Three Amazing Things About You (5 page)

He was also far less likely than Dr West to give her a long, boring New Year’s Eve diatribe on the perils of alcohol-inflicted dehydration.

Spotting Luke through the crowd, Hallie waved and watched him zigzag his way across the dance floor. He was wearing a striped green and white shirt, dark trousers and a black leather jacket. His hair was fair and cut short in a neat, doctory sort of way, and he was carrying a bottle of alcohol-free lager, which, presumably, meant he was on call.

‘Hi. You made it down here, then.’

‘I did.’ Hallie smiled; he had such lovely eyes, grey and warm and sympathetic. ‘I wasn’t sure if I’d be up to it, but thought I should give it a go.’ She showed him her glass. ‘This is my first drink, by the way.’

Luke shrugged. ‘I’m not going to lecture you.’

‘Thanks. I’ve got my chair with me, anyway. I might leave at nine, have a bit of a rest at home then come back later if I’m still awake.’ Hallie pulled a face. ‘I know, right? Rock and roll.’

‘Nothing wrong with pacing yourself.’ He nodded at the bag in her left hand. ‘Are you going to offer me one of those crisps or not?’

Hallie held out the packet, but just as he reached in, his phone rang.

‘Yes . . . yes . . .’ He listened to the voice at the other end. Finally he said, ‘No problem, on my way now.’

‘Selfish patients,’ said Hallie as he put down his drink. ‘Being ill and spoiling your evening. Hope it doesn’t take too long.’

‘Never can tell. Anyway, I’m off.’ He pinched a few crisps to keep him going. ‘If I don’t make it back, happy new year.’

‘Thanks.’ Would it be? Who knew? Hallie smiled and said, ‘You too.’

OK, this was turning into one hell of a New Year’s Eve. And so far, not in a good way.

Rory McAndrew was by nature impatient. He hated to queue for anything. He hated to wait. It was all so pointless, such a waste of time; why be waiting when you could be doing something interesting or fun or constructive instead?

This time, though, he was waiting for a reason. The process itself might be mind-crushingly boring, but if he stuck it out, the end result would hopefully be worth it.

And he was going to stick it out; after fourteen hours, there was no way on earth he’d give up now. Even though the mixture of boredom and anticipation was playing havoc with his system.

But if this was the only chance he had to find her again, he wasn’t going to miss out on it.

Rory drummed his fingers against the side of his takeaway coffee cup, looked again at the arrivals board and saw that the delayed flight from Nice was finally about to land. It was his best chance, and the one he’d spent the evening pinning his hopes on, although there was always the possibility that she’d been forced to catch an indirect flight.

He absolutely refused to countenance the idea that she could be travelling back to a different airport. Or that when she’s said a week, she’d actually meant six days, or eight . . .

Right, no more coffee; he didn’t want to risk not being here in pole position at the exact moment she appeared through the doors before promptly disappearing within a matter of seconds in the direction of the car park.

One of the women who worked in WHSmith came past and said chattily, ‘You still here, love? Bless, it’s no way to spend New Year’s Eve, is it?’

Rory smiled at her; she’d spent the day on the till selling him cans of Coke, packets of chewing gum and bags of Jelly Babies. Furthermore, she had a point. He just hoped none of the other men hanging around the arrivals gate were here to meet the same girl as he was.

When the glass doors slid open thirty minutes later and there she was, Rory felt as if he’d been hit in the chest with a medicine ball; delight that his mad plan had worked mingled with relief that the unbearable wait was at last over. He hadn’t been hanging around the wrong airport on the wrong day after all.

She was here.

Better still, no one else was flinging their arms around her yelling, ‘Welcome home, darling, me and the kids have missed you
so much
!’

Rory watched from his position ten metres from the exit as she stopped to unzip her suitcase and pull out a scarf and gloves. She was going to need them, too; it was icy outside.

Oh, but look at her, just look at her: she had a face he knew he would never tire of looking at. She was wearing a black beret, black sweater, black tights and a swingy purple skirt, the kind an ice skater might wear. And low-heeled black suede boots. She looked fantastic. Comfortable, too. And now that she’d pulled on her gloves, she was about to leave the airport . . .

OK, action. He headed towards the exit at the same time she did, two arrows set to converge at the revolving door. When he reached her, he knocked his foot against the wheels of her suitcase and said – completely convincingly – ‘Oh, sorry . . . hey,
hello
!’

She turned, her mouth falling open as she recognised him. ‘Wow. It’s you! Hi!’

