Page 33 of One Summer

‘It’s behind you,’ I say, pantomime-style.

He seizes the roll, blows his nose and replaces the soiled nostril plugs with fresh ones that he rolls out of ripped little scraps of tissue.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asks, groaning through the sheer effort of having to speak.

‘Getting infected with whatever it is you have there, I would imagine.’

‘Sorry,’ he groans again. ‘It came on suddenly. I was a bit under the weather this morning, but nothing like this. This must be flu.’

I take a step backwards and accidentally step on the dog’s foot, which makes him yelp.

‘Oops, my bad. Sorry,’ I say to Ted, and then turn back to the man in the bed. ‘There’s a ten-pound note blowing around outside,’ I say, narrowing my eyes. ‘You should go and get it.’

‘Huh?’ he gasps in the breath before another sneeze.

‘It’s the flu test.’

‘The what?’

‘You know,’ I say, with a tone of superiority that even annoys me. ‘That’s how you know if you have the flu or a cold. If it’s just a cold, you’d still go outside to get the money. With the flu, you’d be too ill to bother.’

‘Who are you?’ he says, looking completely confused by this line of conversation.

‘I’m the petsitter,’ I say. ‘Lindy.’

‘What? The petsitter’s not supposed to be here for another two days.’

Every word comes out like a groan, and he’s started to shiver.

‘No, this was the day I was supposed to arrive – Tuesday.’

‘Frank told me Thursday,’ he says, hand scrabbling desperately to find the toilet tissue roll again.

‘Well, I was told Tuesday,’ I insist.

But… am I, in fact, quite sure I’m supposed to be here today?

No, I’ve never been less sure of anything. For one thing, Thursday would explain why the summer ferry timetable hasn’t started up yet.

‘Ah,’ I say. ‘Erm.’

‘Either they told you wrong, or you read it wrong,’ he says, teeth chattering now.

‘This is probably my cock-up,’ I say, with a deep sigh. ‘Historically speaking, I have been the upper of major cocks… Hang on, that didn’t come out quite right.’

Thankfully, I don’t think he hears, as he simply clutches his head and lies back down. The duvet is hanging off the bed and I can see the fine mist of sweat on his incredibly toned torso.

Am I perving at this strange, snotty man?

What is wrong with me?

He has a stinking cold, a teddy-bear dog, good abdominals and a baffled manner. That’s all I know about him. At first glance, he doesn’t appear to be a serial killer. Or, if he is, he’s currently so incapacitated by viral load as to be a non-threat to me.

‘Drugs,’ he says, pleading.

‘Drugs?’

‘Yes,’ he croaks. ‘Need drugs.’

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