Modern Heart: City Love 3 Page 12

  “Max, Cate and I have changed our flights,” Christa’s voice cut through my thoughts. “We’re flying home tonight, but you should stay.”

  “Stay? Are you kidding?”

  “Scarlett, you have those meetings with the gallery later this week. You have to stay.”

  “Shit.” She was right. “It doesn’t matter—”

  “Maddy’s got Paul, plus her mum and dad. She told us not to come home, but she’s my best friend, Scarlett …”

  Christa’s voice trailed off and I knew she was trying hard to keep it together. “Go, Christa. She’d want you there.”

  I heard Christa sniff. “I know. She’s being all business-like with me, which is what scares me the most. You know what she’s like when she gets like that.”

  I knew far too well. “I’ll be home on Saturday.” It was only a week, but suddenly it felt like a lifetime away.

  “OK. We might not see you at the hotel before we leave for the airport,” she began.

  “Forget about it.” I glanced over at John, who was still watching me with a mix of confusion and worry. “I’ve got John, remember?”

  Christa giggled, although it sounded more forced than usual. “How could I forget? Be nice to him, alright?”

  My eyes met his and I looked away. “I’m trying.”

  “Good. I’ve got to get back to the hotel and pack. Will text you with updates.”

  “Thanks.” I ended the call and put the phone back in my pocket. I turned to John, trying to find the words to explain the situation. I gave him the basics and not much more.

  He nodded when I was done. “I’m glad they’re alright. As scary as it is, they’re in good hands. There’s nothing you can do.”

  “I could be in the goddamn country,” I complained.

  “Is that what Maddy would want?”

  “No,” I allowed.

  “She’d want you to go to the meeting with the gallery director and do what you came here to do.”

  “Doesn’t make it any easier.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” He cocked his head at me. “You get to spend a week in New York with me. I’m not that bad, am I?”

  I dropped his hand, unable to decide if the dark twinkle in his eyes was challenging or playful.

  It was going to be a longer week than I’d anticipated.

  Chapter 16

  I pulled the bed covers up to my chin, gripping them tight.

  This was not good.

  When I’d said goodbye to John after the Broadway show last night, I’d had the edge of a headache and a slight sore throat. Overnight, it had morphed into something more serious. I was sweating beneath the thick layers of bedding I’d thrown over me, but felt too cold to remove any of them. And my throat? Every time I swallowed it felt like I was pushing saliva past a series of rusty razor blades. My body ached in places I didn’t even know could ache. My lower back, my wrists, and ankles were all pounding in a steady rhythm of pain. I’d spent the night shifting endlessly in an effort to find a comfortable position, to no avail.

  It was time to face facts. I had the flu.

  Perfect. Just fucking perfect.

  If Cate were here she’d helpfully point out that at least I’d fallen ill after the opening night of my exhibition. This truth did little to improve my mood.

  Perhaps if I got up and had a hot shower I might feel more human. I flung off the blankets and sheets using all the strength I could muster and stood up before I could change my mind.

  “Holy shit.”

  A wave of nausea hit me, forcing me to drop back onto the bed. I rested my elbows on my knees and let my head drop into my hands. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

  Things were never good when I was reduced purely to swear words.

  My phone beeped on the bedside table. I ignored it and lay down, grabbing the covers.

  I wasn’t sure how long I’d dozed, or realistically, tossed back and forth in a haze of flu induced non-responsiveness, when I heard my phone ring.

  “Go away,” I muttered, but managed to glance in the direction of the screen. “Crap.”

  It was John.

  With a groan, I reached over and picked up my phone.

  “Scarlett? Where are you?” His deep voice held a note of worry.

  “Bed,” I managed.

  “In bed? It’s after lunch.” The worry seemed to have disappeared and was replaced with frustration. “We were supposed to meet up hours ago—”

  “Fuck.” I looked over at the clock. Two pm. “Sorry,” I croaked.