‘I don’t believe it. Talk about a coincidence.’ Rory shook his head in disbelief. ‘This is amazing. Have you just got back from your holiday in . . . where did you say you were off to? Was it Paris?’

See? Super-casual, super-cool.

‘Saint-Tropez.’ She was smiling, similarly astounded by the coincidence. ‘This is so weird! And what are you doing here?’

‘Just dropped a friend off. He’s catching a flight to Frankfurt.’

‘Well, isn’t that nice of you? Especially on New Year’s Eve!’

‘What can I say?’ Rory gave a modest shrug. ‘I’m a kind and thoughtful person.’

‘I already knew that. Always happy to help others.’

‘How’s the credit card? Been looking after it?’ They’d moved to the right of the revolving doors now, to avoid getting in other people’s way.

‘I’ve been taking very good care of it.’ Her blue eyes sparkled. ‘No more bins, you’ll be glad to hear.’

‘Excellent. And how was your Christmas?’

‘We had a great time, thanks. You?’

See how she was keeping the conversation going? Asking a question in return? This was progressing well, really well. He nodded, encouraged by how brilliantly he was doing. ‘Yes, fantastic. I didn’t introduce myself last time, by the way. Rory. Rory McAndrew.’

‘And I’m Natasha. Tasha. Tash.’ She shrugged generously. ‘Whichever. Take your pick.’

‘I like any of those. All good names.’ Just the sound of her voice was mesmerising.

‘Well, fancy bumping into you again like this. I still can’t get over it.’

‘I know. Maybe it’s fate.’ He’d practised saying this in his head
so
many times. ‘Look, how about we—’

‘Oh that’s lovely, she turned up at last! I’m so pleased for you.’ The garrulous woman from WHSmith was right in front of them, now wearing a thick coat and carrying a handbag. Beaming at Natasha, she said, ‘He was here when I started my shift first thing this morning and he’s been waiting for you all day. Must be love!’

And with a cheery wave, the woman disappeared through the revolving glass doors, leaving Rory to drown in a sea of his own mortification.

He couldn’t look at Tasha, but was burningly aware that she was looking at him.

‘All day? Really?’

He nodded.
Oh God
.

‘Are you like Tom Hanks in that film,
Terminal
? Do you live here at the airport?’

He forced himself to meet her gaze. She was trying not to smile.

‘That bloody woman. OK, here’s the thing. I’m not a stalker and I’m not weird. My name’s Rory McAndrew, I live in Hampstead and I’m a financial investment adviser. I’m normal, I promise.’ The words weren’t flowing quite as easily now that he was having to improvise. ‘I’ve never done anything like this before, but after last week . . . with you and the bin . . . well, after you’d left, I just couldn’t stop thinking about you. And I was kicking myself because I hadn’t taken your number. There was no way of getting in touch with you again . . . and it just kind of felt like it could be the biggest mistake of my life.’

‘Wow,’ said Tasha.

‘But you’d said you were going away for a week, so I thought if I came here today, with a bit of luck I might see you again. It wasn’t ideal, but it was better than nothing at all.’ Rory shrugged. ‘So I went for it; I took the chance.’

‘And it worked. I’m here.’ She pulled a face. ‘Sorry I’m late.’

‘That’s OK. Are you seeing anyone?’ He held his breath; this was the other possible stumbling block. Just because she hadn’t mentioned a boyfriend didn’t mean she didn’t have one.

‘Um, I’m not sure,’ said Tasha. ‘I think so.’

‘Oh.’
Oh.

Fuck.

‘How about you?’

Rory shook his head. ‘No. No one.’

‘Who was it who called you last week? Made you go and pick her up?’

‘That was my Aunt Mel. She broke her leg in November and we have to keep giving her lifts all the time. She’s pretty bossy.’

‘Right. So would you like my phone number?’

‘Yes.’ But what about the possible bastard boyfriend?

‘Would you like us to go out on a date?’

Rory nodded. ‘Yes.’ Was this some kind of
trick
?

‘Fantastic,’ said Tasha. ‘How about now?’

‘What? You mean . . . tonight?’

‘Tonight is now. So, yes. Only if you want to, though.’

‘I do want to.’ He had to ask. ‘Except, what about this boyfriend you think you might have?’

And now she was hooking a strand of hair behind her ear, properly smiling and giving him a keep-up look. ‘Well, this may be jumping the gun a little bit, but I’m kind of hoping he might be you.’

