Spirit (3 page)

“Can you sit up for me, please?”

I start to comply, but find matters taken out of my hands as I’m propelled into a sitting position by Matt who has taken up his position on the other side of me. He props a pile of pillows and cushions behind my shoulders. “I’ll go get you some tea. Your last cup went cold. Do you take milk and sugar?”

“What?” I turn towards him and spot the full cup of cold tea on the bedside table. He must have brought it for me, but by the time he got back I was spark out. And soon will be again if I have any say in it. I gather my wits enough to answer his question. I am not yet so far gone that I would turn down a cup of tea, “What? Yes. Milk please. And two sugars.” My reply comes out as a rasping croak, but it’s the best I can summon up.

Matt gives me a curt nod and leaves the room. Now it’s just me and the good doctor.

“Just a few quick checks, then we’ll see what we need to do about you. Could you just lift your T-shirt at the back please and breathe in ?”

I do as she has asked and the medic places the business end of her stethoscope behind my left shoulder blade, then moves it to the right. She continues to listen to my breathing, repeating the checks several times before moving round to my heartbeat. She smiles at me as she checks my temperature, then my blood pressure, an attempt to reassure I expect. I’m impressed at the effort the doctor is making over her bedside manner. I daresay I’m not the most sweet smelling patient she’s dealt with recently but she manages to conceal any distaste.

We both glance up as Matt returns carrying a steaming mug which he places on the bedside table. I manage a smile, by way of thanking him.

“Are you asthmatic, Beth? Or any history of it in your family?” The doctor is keen to press on.

“No.”

“And how long have you been feeling unwell?”

For ever.
“A few days.” It’s hard to tell sometimes, because I defy anyone living rough to ever feel ‘well’ exactly. I don’t bother to try to explain that. These more acute symptoms began perhaps a week ago.

“You have a persistent cough, I can hear that. Sore throat?”

I nod.

“What else?”

“Headache. In fact, everywhere aches. I feel cold all the time, shivery. And tired. I have no energy at all.”

“Right. I see.” The doctor looks concerned, uncertain.

“Do you know what’s wrong with me, Doctor?”

“I’d say you have the flu.”

“Right, so not too serious then?”

“Well, in your circumstances, it could be. The illness has already triggered a chest infection which is affecting both sides, upper and lower. I bet you’ve been feeling pretty poorly for the last few days, haven’t you?

I shrug, but don’t deny it.

“The chest infection should respond to antibiotics. I’ll write you a prescription.”

“Okay…” So what’s she not telling me?

“I could get you admitted to LGI.”

“LGI?” This from Matt, lounging against the wall on my other side and showing no sign of leaving me to talk to the doctor in private.

The doctor is repacking her medical gadgetry. “Leeds General Infirmary. I could get Beth onto a ward there for the next week or so, just until the lung infection is settled down again.”

“I thought you said antibiotics would do it. Does she need nursing care too?”

“Not as such. But in Beth’s circumstances…” She turns to me again. “I understand you’ve been sleeping rough?”

I nod.

“That’s why we’re seeing these complications. You need the antibiotics, but you also need bed rest, warmth, some decent food. You need a bit of TLC, Miss Harte, and you won’t get that sleeping in shop doorways in the middle of December.”

“I see.” I do indeed see, but that won’t make any difference. When I leave the cocoon of Matt Logan’s spare room it will be the shop doorways for me again, if I’m lucky.

“In hospital they would monitor your condition, but the main thing is you’d be warm and dry and properly fed. If you go back out on the streets before you’re fully recovered you’ll just get ill again.”

“I…”

“She doesn’t need to go back out, not for a while.”

Both the doctor and I turn to look at Matt.

“Beth can stay here. This room does nothing most of the time, she can rest and recover, then leave when she’s well enough.”

“Are you sure? That’s quite an undertaking. I thought you said you didn’t know Beth, that you only met her yesterday?” The doctor seems surprised. I’m a little short of astonished.

Matt shrugs. “Like I say, the room’s empty. Beth may as well use it.”

“It could be a week or two, possibly more…”

“We’ll be fine. Did you say you’d be writing a prescription?”

