Dead Romantic by Ruth Saberton Page B

surgery with a handful of prescriptions. Once outside I tear these up and stuff them in the nearest bin. Something tells me that medication isn’t going to help one bit – and besides, there’s no way I can risk dulling my mental faculties while I’m completing my research and preparing for the interviews. I’ll just have to hope that the bit of my brain that’s misbehaving sorts itself out soon.
    But in the meantime I have the feeling that Alex Thorne won’t be far away...
     
     
     

Chapter 9
    OK, so my visit to the doctor wasn’t quite the success I’d been hoping for; instead, it looks like I’m on my own with all this. According to the experts I’m fighting fit, my brain is looking fine and all I need is a rest. As if more than two weeks stuck in a hospital bed wasn’t enough of a rest! It was having a rest that got me into this mess, if you ask me.
    So what now? I stand outside the surgery and watch the early-morning world go by. It’s a beautiful winter’s day: the air feels like an ice blade across my cheeks and a round lemon-sherbet sun hovers in a bright cloudless sky. Overnight there was a sharp hoar frost and this morning London sparkles as though a child has tipped glitter all over the city. As I pause on the pavement my breath curls into smoke plumes and I feel my nose begin to tingle with the cold. All around life is teeming: couriers on bikes hiss by, buses rumble and confused tourists dither dangerously on the kerbside, only a heartbeat away from heavy wheels, while they attempt to interpret their maps.
    They’re off to explore the museum, of course. At just the thought of the Ancient World Gallery and the pools of silence in my office, my pulse starts to slow. Maybe, just maybe, if I can get back into my work and my routine, everything else will fall back into place too. I have my satchel with me, I’m officially cleared for action and there’s a huge backlog to tackle – not to mention a very pressing job application to complete.
    And, whispers a sneaky little voice, you might just bump into Simon as well...
    I wind my scarf around my neck and shove my fingers deep into my gloves. This crush on Simon has got to stop. And soon. Along with the Alex Thorne hallucinations, it’s taking up way too much headspace. Take getting dressed this morning, for instance. In the good old pre-Simon days, I would have put on some black trousers, a sweater and my trusty pumps without giving my outfit much thought. Today I devoted at least ten minutes to choosing a matching lingerie set; I don’t intend to flash my knickers at all and sundry again, but from now on I’m making sure I’m prepared for any disaster. Then I spent another good quarter of an hour torn between a wrap dress in smoky teal and a cashmere jersey dress. Eventually, the teal dress won, and when I’d teamed it with a pair of boots and my black duffle coat I was just about ready. The whole exercise had only taken over an hour.
    Over an hour to choose my clothes? Seriously? Maybe I’m more affected by this head injury than I’d realised.
    As I turn left and walk back towards the museum, I reflect on the irony that I’m so devastated to have been given a clean bill of health. When I was stuck in my hospital bed I’d have given anything to be told I was absolutely fine. Today, though, this news fills me with despair, because if there isn’t anything physically wrong with me then there’s only one explanation: I really must be losing the plot. Either that, or I’m actually seeing ghosts – and that’s not a notion I want to dwell on.
    I pop into the museum café and order myself a latte. While I wait by the counter I text Susie and then check my emails. As I scan through them I suddenly become aware of the music that’s playing on the radio, and the hairs on the back of my neck prickle.
    Never thought love could feel like this
    I held her close
    One Christmas kiss...
    I can’t believe it – it’s that depressing Christmas song