Rory had to replay the sentence in his mind to make sure she meant what he thought she meant. Not slow as a rule, he said, ‘Are you serious?’

Tasha’s grin broadened. ‘You tried to play it so cool, pretending that us meeting up here was a coincidence. Then that woman came along and blew your cover. So I’m returning the favour and not playing it cool either. Everything you said about how you felt after last week . . . you know, kicking yourself and wishing you’d got my number and wondering if you’d ever see me again?’

‘Yes?’ Rory held his breath; was this how it felt to have five numbers on the lottery and the final ball teetering, about to fall into place?

Tasha moved closer to him and rested the palm of her hand lightly against his chest. Her blue eyes were shining up at him. ‘Me too.’ She nodded for emphasis. ‘It was exactly the same for me.’

At twelve minutes to midnight, the doorbell went. Upstairs, Hallie pressed the intercom and said, ‘Yes?’

‘I saw your light was on.’ It was Luke’s voice, friendly and laid-back. ‘Not going back to the pub?’

‘No, I decided not to bother. Too much effort.’

‘I can wheel you there if you want.’

‘Thanks, but it’s fine.’ She smiled, touched by the offer. ‘I’m comfortable here now.’

He hesitated. ‘In that case, would you like some company?’

‘Brilliant! Can I have Leonardo DiCaprio?’

‘Well . . .’

‘Joke,’ said Hallie. ‘Buzzing you in. Come on up.’

She was sitting on the bed rather than in it, still wearing her red dress. When Luke appeared in the bedroom doorway, she said, ‘How was the patient?’

‘He’ll be fine.’ Luke wouldn’t go into details, she knew that. He was far too discreet.

‘Take a seat. Pull the chair round.’ Hallie indicated the full-length windows. ‘We’ve got the best view of the fireworks from up here.’

‘Perfect.’

‘And we have this to toast the New Year.’ She held up an unopened mini bottle of Moët decorated with Swarovski crystals. ‘Bea gave it to me for Christmas, isn’t it fab? We can share it!’

Outside, people were beginning to gather in front of the White Hart, ready for the fireworks that would shortly be set off on the centre of the low stone bridge across the river. Hallie switched on the TV so they could see and hear the celebrations in London too.

‘So how about New Year’s resolutions?’ She tilted her head at Luke. ‘Made any?’

‘Just the usual, I suppose. Do the best job I can, try to save a few lives.’ He shrugged. ‘Try not to kill too many people off.’

Hallie grinned. ‘Most people are too scared to joke about death in front of me. It’s so boring, knowing they’re editing themselves the whole time.’

‘Go on then,’ said Luke. ‘What about your resolutions?’

‘Well, I’ve been giving this some serious thought, and I reckon I really need to
start
killing people off. So long as they’ve definitely registered themselves on the organ donor list.’ She shrugged. ‘Otherwise it might all be a bit pointless.’

He nodded in agreement. ‘And they’d have to be a good match.’

‘Obviously.’

‘Try not to get caught, though. Mass murderers probably have a hard time getting to the top of the transplant list.’

‘And I’m so clumsy I’d be bound to leave clues and give myself away. I won’t bother. Too much effort.’ Hallie pulled a face. ‘OK, my resolution is to make it through the next twelve months and get to see the fireworks a year from now.’ She paused and looked over at Luke. ‘Do you think I will?’

He didn’t flinch. ‘Will any of us? There’s no answer to that. Obviously we hope so.’

‘When was the last time you saved someone’s life?’

Luke thought about it. ‘Actually resuscitating them? A couple of years ago. Spotting a symptom and making sure the patient gets the right treatment . . . well, that happens more often.’

‘How does it feel to know you’ve saved someone?’

‘Honestly? Pretty fantastic.’

‘Must be amazing. I’d love to have the chance to do that.’ Leaning over, Hallie opened her bedside drawer, reached inside and pulled out a bag of liquorice allsorts. ‘If you swallowed one of these and got it stuck in your throat, I could do the Heimlich manoeuvre on you and make it shoot out of your mouth. Want to give it a go?’

‘So you can save my life?’

‘Yes!’

‘How do I know it isn’t all part of your evil master plan to bump me off so you can harvest my organs?’

‘Honestly, you’re so
suspicious
. Ooh, nearly midnight, here we go. Open the window a bit so we can hear everything . . .’

The crowd outside the pub had grown to a couple of hundred. On the TV, Trafalgar Square was jammed with many thousands of revellers. The countdown began and the noise levels increased.