Page 34 of One Summer

Is he in some sort of withdrawal? Perhaps this is what cold turkey looks like?

‘I don’t have drugs on me, sorry.’

‘Ibuprofen. Paracetamol. Please. I’ll take anything you’ve got.’

‘Oh, right. I probably do have something in my handbag,’ I say, starting to rummage.

I hand him a blister pack of aspirin pills.

‘Thank you,’ he gasps. ‘Water,’ he whispers to me, as if his mouth has dried to a husk.

Obediently, I go into the kitchen and run the tap until the water clears. I’ve known him for thirty seconds and I’m already nursemaiding.

Who is this man? Why is he being ill here and not in his own home? Is this all an elaborate joke? Am I being pranked? Is that why the cart driver was saying all that weird stuff? Did he deliberately take me to the wrong accommodation for some sort of island hazing thing?

I carry the tumbler of water back into the bedroom, but the man is already curled up in the foetal position, his covers thrown aside, sound asleep.

The beanie on his head is pulled down so low that it’s impossible to see if he has a shaved head under there or a mass of golden locks. I have the strangest temptation to lift a corner of the beanie to check, but how weird would that be?

Leaving the pills and water on the bedside table, I retreat to the living room and try to figure out what’s happening here.

Whatever it is, I get the distinct feeling that it is not going to end well for either the strange man in the bed, or – most crucially – me.

Thirty-Two

Karma

I sink down on the sofa and the little dog immediately jumps up next to me and lays his head on my lap, as if he’s known me his whole life. I don’t know what to do. It feels uncomfortable to go and wake up the strange man to try to get to the bottom of all this, when he’s clearly down with the flu or Covid or whatever, but until I figure this mess out, I’m a bit stuck.

The man knew I was the petsitter, at least, which is something.

Could I have really got the date mixed up? I distinctly remember reading Tuesday on my offer letter. Could I have misread it? Seen Thursday and filed it away in my brain as Tuesday?

It is more than probable.

Because, if an error has been made, it is generally me who has made it. Lord knows Scotty would back up this hypothesis, probably with diagrams, appendices and further reading.

I take out my phone and stare down at it. Calling my parents is one option.

They’d be sympathetic. They’re always sympathetic – maybe that’s part of my problem.

What would I even say to them? ‘Hey, I’ve messed up again. There’s a mucus-y man in my bed and I don’t know why he’s there or when he’s leaving. Help.’

No, they’ll make a fuss and insist on coming to my rescue. They’ll want to ‘pop over’ and sort out all my problems for me or force me to come home and live with them.

I scroll down to Max because I still haven’t blocked his number on my phone. I meant to do it, but it just hasn’t felt like the right time. I haven’t been ready to burn that bridge yet.

But why on earth would I want to tell Max about any of this? It would just give him and Greta a good laugh. Max could talk about how absent-minded I am, and Greta could say pitying things about people who aren’t detail-oriented and exhibit classic ADHD traits.

I could call Henny. Henny has never judged me for getting things wrong, and she always cheers me up. Just the thought of her is like a fleecy, heated throw over my shoulders on a winter’s day.

Except for the fact that Henny is also a massive blabber. She’ll tell Scotty about all this, and he’ll be delighted, especially as I didn’t serve out the whole of my notice period. He won’t stop smiling. He’ll think it’s karma.

Maybe it is karma.

Out of a perverse desire to make myself feel even worse than I do now, I go to the YouTube app on my phone to check if Max has uploaded any new videos.

He has.

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