Be my guest, or you let me get you inside, pop some painkillers in you and sort an icepack?”
Icepack? Not the thing for burns, what the hell was coming out of my mouth? I was a bit frazzled. So was he.
“Okay?” Another high-pitched whine as he tried to take a step.
“We have to go round… Hang on. I’ll go open the door and get you in. You’re, like, covered in sand.”
A correct observation, now that I had calmed down…
for one second. This was me stepping out of my awkward self and into my medical alter ego, devoid of personal involvement; he was just a patient in need.
This, I could do. Hence I sprinted round to the back of the room-villa-thing, which housed the front door, and let myself in, grabbed a towel, and slid the patio doors open, where he was still hobbling on his good foot and looking like he was crying.
I didn’t blame him. He’d done that foot in badly, and lucky for him? I’d been there once or twice, Doctor of Medicine or not. I had my first aid kit and my squidgy bottle of burn gel and latex gloves at the ready, but I quickly changed my tactic.
“Shower,” I demanded, and just like that? With zero concern for lifting techniques or manual handling guidelines, I yanked him into my arms and carried him inside.
Like a fucking princess. Who the hell was I, and what had I done with Noah Fairweather?
The whole situation was absurd, yet terrifyingly real as I put him down on the toilet seat, lifting his foot up and flicking the shower on, ice cold, with my elbow.
I almost tipped him off the seat when I reached out for the showerhead, but it was the cold water hitting his foot that made him slide off, now howling and trying to hang on to the toilet roll holder.
“Fuuuuuckkkkk!” he shouted, kicking his limb out of my reach.
“Stay still!” I urged him, trying to stay stern. Get him propped back up on the seat as I held on to his leg and kept the shower firmly on the sole of his foot.
“Stupidity on a grand scale,” came out of my mouth. I didn’t mean to offend or scold him, but it was the only thing that made sense. His and mine.
“I was fucking drunk,” he hissed, tears running down his face. “Fuck that hurts. Enough. Please.”
“Nope. At least twenty minutes is recommended, if you want to be able to walk on it this week. Probably not.”
“I’ve got first aid training,” he sobbed. “Just… Fuuuuck!”
“I’m a doctor,” I groaned.
“You? A doctor,” he wailed as I moved the showerhead closer. “It’s fucking torture!”
“Well, perhaps you shouldn’t have fallen asleep on my deckchair.” Gosh, I was rude.
“Well, perhaps you should mind your own business?”