The doctor reaches into her bag for her pad and scrawls the details of the medicine that will apparently alleviate my condition. “Right, I’m giving her antibiotics for the infection, and some paracetamol for the fever and aches and pains. She’ll need plenty of fluids too, and rest. A lot of rest. I’ll come back in two days if that’s alright and see how things are going.” She turns to me, her expression firm. “And you, don’t even think of wandering off until I or another doctor tell you you’re fully fit. You’re just a fraction off pneumonia right now, and I’m not sure you would have survived another night out. You’re lucky Matt found you.”

Yes, I tend to agree.

The doctor picks up her bag. “Right, I’ll get off to the gym then. And we’ll let you get back to sleep.” She turns her attention from me to offer a grin in Matt’s direction. “Next time you need medical assistance, do please try to remember I have a surgery and usually my patients come there. In working hours.”

Matt slings an arm across her shoulders, the gesture casual, and a little more intimate than I like, though why I should care is beyond me. “What are friends for? And you know I appreciate it, Sue. I don’t somehow think Beth would have come to the surgery, do you?”

“Probably not. Well, now you owe me a favour. I expect you to feed Oscar without complaining next time I go skiing. And I’ll see you the day after tomorrow, Miss Harte.”

I grunt my reply, already sliding back down into the soft warmth of Matt’s spare bed and wondering who Oscar is.

And who are they to say whether or not I might have gone to the surgery? I probably would. If he asked me.

* * *

“Beth, wake up love.”

I murmur my protest, but it’s half-hearted at best. Even on such short acquaintance I know there’s no point arguing with Matt Logan. I force my eyelids apart, but I don’t lift my head from the pillow.

An arm under my shoulders soon puts a stop to that nonsense as I’m lifted into half sitting position.

“I need to go. I’m working today.”

I blink against the sudden onslaught of light, covering my eyes as he opens the curtains behind the bed. “Yes, you have a meeting. His plane gets in at ten.”

“What? How did you know that?” Matt sounds astonished, and maybe a little suspicious.

“I heard you talking. You and that woman who drove away in the sexy car.”

He frowns but accepts my explanation with a quick nod. “Right. Well, yes, that’s the one. I’ll be gone all day probably.”

“Okay.” Is he going to tell me to leave after all?

“I went to the all night pharmacy and got your antibiotics and other stuff. It’s all there.” He tips his chin in the direction of the bedside table where I spot a small bottle of tablets, and a pack of soluble paracetamol. “And here’s a glass of water to take your first dose.” He hands me the glass, and a white tablet. I swallow my medicine quickly, grateful for anything that might help. Fully conscious now, I feel truly awful.

“That’s good. Your paracetamol is here. Take this and go back to sleep. You’ll feel better later probably.”

He hands me another glass, this one containing a white, fizzy liquid. I swig that down fast, despite the bitter taste. My throat feels like sandpaper, I so need the pain relief.

“Right. I’ve left a thermal cup on the bedside table as well. It has tomato soup in it. Nothing fancy, just out of a tin, but it’s warm and you might like it if you get hungry later. The toilet and shower are through there…” He points to a door in the opposite corner of the room that I hadn’t noticed before. The mention of a toilet reminds me my bladder needs attention.

“I need…”

“Okay. Can you manage?”

I nod. Letting him undress me last night was bad enough, but he caught me at a weak moment. I’m not about to let him take me to the loo. I may feel like death warmed up but I’ve had a decent night’s sleep, I’m thinking straight now. More or less.

Matt stands up to allow me to wriggle out from under the duvet, and I make my unsteady way across the room. When I come back into the bedroom he’s still here, this time wearing his suit jacket. I cast a quick glance over him, suited and booted and ready to do serious business. He looks sharp, smart, and incredibly sexy and he’s clearly about to leave. Probably just as well—sharp, smart, sexy men are way out of my league at the best of times. I shuffle back in the direction of the bed, and he turns back the duvet for me to clamber in.

“You remember what Sue said. You need to rest, eat, and take your medicine. So stay there, right.”

I don’t take any persuading and settle myself back under the quilt.

“If you fancy having a shower later on then feel free. Or there’s bath if you prefer that. I’ve left you a jug of fresh water, and your next dose of antibiotics is due at four this afternoon. I’ll see you later.”

