Putting Alice Back Together by Carol Marinelli Page B

out of the fridge.
    He made toast (which I don’t eat) and more coffee while I cooked. I splurged carb-wise (for me) and added mushrooms and tomatoes. He was so bloody easy to talk to. He was sorry to hear I hadn’t been well and said I really hadn’t had to send Roz to pick him up, but it was appreciated.
    Then I had a teeny panic that maybe he would be working in Emergency too and would haul up my notes (that’s the sort of thing I would do if I fancied someone and had access).
    ‘It’s a busy place, Emergency,’ I said.
    He pulled a face. ‘I avoid it as much as I can.’
    ‘Because you’re a consultant?’ I checked, and he laughed.
    ‘Not for another week.’
    He looked too young for such a senior position and I told him so and he laughed again and said, yes, that he was. ‘But psychiatry’s one of those specialities where you can get on quickly, there’s a real dearth.’ I didn’t hear anything else for a moment, for the great whooshing sound in my ears. He Was A Psychiatrist?
    I was sitting opposite a psychiatrist?
    I could think of nothing worse.
    A psychiatrist.
    Didn’t they have half-rimmed glasses and patches on their elbows and start every sentence with Perhaps what you’re trying to say is… ?
    I was horrified.
    I would have preferred him to be a proctologist.
    Oh, God, I should have been far more specific with my list.
    Still, he was here now—and it was too late to worry because, psychiatrist or not, I fancied him rotten.
    ‘Do you do hypnosis?’
    ‘Sorry?’
    ‘In your work?’ I was cheering up suddenly. With my own resident hypnotist, there was no end to what I could achieve.
    ‘Occasionally,’ Hugh said. ‘Why?’
    ‘I’m just interested in it,’ I said airily, then I realised the time and pictured Claire’s face if I was late again. I toyed with ringing Roz to ask her to ring in sick for me, but I knew I mustn’t. ‘I’d better get going.’
    ‘You work at the paper?’ Hugh checked, as I (unusually for me) cleared and rinsed my plate. ‘What do you do?’
    Normally, when trying to impress, I lie. Well, not an outright lie, but I say something vague that hints I’m a journalist, but somehow I knew that he knew. After all, he’d clearly spoken to Nicole and would have spent time in the car with Roz.
    ‘I work on the classifieds.’ I rolled my eyes to show how mind-numbingly boring it was. ‘With Roz.’
    ‘That’s right, she was saying.’
    ‘It was only supposed to be for a year or two,’ I admitted. ‘Actually, I’m thinking of going to university.’ It wasn’t a lie: I had sent off for the forms.
    ‘To study what?’
    ‘Music.’
    I didn’t want to go to work; I so didn’t want to go. I wanted to stay and talk, but I had no choice.
    I smiled and headed out to the living room and sorted out my bag, lipstick, water bottle, keys, that sort of thing, and then he appeared again.
    ‘Thanks a lot for letting me stay,’ he said. ‘It really is appreciated. I know Nic said you were looking forward to some time on your own. (Begrudgingly, in my head I thanked her.) It’s just till I get my bearings. You’ll hardly see me.’
    I rather hoped that I would.
    ‘Here.’ He handed me a bag, which contained a box, which contained a bottle of a really, really expensive perfume that suddenly became my lifelong favourite. ‘It’s nice meeting you, Alice.’
    I flew to work.
    I swear I don’t remember a traffic light or anything.
    The cosmos had aligned.
    Finally, finally , my ship was coming in.
    Alice Watson.
    I smiled as I drove to work and smelt my newly sprayed wrist.
    Dr and Mrs Hugh Watson.
    Or Drs Hugh and Alice Watson. (My fantasies had moved to epic proportions by the end of my shift. As I waded in my bag and took the shine off my nose before driving home—I had decided that I would never work, I would study full time, DMus sounded good to me.)
    It was all about manifesting, right?

Thirteen
    I loved our mornings together.
    We’d chat over coffee.