Chapter Eight
When Connor opened his eyes on Monday morning, his stomach was empty in an unpleasant acidic sort of way, and he felt as though he’d just run a marathon, even though he hadn’t even got out of bed.
He sat up gingerly, rubbed his hands against his head and looked around.
A jug of water sat on the table by his bed, next to a plate with three biscuits on it.
He slept intermittently; the hours punctuated by the occasional visit to the bathroom.
When he woke several hours later feeling hungry, he had no idea what the time was.
He sat up and nibbled at the biscuits. If he’d had the energy he would have laughed at the irony of it.
Connor Forbes, a director of Grange Productions, who had until recently been assistant to the famous Bonnie Appleton, and who had dined in some of the greatest restaurants in the country, was reduced to slumming it in the scruffy end of Haxford and now living off dry, stale biscuits.
Although he knew it wasn’t helpful, in fact it was pitiable, he lay in bed feeling extremely sorry for himself.
It seemed as though over the last few months everything he had wanted and striven towards had evaporated because of one stupid paparazzi photograph that had been taken completely out of context and spun into a full-blown drama of epic proportions.
His musings were cut short by the sound of a key being inserted slowly and carefully in his front door followed by light, measured footsteps creeping up the stairs.
‘If you’ve come to nick anything, just take the telly and go,’ he called in a weary voice.
A familiar face appeared at the bedroom door. ‘I’ve already got a telly, but thanks for the offer.’
He wasn’t entirely sure why, but the sight of her made him feel instantly better.
Up until now he’d only ever seen Rosie in jeans and a T-shirt, but today she was wearing what looked like some sort of office attire.
The black skirt was straight with a small split at the back, and the matching black blouse had a white Peter Pan collar around which was fastened a pussy cat bow.
Her dark brown, curly hair was held back off her face with a thin hairband, and it emphasised the smile on her face.
He sat up and tried to see what was written on the name badge pinned to the pocket of her blouse. ‘You came back then.’
‘I certainly did. There’s no point in me spending time doing up the garden if you’ve gone and died in the night, is there?’
Connor smiled weakly at her attempt at humour.
‘And I thought you might fancy a change from digestive biscuits, so I brought over some soup.’
Rosie rummaged in the carrier bag she was holding and produced two tins.
‘Minestrone or leek and potato?’
‘You didn’t make them then?’
‘I’ll have you know, I’ve been busy at work all day. If you’re going to be picky, you’re welcome to rustle up your own haute cuisine in the kitchen.’ She gestured towards the doorway.
‘Actually,’ admitted Connor, ‘I can’t cook.’
He paused for a second, enjoying the look of surprise on Rosie’s face.
‘So you’re saying I’ve made a mistake? You’re not the famous Connor Forbes who cooks in the kitchen with Bonnie Apple-thingy, and walks around the kitchen in a dinner jacket with a glass of chilled Sancerre in his hand?’
She’d obviously worked out who he was then.
‘Well,’ replied Connor, playing along. ‘As you just heard, I can’t cook, and I’m not with Bonnie, and’—he pointed at himself—‘I’m wearing pyjamas not a dinner jacket. Oh, and I’m drinking water, not wine. So I think you must be thinking of someone else.’
‘Well, that’s a relief,’ said Rosie, as she studied the labels on the tins. ‘Because if you ask me, that bloke I saw on YouTube looked a bit of an idiot.’ She looked up again and waved the tins at him. ‘So now we’ve got that matter settled, what do you want for tea?’
After Connor had chosen minestrone, Rosie bustled off to the kitchen and he lay back against the pillows, listening to her clattering about in his kitchen.
He ought to feel offended at her assessment of his performance but he didn’t have the energy.
And, to be fair, she’d hardly seen him at his charming best, although in his defence, since taking up residence in Patrick’s flat there hadn’t been much to be cheerful or charming about. Maybe that was about to change.
When Rosie reappeared carrying a tray with a bowl of steaming soup, he sat up and she balanced the tray across his legs. In the absence of anywhere else to sit, Rosie perched at the bottom of the bed and watched him eat.
It felt weird sitting in his own bedroom with a woman he barely knew, who had casually dismissed his best ever career opportunity as idiotic. She certainly didn’t take prisoners. He wondered how old she was but opted for a safer question.
‘You said you came straight from work. Where is that?’
‘Pennewicks. It’s a clothing store on Queen Street. Do you know much of Haxford?’
Connor paused with a spoonful of soup halfway to his mouth. ‘I do go out occasionally, you know.’
‘Ah yes, but you celebratory types tend to favour upmarket London brands.’
Connor smiled. ‘Which would be true if I was actually a celebratory type. I think we dealt with that question earlier.’
Rosie returned the smile. ‘So we did. So, as you’re not the famous – or infamous – Connor Forbes, what brings you to Haxford?’
Connor opted for the easiest answer, even if it wasn’t strictly true. ‘I’m flat-sitting for my brother while I’m in between jobs.’
‘And?’
‘And what? That’s it.’ She was obviously fishing for details but his private life was going to remain exactly that. However, after weeks of living like a hermit, her conversational style was stimulating. ‘Next?’
‘What do you think has made you so ill?’
‘I drank rather a lot on Saturday night. I thought it was a side effect of the hangover.’
Rosie pursed her lips and shook her head. ‘What did you eat on Saturday and when did you start feeling unwell?’
Connor recounted the details of the day’s breakfast, lunch and dinner, and Rosie smiled smugly.
‘I thought so. Seafood is always a good culprit. It’s definitely food poisoning.’
‘It was actually a very upmarket restaurant.’
‘They still employ humans in the kitchen.’
‘Are you always so certain about things?’
‘Only when I know I’m right.’
Connor would have laughed if he’d had the energy.
It seemed to him that some of Rosie’s frostiness had thawed a little in the last few minutes.
Maybe she wasn’t the ice maiden he’d taken her for initially, but despite her lack of sympathy for his plight, he was enjoying her visit.
In any case, he wasn’t exactly overwhelmed with offers of company at the moment and he didn’t want to drive her away.
Especially as she clearly knew who he was and was happy to ignore it and play along with the idea that he might temporarily be someone else.
Connor certainly didn’t feel like his old self at the moment.
He only managed a small amount of the soup, but it did get rid of the acid feeling in his stomach. Despite his protests, Rosie did some washing up and then tidied up in the kitchen.
‘Are you always this energetic?’ Connor asked when she reappeared. ‘I’m worn out watching you.’
Rosie straightened his duvet and plumped up the pillows. ‘Right then, if you don’t mind me saying so—’
‘And you’re going to say it anyway—’
‘I think you could do with a clean-up.’
Connor agreed. ‘I might need your help though to make sure I don’t collapse in the shower.’ To his delight he saw her cheeks flush a delicate pink colour. ‘I’ll take that as a no then.’
Rosie picked up her bag. ‘I’m going home to do my own tea now. I just popped in to make sure you were okay.’
‘Protecting your interests.’
‘Absolutely,’ she replied with a hint of a smile.
‘And nothing whatsoever to do with my personal welfare.’
‘Got it in one, Mr Forbes.’
‘Cheers, Miss Nightingale.’ He grinned. He waited until Rosie was almost out of the room before he called out to her. ‘Hey, Florence.’
Rosie turned round.
‘Thanks for the soup.’
She gave him a wide smile and a cheery wave as she left.