Page 18 of Maid for Advertising
“Right, she’s not going,” I told the confused paramedics to whom I had been barking instructions to over the last half hour, insisting on the exact opposite. They looked at me like I was maybe a little insane, then shrugged in that classic French dismissive way that says “you are of subnormal intelligence but I expect no less from an Englishman”, and left as quickly as they had arrived. Urvi had finished her supper by then and Kira went to work on her hand. “I’ll make tea,” I said.
“Thanks mate,” Ben said. For some reason he was grinning. I didn’t know what there was to grin about after Urvi’s brush with death, but he had never been entirely normal. “Milk and one sugar.”
“Just milk for me please, Mrs Doyle,” Kira chipped in, looking up long enough from her friend’s hand to wink at me. Shit. I hadn’t meant I’d make every bastard in the room a tea.
“Urvi?” I asked, inexplicably annoyed that I didn’t know how she took her tea. This seemed like a fundamental missing piece of information. The drive to find out every last detail about this woman was powerful now. The worst thing was that she knew howItookmytea - she’d been making it for me and all my other guests for the last three days.
“Er . . . you sure you know where the kettle is?” Urvi asked a legitimate question seeing as, no, I did not know where the kettle was. Or the tea bags. Or the milk.
“It’s my boat,” I gave her my non-answer and she bit her lip.
“’K, just milk then,” she said and I stalked from the room.
By the time the kettle was boiled I’d fired Tim Blight and cancelled the rest of the meetings and parties for tomorrow. Everyone in the kitchen had stared at me as I made the tea until I told them to “bugger off and find something else to do”, but not before I had cornered one of the other waitresses and asked her about their hours and breaks and other things I probably should have taken an interest in before. Her answers were in no way reassuring.
Chapter 8
I’m not going to sue you
Urvi
I sipped my tea and watched Jack as he quizzed Kira about diabetes as if she was in some sort of medical school oral exam. He was behaving very oddly. Okay, so I could understand he was feeling guilty. I mean Ihadcollapsed on his boat, and a major contributing factor behind this was the lack adequate breaks and actual meals I had been allowed whilst in his employ. But emptying his entire party of all its guests? Shouting at Mr Blight so loudly in the kitchen that we could all hear it from the main salon? This was all a bit over the top.
When Kira had said “life threatening” earlier Jack’s face had paled and his eyes had started to look a little wild. They still looked wild now as he pumped her for information, and the colour was yet to fully return to his cheeks. Maybe he was worried I’d sue him for poor working conditions, or go to the press? That would be enough to spook any self-respecting business owner.
But it wasn’t as though Stella (who seemed to be Jack’s second-in-command) was that fussed or concerned – she’d just given me a dirty look after I regained consciousness, as if I was selfishly inconveniencing her and her guests with my drama. And Jack wasn’t just asking about the immediate health concerns for my condition. He was asking about the long-term management and the long-term consequences of poor control - stuff that would affect me in years to come, not whilst I was still on his boat or in his employ. And he was absorbing everything Kira was telling him with such intensity it was likehewas swotting for an endocrinology exam.
I didn’t know what to make of it. He’d spent the last few days ignoring me, and now it seemed like I was the only thing he wanted to focus on. And having all of Jack Bailey’s focus was dangerous. He kept looking at me with this intense expression, and had asked how I took my tea like it was one of the secrets of the universe. It didn’t help that with his shirt rumpled, a five o’clock shadow over his jaw and his hair mussed from running his hands through it too many times, he looked even more gorgeous than usual. Somehow the imperfections in his appearance made him almost unbearably attractive. I didn’t need to start fancying Mr Out of My League again. I’d already gone through that disappointment and I had no intention of revisiting it.
And I was so tired - exhausted right down to my bones. I let the voices in the room wash over me as I sank back into the sofa and drew my feet up underneath me. My eyelids felt heavy and I decided to close them, just for a minute, just whilst I rested my head on the arm of the sofa.
“Urvi,” a low murmur sounded in my ear and I frowned before snuggling further into the cushions. “Sweetheart, can you hear me? We’ve got to check your blood glucose before we move you to a bed, okay?”
I shook my head and didn’t open my eyes. I didn’t want to know what my stupid blood sugar was doing. My diabetes could go fuck itself. My hand was gently prised from under my cheek and the familiar sting of the lancet pierced the skin of my finger.
“Ow,” I muttered and managed to crack open one eye to see who was inflicting pain on me. Jack’s face was hovering close to mine and his was the hand I could feel resting on my shoulder. A woman I didn’t know was kneeling next to him and fiddling with my glucometer. “Wh–what’s going on?”
“Worries A Lot was not satisfied with my years of undergraduate training,” Kira said from behind both of them. She was sitting on the opposite sofa next to Ben and they were both sporting amused smiles. “He’s called in the heavies in the form of an actual doctor.”
“Bon soir,” the woman kneeling in front of me said. “You ’ave record of your readings?” she asked and I pressed my lips together before answering.
“No, I . . . no.”
I’d barely had time to take my blood glucose levels and dose my insulin this week. I definitely hadn’t had time to write every last one down.
“You must to do this,” she told me. “’ave you taken your long-acting insulin today? The . . .” she dug through my kit until she found what she was looking for. “The lantus?”
“No, I …”
She gave me a stern look and clicked her tongue as if it was my fault I hadn’t got around to administering it. I’d been close to death and then unconscious, lady!
“You ’ad a nasty ’ypoglycaemic episode,” she told me - something I already knew. “You will feel tired for the couple of days. It is better that you listen to your body with this. Let yourself recharge. Eat properly. Keep a good record of your blood sugars and see your doctor on your return ’ome.”
“Thank you but it’s fine,” I told her. “I’ve gone hypo loads before – no biggie. Everyone’s making a fuss over nothing.”
One of her perfectly plucked eyebrows went up.
“I’m afraid frequent ’ypos is not fine. It is dangerous.”
