Dead Romantic by Ruth Saberton Page A

I’m going to give him the satisfaction of conceding it. Instead I pointedly turn my back on him and pretend to be fascinated by a dog-earned copy of Heat magazine. Oh look! Katie Price has got married again. And who on earth are the Kardashians?
    “Don’t be like that,” says Alex. “You’re stuck with me so we might as well be friends.”
    “I am not stuck with you,” I mutter out of the side of my mouth. “You’re just a chemical imbalance in my brain.”
    The man on my right shifts down a seat. Thank God I don’t know anybody here. Imagine if I started hallucinating at work? Walking down the staircase in my pants would look dignified by comparison. I really hope the doctor can give me something to sort this out – and soon, too, before I lose all credibility.
    I focus my full attention on the magazine.
    “I used to be in Heat loads,” says Alex conversationally.
    I try to ignore him, but he’s very persistent, chatting away nineteen to the dozen and insisting on reading out all the posters describing infectious diseases. When the receptionist calls my name I leap to my feet in relief. Escape here I come! Very soon I’ll have an explanation and some lovely pills, and life will go back to normal.
    “Thank God!” cries Alex, jumping up and following me. “I couldn’t take much more of that. I’ve already diagnosed myself with scabies, rubella and IBS.”
    “Whoa! Hold it right there!” I stop in my tracks and Alex cannons into me, or rather there’s a whoosh of cold air just like you get when you leave the freezer door open. “Figment of my imagination or not, there’s no way you’re coming into the doctor’s with me.”
    “Even if you’re talking about me?” Alex looks put out, but I’m not falling for those sad puppy-dog eyes.
    “Especially if I’m talking about you,” I tell him, and then I’m inside the consulting room, shutting the door firmly behind me. Alex, hallucination or whatever strange chemical imbalance he represents, doesn’t follow me.
    “Cleopatra Carpenter? Please, take a seat.” The GP, who must be about twelve, smiles at me from across the desk. Seriously? That’s my doctor? I really must be getting old.
    He’s looking at me in a confused way. “Sorry, I thought you had somebody with you? I could hear you talking in the corridor?”
    “Oh that? I was on my mobile,” I improvise wildly. I know I’m here to talk about my hallucinations but I’m not intending to tell him quite the extent of them. I want to be cured, not committed. “It’s switched off now.”
    While I take a seat, the doctor pulls up my records on the computer and regards them thoughtfully. When I explain that since my head injury I haven’t felt quite myself and that I keep seeing things out of the corner of my eye, he nods sympathetically.
    “That’s perfectly normal and to be expected, after a head trauma. It’s very common for patients to experience blurred or distorted vision.”
    I swallow. Blurred vision I could cope with, but being stalked by a dead rock star? I’m not so sure. For a second I’m tempted to tell him everything, but I stop myself just in time; the thought of what might be written on my medical records prevents me.
    “All your test results seem fine,” the doctor reassures me once he’s shone a light in my eyes and checked my reflexes. “The CT scans are clear too. I think all you need is some rest. I’m more than happy to sign you off for a fortnight.”
    “Rest?” I almost laugh at the idea. “I haven’t got time to rest. I’m flat out at work and so behind after being off. The last thing I can do is rest.”
    “So work is stressful?”
    I want to bash my head on his desk in frustration. Work isn’t stressing me out but seeing Alex Thorne everywhere I go will. But, of course, the moment I opened my mouth and mentioned work I sealed the deal. The doctor is now convinced that I’m suffering from a severe case of work-related anxiety, and I leave the