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That was almost the truth. Marie was glad Nisha had asked for help—she just wished she’d needed it on another evening, when she wasn’t so tired. But when she took Nisha’s hand she felt it warm and trembling in hers and forgot all about that.
Nisha was running a fever, and clearly not at all well. After Marie had tested a sample of her urine, to confirm Carol’s diagnosis, she curled up on the examination couch, shivering and crying.
‘Can we call your husband? I think it would be best if he came and picked you up.’
Nisha nodded. ‘I’m so disappointed. I thought we were doing everything right, at last...’
‘I know it’s easy to feel it is, but this is not your fault. Recovery isn’t always a straight line; it’s sometimes two steps forward and one step back. But this is an infection and we can deal with it. You’ll feel a lot better when the antibiotics start to take effect.’
‘Sorry...’
Marie smiled at Nisha. ‘And stop apologising, will you? This is what we’re here for.’
‘I’m so glad you are here. Thank you.’
Nisha’s husband arrived—a quiet, smiling man, who made sure that the first thing he did was hug his wife.
Prompted by Marie, Nisha told him what had happened and he nodded. ‘I’ll stay home from work tomorrow to look after you.’
‘No. You don’t need to...’
But Nisha obviously wanted him to, and Marie guessed it wouldn’t take much b
efore she gave in and accepted his offer.
‘Give us a call if there’s anything we can help with.’ She handed Nisha’s husband her card. ‘If the clinic’s closed, you can use the out-of-hours number; there will be someone on hand to advise you.’
‘Thank you—for everything. I’ll take good care of her.’ Nisha’s husband helped her down from the couch, putting his arm around her protectively.
Alex opened the gates and bade the couple goodbye, reserving a special smile for the child in the pushchair, who had slept soundly through the whole thing.
Then he turned, walking back to his office, where Marie was waiting for him. He picked up her laptop and papers, tucking them under his arm. ‘We’re going back to mine. We’ll get a takeaway.’
Just like the old days. When he’d brook none of her arguments about needing to work and insist she take a break for just one evening. That had usually involved food, as well, and the tradition had persisted. His flat was on her way home, and after a day spent at the clinic it would be nice to talk over a meal.
‘It’s my turn to get the takeaway, isn’t it? Shall we go for Thai this time?’ Marie’s resources stretched to taking her turn in paying for the food now.
He shrugged, picking up his car keys. ‘That sounds great.’
Alex’s flat was on the top floor of a mansion block in Hampstead. Quiet and secluded, but just moments away from a parade of artisan food shops and cafés, and little boutiques that sold clothes with hefty price tags.
Inside, it reeked of quiet quality. Large rooms with high ceilings, and a hallway that was built to accommodate cupboards and storage and still give more than enough space. Alex might have rejected his father’s lifestyle, but he’d absorbed an appreciation for nice things, and he always bought the best he could afford. The sofas were the same ones he’d had in medical school, but they were still as comfortable and looked as good. If you could afford it, there was economy in that.
‘You order. I’ll put some music on. What do you fancy? A little late-night jazz?’
The sitting room was lined with cabinets that housed Alex’s extensive books and music collection. Marie had never hesitated in sharing his music with him—it was one of those things that cost nothing and brought them both joy.
But it wasn’t late-night yet, even though Marie felt tired enough. ‘Late-night jazz is going to send me to sleep.’
‘Right. Driving music?’
‘No, that’s a bit too wakey-uppy. Have you got a soul mix?’
It was a rhetorical question. Alex chuckled. There was a pause while he decided which soul mix fitted the occasion best, and then a muted beat began to fill the room.
They began to work, spreading their papers out on the large glass-topped coffee table. When the food came they added a couple of plates and a jumble of takeaway cartons. Ideas came more easily in this setting, and by the time they were ready for coffee they were finished.
He stood, stretching his limbs with satisfaction. Marie leant forward to gather up the plates and he batted her hand away.