“Thanks. I, Matt…” My voice trails off as I’m not sure just what I wanted to say. Thank you doesn’t really cut it.

Matt winks at me from the doorway. “Be good.”

And he’s gone.

* * *

I sleep solidly for the next six hours. I wake needing the toilet again, but feeling marginally more human. The effect of the painkillers no doubt. I do what’s necessary and climb back into bed. The next time I awaken it’s time for my next antibiotic so I take another tablet, follow it up with another dose of soluble paracetamol, and suitably fortified head for the shower.

The spray feels quite divine cascading down my bare back. I’ve become unaccustomed to such luxury—unlimited hot water and no one banging on the door demanding their turn. I stay in there long after the grime and stink accumulated during weeks on the street have been swilled down the plughole. I use the shower gel for my body and my hair—it’s all the same stuff after all, surely. I can’t find any hair conditioner, but I’m delighted just to be clean for once. I wrap myself in a large, thick towel, another opportunity for pampering, and make my way back to the bed. This time I don’t get in though. Instead I drag my holdall out from underneath the bed and rummage around in it for my comb. It’s one I’ve had for years, one of the few possessions I still retain from before.

Before I was homeless, that is. Before I lived on the streets, relying on charity and my not especially sharp wits to survive. This lump of deep pink plastic used to grace my dressing table, its wide teeth perfect for my thick mane of unruly hair. Now I sit on the edge of my bed, correction, Matt Logan’s spare bed, and take my time working the comb through my wet locks, teasing out weeks’ worth of tangles. Conditioner would have helped. Perhaps Matt has some. I’ll ask him. Later.

My gaze falls on the thermal cup which Matt said contained soup. It is untouched, still where he left it. I expect the contents are cold by now, but I’m hungry so even tepid tomato soup would be welcome. I’m not choosy. I unscrew the lid, and I’m pleasantly surprised to find the soup still considerably better than lukewarm. Certainly palatable. I drink the lot, and realise I did it a disservice. That was perhaps the most delicious, most welcome meal I’ve had in ages. Maybe ever. The flavour permeates my ragged senses, soothing and warming, sliding past my inflamed throat to settle in a comforting pool in my empty stomach. I lie back on the bed, still only loosely wrapped in the fluffy towel, and enjoy the sensation of being full as I stare at the ceiling.

This is the first time I’ve properly taken stock of my new surroundings, awake and in daylight. I look around me, taking in the mottled pale lilac pattern on the carpet and the curtains which seem to match. Come to think of it, so does the duvet cover. Very tasteful and coordinated. The furniture is minimalist, just a single wardrobe and small dressing table against the opposite wall. The bedside table is actually a small chest of drawers. On impulse I open the top one. It is empty, same with the two below it. I pad over to the wardrobe and find that similarly devoid of any personal items. Apart from my own tatty possessions there is no evidence of anyone else ever having occupied this room, though the place is scrupulously clean and I recall the bed was already made up when we arrived last night. Matt brought me straight in here and put me to bed. There was no fussing about finding sheets or a spare duvet. Maybe he was expecting a guest. Another item to add to the list of questions I should ask him.

Now though, I am exhausted. The effort of taking a shower, drinking my soup and crossing the bedroom twice has wiped me out. I’m starting to shiver despite the central heating. I retrieve Matt’s T-shirt from where I left it hanging on the inside of the door to the en suite and tug it over my head. I notice the garment falls nearly to my knees as I climb back into bed. That’s the last thing I remember before I drift off to sleep

* * *

I’m awakened next by the sound of a door closing, then footsteps. I stiffen, momentarily startled, then remember where I am and that Matt must be home. Sure enough, a few seconds later the door opens and he pops his head around.

“Are you awake?” His tone is low, so as not to rouse me if I am asleep, I daresay.

“Yes. How did the meeting go?” I push myself into a sitting position as he comes into the room, shoving a handful of dark blonde curls out of my eyes. The texture is soft and light, such a change from the usual lank fall, and it’s a treat to see my normal, natural colour emerge undimmed from beneath the off-grey coating of dust, pollution and grease it usually wears.

“Fine. Got the deal all tied up. You’re looking better. How do you feel?”