Chapter 9 Mia
MIA
I’m sick.
It’s been coming on now for the past week, since the last football game and my dinner out with Dominic.
It started with a headache and a bit of a sniffle, which I tried to combat with some ginger turmeric shots, sure they’d see me right.
I went to a sauna between the seemingly endless photo shoots I had scheduled, thinking that would help sweat out the last of whatever was brewing in my system.
But now, I feel like death.
My whole body aches, my head is pounding, and I’ve blown my nose about 18 millions times, much to the annoyance of the make-up artist who keeps having to retouch my sore, red skin.
“You need a rest,” Holly says, rubbing my shoulder between takes. “Please tell me you’re going to go home and relax.”
I wave my hand, forcing a smile. “A bath, some Lemsip, and a good sleep, and I’ll be all ready for the Kerastase people tomorrow.”
“I am rescheduling all your shoots for the next week.” Holly gives me a pointed look. “You’ve been working too hard and you need a break.”
“I’ll be fine,” I insist, just as a cough forces its way up my throat, and the photographer looks at me with open alarm. “It’s not covid,” I croak, smiling weakly. “I did a test last night, promise.”
“I think we’ve got everything we need now, Mia!” The photographer says, and Holly gives them a nod.
“Good, that’s that then.” She turns back to me with a frown. “Shall I drive you home? I don’t really want you getting on the sodding tube feeling like this.”
“No,” I snap a little more harshly than I intended, and take her hand with a sigh. “I promise, I’m just run down. I’ll stop at Boots on the way home and get some cold and flu tablets, they’ll knock me out tonight and I’ll probably be fine tomorrow.”
“You will go home and take those tablets and forget about tomorrow, thank you very much.” Holly points a finger in my face. “And tell me you’re not going to the game tonight.”
“Oh god, no. I already told Dominic this morning I wasn’t going to make it.”
“Good, last thing you need is to be sitting out in a freezing cold stadium.” Holly watches as I pack up my things, and follows me to the dressing room. “Bet he was disappointed you won’t be there.”
“I suppose,” I say with a shrug, pulling the curtain across the partition and stripping out of the tastefully dishevelled clothes I was modelling. “He’ll get over it.”
“Hopefully the team don’t fret without their good luck charm being there.”
I try to laugh, but all that comes out is another cough that hurts my chest.
“Oh bloody hell,” I mutter, slipping back into my jeans and thick knitted jumper. “I cannot wait to be home.”
“You poor thing.” Holly gives me a sad smile when I emerge. “Just go home and rest, and I’ll be in touch about your schedule, alright? But please do not worry.”
“I promise I won’t.” I lean in to give her a hug, then quickly back off. “Shit, sorry, don’t want to get you sick.”
“I’ll douse myself in bleach the second I get home.”
With another laugh that devolves into a cough, I head out of the studio and out onto the street.
The tube is packed but my wheezing has people at least attempting to stay clear of me.
The attendant at Boots looks at my masked face and bloodshot eyes with alarm, pushing the bag of cold and flu tablets across the counter at me as though I’m about to give her a dose of leprosy.
Guess I really do look bloody awful.
The ride home seems to take forever, and my body is so sore by the time I’m dragging myself up my front path that I swear this has got to be the flu. Bloody brilliant. I had better not end up in hospital. Covid had me land there four years ago, and I don’t need to relive that again.
“Trish,” I call weakly as I open the door, surprised that Tank hasn’t come rushing to greet me.
Music is playing, seeming to come from the kitchen, and Trish doesn’t answer.
I shove off my boots and with great effort hang my coat up by the door.
“Trish, I’m sick!” I call out. “I probably shouldn’t get too close to you, I’ll wire you your overtime for today.
” I make my way down the hall to the kitchen, and even through my stuffy nose, I can make out the smell of cooking.
Why would Trish be cooking?
“Trish?”
The house feels hot, and I curse my stupid new thermostat system that’s probably malfunctioning again. Another thing to add to my to-do list.
“Trish? Are you cooking someth-” I stop short as I reach the kitchen door, and Tank comes barreling towards me with a yelp. I barely pay attention to him, because I’m too thrown by the sight of Dominic, in my kitchen, wearing nothing but low-slung jeans and a checkered red and white apron.
The counters are scattered with tins and packets, chopping boards covered in piles of fresh vegetables. A huge stockpot is steaming away on the stovetop, and my pantry door is wide open, showing shelves stocked with food I certainly did not buy.
Dominic stops when he spots me, and gives me a smile.
“You’re home, love."
