Page 129 of The Last Love Song
Sorcha was beginning to come to. There was something nagging at the back of her mind, something important. She suddenly remembered what it was.
‘What time is it?’ Her throat was so sore it hurt to talk.
‘Half past seven in the evening.’
‘What...day is it?’
‘Tuesday, the nineteenth of August. You’re at home, in your bed in Hampstead,’ said the doctor.
‘Oh no, oh no!’ Sorcha wailed, struggling to sit up. ‘I wasmeant to be on a plane this morning, flying to New York! Con! I—’
‘Don’t panic,’ said Helen, appearing behind Doctor Deane. ‘Con called Metropolitan when he couldn’t contact you last night. He’d rung your mother in Ballymore and she’d said you’d caught the plane back to London as arranged. When you didn’t check in at Heathrow this morning, I came round to find out if you were okay. It’s a good job I did by the looks of things. What did you do to yourself while you were away?’
‘It rained a lot. I must have got a chill. Helen, can you book me on a flight tomorrow morning? I must get to New York. I—’
‘Don’t be absurd, my dear,’ said Doctor Deane. ‘You are no more capable of getting on a plane tomorrow than you are of sprouting wings and flying there yourself. You are sick, Sorcha, and have to stay put until you’re better. Doctor’s orders. Now, have you a friend or a relative that could come and stay for a few days, fetch and carry and keep an eye on you?’
‘I...’ Sorcha bit her lip as tears appeared in her eyes.
‘Don’t worry, Doctor, I’ll sort something out,’ said Helen.
‘All right, but I’m imploring you, no silly antics unless you want to end up in hospital with pneumonia.’ The doctor stood up.
‘I’ll see you out,’ Helen said.
‘Thank you. Cheerio, Sorcha. Behave yourself.’
Sorcha lay feeling horribly sorry for herself. She was stuck in bed, with Con in New York, and, to top it all off...Helen McCarthyfor a nurse.
Helen came back up the stairs, a fizzing glass of aspirin in her hand.
‘Right, drink this.’
She helped Sorcha upright and sat on the end of the bed, watching as she grimaced upon reaching the bottom of the glass.
‘Good. Now, I’m going to stay with you until you’re better. Tomorrow I can use Jenny’s office and have urgent calls rerouted here from Metropolitan. Talking of telephones, I must call your mum. She was imagining all sorts of terrible things, apparently. Then I can phone Con. He won’t be in the hotel at the moment, but I can at least leave him a message to let him know you’re okay.’
‘Use that phone.’ Sorcha pointed weakly to the instrument by the bed.
‘Will do.’
Helen picked up the receiver. ‘Maybe you could have a word with your mum as she probably won’t believe you’re okay until she speaks to you herself. Right, give me the number.’
Once Sorcha had uttered a few reassuring words to Mary, and Con’s hotel in New York had been called, Helen stood up. ‘I’m going to make myself some soup. I saw some tins in the cupboard. Do you think you could manage some yourself?’
Sorcha shook her head.
‘All right, but tomorrow you have to start eating.’
‘I will, I promise.’
‘Can I get you anything else?’
‘No. Thanks, Helen.’
‘Okay.’
Helen left the room and made her way downstairs to the kitchen. She opened a can of soup, poured the contents into a saucepan and placed it on the hob to warm. When she’d finished her dinner, she went into the sitting room to watch the news. A little later, she climbed the stairs to the bedroom and pushed open the door. Sorcha was asleep. Helen checked her forehead and found she was much cooler.