  There was a pause, probably because I’d spoken more than one word and it didn’t sound good.

  “Are you alright?”

  Give the man a cigar. “Dying. Flu. Can’t talk. Bye.”

  “Scarlett!”

  I hit “end” and threw the phone back on the bedside table. He’d get the picture. If he was smart, he’d realize coming anywhere near me would be even worse for his health than usual and stay away.

  *

  At first I thought the pounding noise was in my mind. My head felt like it was about to drop off, so that would have definitely explained it. However when the pounding was followed by a muffled “Scarlett!” I realized the noise was coming from my hotel door.

  “Go away!” I shouted. My God. Was that my voice? Since when did I sound like a hysterical transvestite?

  “Let me in, Scarlett.”

  John. Here to save the fucking day. Well, he could take his superhero cape and –

  “Scarlett. I’m not leaving until you let me in.”

  I growled in exasperation. Fine. If he couldn’t get the message, then seeing my horrifying state when I opened the door would send him running. Easier said than done. I sat up slowly in bed, then stood gingerly. Oh wow. It was like I’d been abducted by aliens when I’d slept and they’d sucked the lifeblood out of me. I wasn’t even sure if I had bones anymore. My legs felt like jelly and I swayed dangerously.

  “Scarlett!”

  “Have some fucking patience!”

  Silence. Huh. The silence stretched while I made the slow journey to the hotel door. Finally, I opened it and was forced to prop myself up with it.

  John, who looked his usual healthy self, widened his eyes in surprise. “Jesus.”

  “Even He can’t save me.” I turned unsteadily and hobbled back toward the bed. All I was wearing was a pair of black boyleg underpants and a black tank top without a bra, but I couldn’t have cared less if he was copping an eyeful of my ass. “Enter at your own risk, John. This is a highly infectious area.”

  “Shit,” John said from behind me. “You’re not talking about Ebola, are you?”

  I swung back around to face him and my head pounded in protest. His eyes held a sinister twinkle. Bastard. For a second he’d had me. I flopped back onto the bed. “While it’s entirely possible I’ve exchanged bodily fluids with an African at some point, I’m pretty sure it’s just the flu.”

  John cleared his throat. “Thanks for that,” he muttered.

  Score: one all. Alright, so I wasn’t dead yet.

  I smiled up at the ceiling even though that hurt too. “You’re welcome. I did tell you to stay away so you can’t expect me to be nice.”

  “You’re rarely nice anyway, so what’s the difference?”

  I sighed. Ordinarily I’d keep the banter going but I just didn’t have it in me. “Why are you here, John?”

  “To check on you.”

  “Well, now you’ve done that, can you please just leave me to die?”

  “When did you last drink anything?”

  Oh God. He wasn’t going to try to look after me, was he? “John—”

  “Answer the question.”

  “Honestly? I don’t know. Keeping track of the time hasn’t been big on my agenda.”

  When he didn’t answer, I used what little strength I had to raise my head. He was gone. A sense of relief settled on me, although it didn’t do much to relax my aching body.

  “Here.”
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  I cried out in alarm. “For God’s sake, John. What part of leave me alone don’t you understand?”

  He remained standing next to my bed, holding out a glass.

  “Water, Scarlett. Drink some.”

  “If it will make you go away, I’ll do it,” I complained. I reached up and took the water. A little of it sloshed over the edge of the glass, giving away how weak I really was. I raised it to my lips, taking a reluctant sip. I realized how long it had been since I’d had anything to drink. I took a few more sips then set it down on the bedside table.

  “Are you hungry?” John asked.

  “I’m capable of ordering room service, John. Besides, I threw up my breakfast earlier,” I admitted.

  “You need some food then.”

  “I think my temperature is so high it’s making me feel nauseous. Food is the last thing I feel like.”

  John studied me.

  I smiled at him insincerely. “Happy?”

  His smile faded. I probably looked worse than I felt. Judging by his expression it was somewhere between a zombie and Linda Blair from The Exorcist.