“What the fuck are you doing?” I croak out, and Dominic barely misses a beat.
“Your heating’s buggered,” he says, retrieving a casserole dish from the oven. “Needs looking at.”
“I know, it’s a new system, and - Wait, what the fuck are you doing? Where’s Trish? How- How the fuck did you get in?”
Dominic pulls two loaves of bread from the oven and places them on wire racks I also don’t remember ever owning.
“The dogsitter?” Dominic asks, wiping his brow with his forearm. “Lovely girl. I sent her home.”
“She just let you in?”
Dominic gives me a smug grin. “She recognised me. Fan of the club as it turns out.”
I roll my eyes, an action I instantly regret as my head starts to pound again. I wince and press my hand to my temple. “Look, Dom, I don’t know what you’re doing but-”
“I’m cooking,” he says, gesturing around the kitchen.
“Yes, I can see that, without your clothes on and all, but I feel like death so if-”
“You go shower and get into some comfy clothes,” he interjects, going to the stock pot and lifting the lid to check on its contents. “Do you have medication to take or shall I order you some?”
“No, no, I went to Boots.” I hold up the paper bag. “All set.”
“Good.” He plucks a spoon from the counter and quickly tries some of whatever is in the stock pot. “Take that before your shower, and when you come out, the soup will be ready for you.”
“Soup?” I ask weakly.
“Yes, soup. Now, off with you, you’ll feel better when you’re all clean.”
I scrub at my face with my hands and let out a frustrated growl. “Dom, I’m exhausted, I’m really not in the mood to entertain.”
“You don’t have to entertain me.” He pauses at the counter, his huge arms looking almost comical emerging from the cheery red and white of the apron.
“I’m here to help. I am here to cook you food, take the dog out for a walk so you don’t have to worry about it, and then I’ll be out of your hair, alright?
” He gestures to my bedroom. “Please, go and get yourself comfortable.” When I don’t move, he sighs.
“I’m not here to step on your toes. I just want to look after you. You deserve a bit of care, you know?”
I don’t like what those words do to my insides. My stomach swirls, and I tell myself it’s just this stupid flu. My head is truly pounding now, and with a groan I shuffle across the room.
“Fine, I’ll go shower.”
“And don’t forget that medication!” Dom calls after me, and I respond by lifting the paper bag in the air and shaking it as I walk away.
Tank scampers alongside me, and I glare down at him.
“Traitor,” I mutter, to which he just replies by yipping merrily.
By the time I’m out of the shower, the cold and flu tablets have started working, and my head’s only marginally pounding. My whole body still feels achy and sore, and I know I’m in for a rough night.
When I get back to the kitchen, Dom’s out of his apron and back in his shirt (thankfully - I think…) and barking orders at someone on the phone.
“Well the house feels like a Swedish sauna, and my daughter-in-law is ill.” He taps his fingers on the counter and nods.
“Yes, I know it’s late, but when you install a sub-standard system with a fancy bloody computer screen instead of a dial I could fix myself, then that’s not my problem.
She needs proper heating.” He spies me loitering in the doorway, and gestures to the breakfast bar.
“Yes, I’ll pay the fee, just send someone out. Yes. Within the hour, thank you.”
He hangs up and gives me a smile.
“Heater repair man will be here within the hour.”
I grunt out a laugh as I slump onto a stool. “You really do drive a hard bargain.”
“I know how to get what I want,” he says with a grin. “Now, soup.” He turns to the stove, ladling a steaming portion of a creamy golden liquid into a blue bowl. “This is my grandmother’s recipe, and she swore by it. Said it was better than penicillin.”
“So I’ll be right as rain by morning, will I?” I don’t really have the energy for jokes, but I force a smile, and Dom returns it sympathetically.
“You poor love,” he says, his eyes moving over my face. “You work too hard.”
“Nurses work too hard,” I croak in reply. “I’m just posing for a camera, I’ll be fine.”
Dom rolls his eyes. “Come on, eat. It’ll do you good.”
I scoop up a small amount with my spoon, and obediently pop it into my mouth. Oh, fuck me. If I had the strength, I’d probably slap the table. My eyes flutter closed and I can’t resist humming a little. Even with a blocked nose and a reduced sense of taste, the soup is delicious.
Dom is leaning back against the counter, smiling smugly, and raises his eyebrows. “Good?”
“You bastard.” I shake the spoon at him. “Of course you’d be good at cooking.”
“I had good teachers.”
“Yes, I can see that.” I down another three spoons before I look back at him, his beard twitching as his mouth shifts. “You look altogether too pleased with yourself.”