Roses Are Red - Miranda Rijks Page 0,85

glasses that match her glossy shoulder-length hair.

‘How can I help you?’ She smiles as she swivels to face me. She has a compassionate but confident manner.

‘I think I’ve got flu,’ I say.

‘There’s a lot of it around at the moment. Let’s have a look at your throat.’

She peers down my throat, feels my glands, takes my temperature, and then she checks my blood pressure. Her touch is gentle and efficient.

‘It’s definitely a virus, so not a lot we can do. You’ll need plenty of rest and fluids. Is everything else all right?’

I don’t know what it is about this woman, who must be a decade younger than me, but she sets something off. And I realise that no, everything isn’t all right. My first husband died under suspicious circumstances, my business is in danger, I’m being threatened by my business partner, my new husband is lovely but somehow not as substantial as my first one, and my kids are suffering. As all of those thoughts flood my head like the rush of bathwater swirling through a drain when the plug is lifted, tears plop out of my eyes.

‘Sorry,’ I say, brusquely wiping them away.

‘There is nothing to be sorry about. Would you like to share with me what’s going on?’

So I do. I tell her that I’m not sleeping. That I’m consumed with fear. That the stress at work and sometimes at home is in danger of overwhelming me. And when I stop talking, it’s as if I’ve opened the floodgates, and by dumping it all on this stranger, I feel a sense of levity.

‘I think it would be a good idea if I refer you for a course of counselling,’ she suggests. ‘It will take a while to come through, so if you can afford to go privately, that would be more expeditious.’

‘I can,’ I admit, almost ashamedly. ‘And I think my kids could do with counselling too.’

‘That’s very likely, considering the trauma your family has suffered.’ She writes the name of a woman she recommends on a piece of paper. She then turns to her computer. ‘I can see that you were prescribed a course of sleeping pills after your husband died. Do you have any left?’

‘About two, I think.’

‘I’ll give you a course of sleeping pills for five days. Take them and come back to see me in a week’s time. I’m sure you’ll feel much better after decent sleep.’

She prints out a prescription, which she hands to me.

‘Thank you.’ I throw her a weak smile as I leave.

Back at home, I make myself another Lemsip and I call Fiona’s mobile. I expect it to go to voicemail, but she answers.

‘Lydia, how are you? I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch for a while. Been snowed under with work. How are you doing?’

‘Fine,’ I say, my default response. ‘Actually, not so fine. I’ve got flu. The reason for the call was, I was wondering where you’re up to with rewriting my will?’

‘I haven’t started yet. We need to discuss your wishes in detail.’

‘Can we do it now, on the phone?’

‘I suppose so, but what’s the rush?’

‘Nothing, it’s just that I read an article about a man who died intestate, and his children got nothing because their stepmother was entitled to everything. As much as I love Patrick, it’s essential that I leave as much as possible to Mia and Oliver.’

‘There’s not something you’re holding back from me, is there?’ Fiona’s voice is edged with concern. ‘You’re not sick, are you? Really sick?’

‘No!’ I laugh. ‘I’ve only got flu. It’s nothing like that, but I want to get my will sorted. Can you let me know how I should go about setting things up so that Patrick is left enough for his life, but ultimately, everything goes to the children?’

There is a long silence. ‘Are you still there?’ I ask.

‘Yes, yes. I’m sorry, I was just thinking about the best mechanics for setting this up. Do you have any particular sum that you wish to leave to Patrick?’

‘Um, no. I haven’t thought through the detail. What do you think?’

‘It really isn’t for me to comment. Why don’t you have some further thoughts on that and let me know.’

‘Ok. How soon can you draw something up?’

I hear her fingernails clicking on a keyboard and then she sighs. ‘I am totally snowed under this week. I could probably get to it by the end of next week.’

I thank her and we say our goodbyes.

I set my alarm for 3.30 p.m.