  “I’ll be back in half an hour,” he said, backing away from the bed.

  “John—”

  “Get some rest.”

  The door to my hotel room slammed behind him.

  *

  True to his word, there was a knock about half an hour later. I shuffled to the door and opened it, then immediately turned around and made my way back to the bed without so much as a greeting.

  Lying down again, I watched as John placed two bags on the hotel desk. He pulled out two bottles of lemonade, another two large bottles of water, and a box of lemonade ice blocks. He opened the little mini bar fridge and started shifting things to make room for the supplies. When he was done, he stood and threw a box of something at me.

  “Take two,” he ordered.

  I looked down at the paracetamol, which had landed on my stomach. OK, my aching body and pounding head would give him points for that. “Thanks.”

  “You are sick.”

  I ignored him and sat up, downing two of the tablets. The sooner they kicked in the better.

  Satisfied, John grabbed the other bag – a black rectangular satchel – and sat on the armchair opposite my bed. He kicked his shoes off and propped his feet on the small glass table in front of the armchair, then pulled a slim laptop from the satchel.

  “What are you doing?”

  He turned on his laptop. “What does it look like?”

  “I know what it looks like. I want to know why,” I demanded.

  “Your girlfriends would never forgive me if I let something happen to you,” he answered.

  It was only partially true, and we both knew it.

  “Look, John. Thanks for the supplies. I really do appreciate it, but you don’t need to stick around.”

  “I don’t have any plans for the afternoon.”

  “It’s New York! Make plans!”

  The corner of John’s mouth twitched. “I promised work I’d check my emails.”

  I threw myself back on the bed with a howl of frustration.

  “Careful, Scarlett. You don’t want to overdo it.”

  I wanted to throw a pillow at him, I really did, but I just didn’t have the strength. “Why won’t you go away? Aren’t you scared of getting this?”

  “I had the flu injection.”

  “What if it’s Ebola?”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  “Fine!” I grabbed the pillow and fluffed it up, imagining it was John’s head I was pulverizing.

  I lay on my side, my back facing him and stared at the wall. A minute later, I heard music. A laid back beat with female vocals. Sia.

  “You don’t mind?” John asked.

  I listened and continued to stare at the wall. It was one of her older albums, which had a distinct downtempo feel to it. “No,” I said eventually. The truth was, Sia was a favorite artist of mine and the music was the perfect balm for my mood.

  I only lasted two songs before the Paracetamol did its job and I drifted off to sleep.

  Chapter 17

  Against my better judgment and continued protests, we settled into a routine.

  John would arrive at my hotel room after lunch each day and stay with me until early evening. Each time he’d stock the fridge with new supplies. He’d spend the first hour telling me about where he’d been that morning, which eased some of my boredom and made me feel marginally less disturbed about missing out on New York.

  It didn’t ease my worry about everything else though. Like how on earth was I going to be presentable enough to attend my gallery meeting the day after tomorrow? Or to make the flight home the day after that? And then of course there was Maddy. I still hadn’t managed to speak to her. Texts from Christa and Cate assured me she was coping, and Maddy had even sent a text or two, but that wasn’t good enough for me. I wanted to hear her voice.

  By the third afternoon, I was well enough to watch a movie. We chose one of the latest action/sci-fi thrillers starring Scarlett Johansson.

  “That was ridiculous,” I announced when the credits rolled.

  “But did you enjoy it?”

  “Sadly, yes.”

  John picked up the remote sitting on the bedside table. Flicking the television off, he shifted to look at me from the armchair that he’d relocated beside my bed. “You’re going to have to reschedule your flights.”

  I sighed. I would have preferred to distract him from this subject with further post-movie analysis, but our previous comments had pretty much covered it. “Do I have to think about this now?”

  “Yep. You’re due to fly out in three days.”

  “I know. I should be OK by then,” I lied.

