Okay, sure, but she says she’s your doctor…
Yes,she…
No, sorry, I didn’t catch the name…”
The receptionist glanced up at Catherine and then lowered her voice slightly. “Yes, white hair.”
“It’s platinum,” Catherine hissed.
“Okay, yes. I’ll send her right up.”
Catherine tuggedher blazer again and puffed out a breath before tapping the door of room 201. She waited for a response, but none came. She rolled her eyes and knocked again. After a beat, she hunched in closer to the door, her mouth barely an inch away from the wood grain.
“Look, Francesca, I know you’re in there. You literally just spoke to the receptionist and told her to send me up, so… are you going to let me in or not?”
She waited for what felt like five minutes — long enough to check three times that she was standing at the right door. As she turned away, the door swung open, as if Francesca had been watching through the peephole all along.
A blast of stale air spilled out of the room. Catherine hadn’t been entirely sure what to expect, but she almost gasped at the sight of Francesca. Her normally perfectly styled hair hung lank, her skin looked pallid, and a stained white bathrobe hung limp around her shoulders, making her look smaller than she really was.
“Fine, come in if you have to.” Francesca’s voice croaked like she’d barely used it for days.
“Francesca, you look?—”
“Terrible, I know.” Francesca gave her a vacant glare before turning away. “No need to rub it in. Is that why you came here? To gloat at the state of me?”
“No!” Catherine said a bit too quickly, and followed up with a softer, “Of course I’m not here for that. I wanted to see how you were doing. Jeremy has been worried sick about you… and I’ve been worried about you, too.”
Francesca shrugged and shuffled sloth-like back towards the four-poster bed, where, by the looks of it, she’d wallowed for the past few days. Clothes lay strewn from the door to the bed, as if Francesca had shed a skin before slithering into it. Dirty cups cluttered the bedside table, and empty food wrappers fanned around the indent Francesca had left in the sheets.
“Shall I make us a cup of tea?” Catherine asked, grasping at the default British response to any crisis.
“Good luck finding a clean cup.” Francesca slumped back onto the bed.
“You know they’ll come and clean the room if you let them.” Catherine looked around at the mess and shuddered. It looked like Francesca had polished off the contents of the minibar, but there wasn’t evidence of much else. “When was the last time you ate?”
“Why do you suddenly care?”
Catherine puckered her lips. “I don’t, if I’m honest.”
Francesca let out a laugh that sounded like a balloon popping. “I appreciate the honesty.”
“But I’m here. And I feel a certain — duty of care, should I say?”
“You know you’re not actually my doctor, Trusty?”
“Well, neither is Jeremy, but you still get him to prescribe you sleeping pills, so…”
Francesca opened her mouth, but instead of protesting, she licked her top lip. “Alright, I’ll eat. What’s on the menu?”
Something flickered in her dark eyes that made Catherine look away.
“Well, why don’t you get yourself cleaned up, and?—”
“I’m in no fit state to go out!” She threw her arms back and dramatically clutched at the pillows.
Catherine held up her hands. “I wasn’t going to suggest that… I just thought it might make you feel better, and while you’re at it, I’ll order some food and tidy up a little in here.”
“Oh, I do like it when you take charge,” Francesca growled and sat forward. Her gown fell open ever-so-slightly, revealing that she was wearing nothing underneath.
