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‘Have to?’ he smiled, finishing the bandaging.
‘Well, kind of want to go,’ she shrugged with a smile. ‘It’s the one thing I’ve been excited about.’
‘Well, for the minute you’re not going anywhere, young Miss. Doctor’s orders.’ He stood up and threw her the TV remote control.
‘I’m going to get some sleep. Do you mind?’
‘No, no, of course not, you go.’
Just then, Brooke’s mobile started ringing and she glanced at the screen.
‘The cavalry?’ asked Matt.
‘Something like that.’
He helped her get off the sofa. ‘I’ll come down downstairs with you,’ he said wearily.
‘No. I’d better go alone.’
‘In which case, wait there.’
She hobbled towards his bedroom door, where he was rooting around his closet noisily.
‘I bet this has seen a lot of action,’ she laughed as he handed it to her.
‘The hockey stick or my bedroom?’ he asked.
She flushed and tucked the hockey stick under her arm as she put on her cyclist goggles.
‘What the hell are those!’ he exclaimed.
‘My disguise,’ she said arching her brow as playfully as she could when her foot was so sore. ‘I don’t want to be recognized leaving a man’s apartment at eight in the morning, even if it is only you.’
‘Only me,’ he scoffed. ‘You’d better remember whose hockey stick it is, Asgill.’
‘Listen Matt, you’ve been great. I don’t know how to thank you.’
‘Maybe a beer when you’re back on your feet, hopalong?’
‘I’ll make it a magnum of champagne if I’m back in Manolos by the weekend.’
‘Does that mean you’ll let your assistant put through my calls now?’
‘Okay, give me a pen and paper.’ She scribbled down her number.
‘No giving that to your friends at the Oracle, okay?’
‘Ouch. So cynical.’
‘Maybe … ’ she smiled, waving the hockey stick. ‘I’m still watching you, Palmer.’
As she hobbled to the lift, she found she was looking forward to that drink.
CHAPTER TWENTY–ONE
Liz couldn’t believe she was back at the shrink. More to the point she couldn’t believe she was being forced to go by that jumped–up publicist Tess, who was threatening to tell Meredith the details of the Russ Ford fiasco if she didn’t make an appointment. She shifted in her seat in the psychologist’s waiting room and tried to calm down. Deep breathing, wasn’t that what the last headshrinker had told her? She closed her eyes and tried to think of cool wet grass, or a deserted beach or something. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t been to see a therapist before. There had been a six–month stint after the death of her father, and another spell in her senior year at school, when she was so concerned about getting perfect exam marks that she had lost a stone in weight. Liz snorted. She still didn’t see how that could be a bad thing.
Anyway, she was here now and she was mollified by the thought that this particular doctor might actually be of some use to her, even if she failed to remove every hang–up and mental tic. Dr Dana Shapiro was considered the shrink of the moment. She had heard the name whispered around the more powerful members of her circle for years. An expert in relationship issues, she was rumoured to have treated several A–list stars for sex addiction. It never hurt to make useful connections, thought Liz.