  John laughed. “I can see it now: Australian tourist held in isolation for exhibiting suspected Ebola-like symptoms.”

  “I’m not dying.”

  “No, you’re not, but they don’t know that. Besides, you haven’t even left this room. The doctor said—”

  “I know what the doctor said,” I snapped. I didn’t like doctors at the best of times. Ordinarily I’d have fought a lot harder to avoid seeing one, but I’d been too sick to protest and John had arranged for one to visit my hotel room thanks to my travel insurance. I sighed. I didn’t really want to bite his head off. “I understand there’s nothing they can do. It’s just a virus and needs to run its course.”

  “Exactly. And his advice to you was to rest until you’re strong again, not drag yourself to the airport and get on an international flight. I agree with him, for what it’s worth.”

  “Thanks for the support.”

  John raised an eyebrow.

  OK, so that remark had been a bit unfair. “Well, what the hell am I supposed to do? I’m due back at work on Monday and it’s bad enough I skipped the country for Aunt Cindy’s funeral.”

  “You contact them and tell them you’re sick and won’t be coming in yet.”

  I sighed and reached for my bottle of lemonade.

  John – and the doctor – were right even if I wanted to fool myself. While I was over the worst of the symptoms, I was still very weak. Today had been the first day I’d felt like eating. I took a sip of lemonade and set the bottle back on my bedside table.

  I wasn’t about to say it, but the other reason I wasn’t keen to delay my flight was because it would mean being in New York City alone. Usually I wouldn’t have flinched at the prospect, but being this unwell had thrown me. That, and the sickness had me longing for home.

  “Surely Ruby will cover for you?” John asked.

  I’d mentioned Ruby to him earlier and how I could trust her to help out. She didn’t know I was bedridden in New York, of course. I’d decided the safest way to play it was not to tell anyone at Shout about my plans. So while she didn’t know where I was, I could definitely rely on Ruby to convince everyone in the office I was sick and she wouldn’t question it.

  “Alright. I’ll se
e what I can do,” I said finally.

  “Let me know what you can arrange and I’ll try to line up my flights with yours,” John said.

  “Forget it,” I said quickly, ignoring my pang of relief at his suggestion. “You’ve already done enough. And you have to get back to work too.”

  John shrugged. “I have time owing. I could probably take an extra week if I had to.”

  “But you don’t have to.”

  “And you don’t have to do this alone.”

  I frowned and coughed. The force of it doubled me over and I attempted not to hack up my lungs. I turned away and grabbed for some tissues, clamping a wad of them over my mouth so I didn’t sound as bad. Why couldn’t the doctor have just given me some damn drugs? I’d been prepared to beg so I could get on the flight home, but all that concern about antibiotic resistance meant they were reluctant to hand them out. Alright, and the bit about it being a virus and antibiotics not working on viruses might have been part of it too.

  When I could eventually take a deep breath, I turned back to John. “I’m used to doing things alone,” I said hoarsely.

  “While some people might debate your ability to do things by yourself at this point, I’m not that stupid. I know you’re capable.” His dark eyes were unwavering. “All I’m saying is that sometimes you don’t have to do everything alone.”

  I dropped my gaze to my feet and heard John stand up. When I looked up at him again he was standing in front of the window.

  “You’ve been taking care of yourself for a long time, haven’t you?” he asked, gazing outside.

  I resisted the urge to join him and take in the view of New York. I already felt bad enough about wasting the week holed up in my hotel room, let alone being reminded of the guilt I felt about making him miss out on the city too. “Since my mother threw me out,” I replied simply.

  John nodded, his black hair reflecting the glow of the lamp. “What about when you were a kid though? Your mum looked after you then?”

  I laughed, and it sounded bitter. “It depends on your definition of ‘look after.’ She did what she needed to do. She thinks illness is a weakness anyway. And the few times I was sick she suspected I was faking it to get out of piano practice or school work, but I wouldn’t have dared.”