Page 42 of Prognosis Bad Timing

Suddenly everything crystallised in his head. He grabbed Liz by the shoulders and gave her a huge peck on the cheek. ‘No, Liz, today. Right now, today.’

He kissed her cheek again and practically sprinted out of the pathology clinic. He’d been feeling sorry for himself for the last six months. Putting everything on hold just in case. In case what? He had Hep B?

So what if he did?

Was he just going to give up work? Take to his bed and wait to die? When he could live for decades?

When he had decades to make a difference?

Well, no more. Carrie had challenged him to get a life and that was exactly what he was going to do. More of a life anyway.

Starting right now.

His brisk long-legged stride had him back at the drop-in centre within minutes. He inspected the outside with a critical eye. It may have only opened five years ago but the building he’d chosen to house the centre had been looking old and worn even then.

He’d been too busy keeping it running to notice how drab it looked and there was never enough money for luxuries such as paint anyway.

That was about to change.

Charlie strode through the front door, ignoring Angela’s cheery hello. He headed for his office, opening the filing cabinet, found the ‘E’ section and flicked through until he found the expansion plans for the drop-in centre.

He shook his head at his complacency — he should have filed them under ‘I’ for idiot.

Leaving his office, he marched to the staffroom with a single-minded determination he hadn’t felt since before his marriage had fallen apart. He crashed the door open and stood staring at a startled Carrie.

‘Charlie?’

‘I have something to show you.’

Carrie watched him move towards her, carrying a long roll of paper in his hand. She noticed the gauze at the crook of his elbow as he drew closer. Had he given a blood donation?

‘I’m kind of busy...’

‘Oh, you’re going to want to see this.’ Charlie pushed some coffee-cups aside and laid the plans out flat in the middle of the table, placing a mug on each corner.

Carrie recognised architectural drawings when she saw them. But of what? She sighed and removed her glasses. ‘Building a house?’

Charlie laughed, leaning over the plans and admiring them again for the first time in a year. ‘Better. I’m remodelling the centre.’

Carrie stared at the plans. Was he mad? The centre was going under. Big time. ‘These are...adventurous,’ she hedged.

He nodded. ‘Yes.’

Charlie straightened and pushed away from the table, moving to the sink and flicking on the kettle. ‘For five years I’ve struggled to keep everything going on a shoestring budget. Offering limited services in an area that’s crying out for maximum support. And it’s not good enough.’

He walked back to the table, leant over and poked a finger at his plans. ‘This idea addresses all the areas that are sadly lacking at the moment.’

Pushing away again, he paced back and forth, aware she was analysing the plans. He ran his hand through his hair. ‘I want to be able to provide full-time legal advice and have a full-time counsellor. I want to be able to run a needle exchange and a methadone programme and have another doctor or two so we can really provide a top-notch service.’

He walked in her direction again, bracing his hands on the back of the closest chair. ‘I want this to be a one-stop shop to meet all this community’s needs.’

Carrie stared at him, moved by the passion in his voice. By the excitement that was evident in every bodily nuance. He obviously cared for this community enormously. He looked invigorated and very, very committed. His grey gaze was earnest.

She’d never seen him looking sexier.

But she wasn’t paid to be swept away by passionate ideals, even if they were being delivered so eloquently by a man who had pushed her against a door and kissed her breath away.

‘And where will the money come from?’

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