Page 47 of Sexy as Sin
She really, really didn’t want to do this. Any of it. She didn’t want to move. She’d just lie here and die. And then she’d get up and get ready for the Haier-McGill wedding. Meatballs again.
Mistake to think about meatballs.
Bad mistake.
Half an hour later, she was under three heated blankets in a cubicle in the A&E department of the hospital, an IV in her arm and Brett, who had stubbornly refused to leave no matter what she’d said, in a chair by her side, when the doctor came back.
“Can I go?” she asked him. “I’m feeling much better.” Yes, the world still swam when she turned her head, and there had been another bout of nausea in the ambulance, but at least that had been all. Some things were impossible to recover from, and soiling yourself in front of your sexy-as-hell new love interest, when you weren’t even wearing undies, was surely one of them. Bullet dodged there.
Brett hadn’t ridden in the back with her to watch her latest spectacular episode of dry heaves, at least. Just before they’d bunged her, strapped to a gurney, into the ambulance, one of the ambos had said, “You’re never making it into the back with that leg, mate.”
“You’re right,” Brett had said, sounding as calm and sure as ever. She hadn’t opened her eyes, but if she had, she knew he’d be looking exactly as firmly in charge of this situation as if he were wearing a suit and standing in some posh boardroom, sixty floors up. “That’s why I’m riding in front.”
“Can’t do that, I’m afraid,” the bloke had said. But when the ambulance had rolled down the drive, Brett had been riding in front.
Now, she told the doctor, “I didn’t need to come here at all, surely. It’s a bug. Soon be better. Nearly there already.” As witnessed by the fact that she could speak again. She couldn’t turn her head, but she could say words.
“In fact,” the doctor, said, “your potassium and sodium levels had dropped to a level that was more than uncomfortable, and you were showing definite signs of dehydration.” He was a young, fit bloke she recognized from the surf beach, and she wasn’t thrilled to have him see and smell her in her current condition. “That’s not what’s bothering me, though.”
“It’s not?” She eyed him warily, then closed her eyes again, because moving them hurt. “Never tell me I’ve got something dread, because I won’t believe you. I don’t get tired, and I don’t get ill. I told you, I’m better already.” Oh. She’d better open her eyes again if she were going to make this point. She did it. Not easy.
“But you do get food-borne illness,” he said. “And so have at least six other people so far. That’s just the ones who’ve shown up here. For once, it’s not alcohol poisoning that’s filling up the beds on Saturday night.”
Beside her, Brett had taken her hand. “Food-borne illness,” she echoed. “From what? I had eggs yesterday morning. I cooked them through, though.” Produce, maybe. She’d had melon at breakfast. She bought as much as she could from organic suppliers whose methods she trusted, and Brett hadn’t fallen ill, but problems happened. Salmonella happened, anyway. Nothing else happened, not with the right vendors and the right storage, preparation, and cooking methods, and she always used those. She didn’t buy anything precut, and she washed everything, then washed it again.
“Everybody who’s come in so far attended the same event last night,” the doctor said. “An anniversary dinner. How about you?”
The blood drained from her head, and the bloke’s face swam in her vision. Her stomach heaved, and this time, Brett was the one grabbing the blue bag and holding it for her. Her mind flashed for a second onto how embarrassing this same experience must have been for him, but no matter how she tried to keep it there, it wouldn’t stay. It was on those three words instead.Food-borne illness.
This couldn’t be happening. Not possible.
“Yes,” she said when she could. “I was there.”
“I’m going to ask you what you ate,” the doctor said. “I’ve already rung the Food Authority hotline, but it’s barely Sunday morning. Unless somebody dies, they aren’t likely to take it up straight away. May as well start getting it on record.”
“Wait,” she said. “Unless somebody dies? Is somebody really ill, then?”
“Four rehydrated and on their way home, besides you. Two admitted. A woman in her nineties, and another who’s pregnant. That’s so far. Can you tell me what you ate at the event?”
“How are they?” she asked. The pregnant woman. The anniversary couple’s youngest? She’d had an enormous belly, had joked about the excitement bringing on the baby. And a woman in her nineties. The onetime groom’s mum? A sweet lady with a walker, in a pink suit that was so clearly her best, wearing an orchid that had been pinned to her lapel by her son, accompanied by a kiss on the cheek. She’d patted his shoulder and had embraced his wife, beaming, leaving a trace of powder and lipstick behind, because she’d pulled out all the stops.
They couldn’t die. Please, no. And the baby.No.
“The pregnant woman is a precaution,” the doctor said, looking surprised at her intensity. “She’s been uncomfortable, but baby’s going all right. The older lady’s a bit dicier. The lab’s testing samples now to see what the trouble is, but I’ll get the list of what you ate while you can recall it.”
“I ate three of the mini-pizzas,” she said, shutting her mind to everything else and focusing on the food. “A couple tastes of the veggies, same of the salad, a bite of the meat, and more of the salad dressing. A few spoonfuls of that. A bit of icing from the cake.”
He’d pulled out a note pad to write it down, but looked up with surprise. “You didn’t eat more of the dinner, or any of the sweets? Were you feeling ill that soon?”
“No,” she said. “I didn’t eat it, because I was there to cook it. I’m the caterer.”
His expression changed, and then it changed back, became professional again as he put his notebook back into his pocket. “The Food Authority will be in touch, then, I’m sure. If you have any of the food left, even if you think that dish couldn’t possibly be the culprit, it would be best to save it so they can match it to what they find from the stomach contents.”
“I don’t,” she said. “I cooked at the venue, and what the staff didn’t eat after the event, which wasn’t much, we discarded, as always.” She wanted to exclaim, to protest.I’m classically trained, and I don’t make those kinds of mistakes.He wasn’t the one who needed to hear it, though. Her skin was clammy, and she was shivering again, even under the heated blanket.
The doctor nodded, said, “The nurse will be back in shortly to check how you’re doing, and if your vitals are good, we’ll send you on home,” and left.
Which was when Amanda and Tom walked into the cubicle.
