Even so, I smile at the cameras and suck in my stomach, ever so grateful that I’m wearing a coat, and stick out my chin so I don’t look like I have five of them. I even do a little “royal wave” as I get in the back seat of the car, the hotel staff holding the door open for me.
This must be how Sandra feels.
I can see how she thrives on it.
“Wow,” I say to Padraig after the driver confirms the hospital address with him. “That was crazy! That doesn’t always happen, does it?” I think back to New Years when I didn’t see a single paparazzi around us.
“No, it doesn’t,” he says. “Unless I’m with a lady.”
My stomach burns at the thought of the other ladies, though I know in my heart they were never a serious thing.
“How did they know?”
“Oh, I’m sure someone at the hotel tipped them off. Said I’ve been spotted with a woman. Then they swarm over like locusts.”
“Do you get them at your house?” I ask.
“I did the day after the injury. They practically camped outside wanting to get a soundbite. It’s one reason why I wanted to stay in the hotel. I hate having them close to my house, to my private life, and the like.”
I pause. “You didn’t want me to speak to them.”
“I don’t want them to know your name,” he says, and he gives my hand a squeeze. “Not because I’m ashamed of ye, but…” He trails off and eyes the driver, who is obviously listening.
And I know what he’s saying. If they found out I was Valerie Stephens and did a quick search, well that makes this whole fake engagement a lot more complicated. It’s hard enough keeping it straight when we’re with his family, but if the whole world (or at least Ireland) is watching?
We get to the hospital in record time, even though the taxi driver seemed to want to keep us forever, and again I’m reminded that Padraig’s life outside Shambles is completely different. Here, in Dublin, I really feel his star power, I see the way people look at him. Not the way they look at family or a neighbor, but with lust.
Even as we are escorted into the doctor’s office by the receptionist, she’s looking me over. I know that the last thing Padraig wants is news to come out of his diagnosis since that will end his career before he can wrap up the odds and ends, and I know that the staff here wouldn’t rat on a patient. But she definitely is surprised to see me with him, like we don’t belong together.
It’s just because of his reputation, I remind myself. It’s nothing to do with you. Stop thinking like your mother.
Padraig, meanwhile, is nervous. He’s tapping his fingers against his knee, fidgeting in his seat as we wait. I hold on to his hand, just to let him know he’s not alone in this and that I’m right here beside him, and he squeezes it like a lifeline.
The doctor steps in before I lose all circulation in my fingers.
“Hello, Padraig,” he says, and then looks at me in surprise as he closes the door behind him. “And hello to you, miss.”
Padraig clears his throat. “I hope you don’t mind, but this is my fiancé, Valerie.”
“Fiancé?” he says, brows raised. “I’m sorry, I had no idea you were engaged.” He sits down at his desk and looks at my hand that’s still ringless. The truth is, his father hasn’t actually given him the ring yet. His grandmother wants it to be done ceremoniously and in front of the family, so she’s holding an engagement party for us at the end of the week. I’m really not sure how I feel about all of this, but that’s what’s happening.
“She’s getting my mother’s ring,” Padraig explains to him. “Keep it in the family.”
“Ah, that’s very lovely,” the doctor says. He picks up his file and puts on his down-to-business face. “So, do you want to start by telling me how it’s been going for you? Since you called in, I’m going to assume symptoms have been increasing.”
Padraig goes over everything since the last time he saw him, including a lot of things I don’t know about, like pain in his legs at night for which he takes his father’s painkillers for, and occasional blurry vision.
“These are all very common symptoms,” the doctor says after he’s done. “Optic neuritis is the inflammation of the