MIA
I’m sick.
It’s been coming on now for the past week, since the last football game and my dinner out with Dominic. It started with a headache and a bit of a sniffle, which I tried to combat with some ginger turmeric shots, sure they’d see me right. I went to a sauna between the seemingly endless photo shoots I had scheduled, thinking that would help sweat out the last of whatever was brewing in my system.
But now, I feel like death.
My whole body aches, my head is pounding, and I’ve blown my nose about 18 millions times, much to the annoyance of the make-up artist who keeps having to retouch my sore, red skin.
“You need a rest,” Holly says, rubbing my shoulder between takes. “Please tell me you’re going to go home and relax.”
I wave my hand, forcing a smile. “A bath, some Lemsip, and a good sleep, and I’ll be all ready for the Kerastase people tomorrow.”
“I am rescheduling all your shoots for the next week.” Holly gives me a pointed look. “You’ve been working too hard and you need a break.”
“I’ll be fine,” I insist, just as a cough forces its way up my throat, and the photographer looks at me with open alarm. “It’s not covid,” I croak, smiling weakly. “I did a test last night, promise.”
“I think we’ve got everything we need now, Mia!” The photographer says, and Holly gives them a nod.
“Good, that’s that then.” She turns back to me with a frown. “Shall I drive you home? I don’t really want you getting on the sodding tube feeling like this.”
“No,” I snap a little more harshly than I intended, and take her hand with a sigh. “I promise, I’m just run down. I’ll stop at Boots on the way home and get some cold and flu tablets, they’ll knock me out tonight and I’ll probably be fine tomorrow.”
“You will go home and take those tablets and forget about tomorrow, thank you very much.” Holly points a finger in my face. “And tell me you’re not going to the game tonight.”
“Oh god, no. I already told Dominic this morning I wasn’t going to make it.”
“Good, last thing you need is to be sitting out in a freezing cold stadium.” Holly watches as I pack up my things, and follows me to the dressing room. “Bet he was disappointed you won’t be there.”
“I suppose,” I say with a shrug, pulling the curtain across the partition and stripping out of the tastefully dishevelled clothes I was modelling. “He’ll get over it.”
“Hopefully the team don’t fret without their good luck charm being there.”
I try to laugh, but all that comes out is another cough that hurts my chest.
“Oh bloody hell,” I mutter, slipping back into my jeans and thick knitted jumper. “I cannot wait to be home.”
“You poor thing.” Holly gives me a sad smile when I emerge. “Just go home and rest, and I’ll be in touch about your schedule, alright? But please do not worry.”
“I promise I won’t.” I lean in to give her a hug, then quickly back off. “Shit, sorry, don’t want to get you sick.”
“I’ll douse myself in bleach the second I get home.”
With another laugh that devolves into a cough, I head out of the studio and out onto the street. The tube is packed but my wheezing has people at least attempting to stay clear of me. The attendant at Boots looks at my masked face and bloodshot eyes with alarm, pushing the bag of cold and flu tablets across the counter at me as though I’m about to give her a dose of leprosy.
Guess I really do look bloody awful.
The ride home seems to take forever, and my body is so sore by the time I’m dragging myself up my front path that I swear this has got to be the flu. Bloody brilliant. I had better not end up in hospital. Covid had me land there four years ago, and I don’t need to relive that again.
“Trish,” I call weakly as I open the door, surprised that Tank hasn’t come rushing to greet me. Music is playing, seeming to come from the kitchen, and Trish doesn’t answer. I shove off my boots and with great effort hang my coat up by the door. “Trish, I’m sick!” I call out. “I probably shouldn’t get too close to you, I’ll wire you your overtime for today.” I make my way down the hall to the kitchen, and even through my stuffy nose, I can make out the smell of cooking.
Why would Trish be cooking?
“Trish?”
The house feels hot, and I curse my stupid new thermostat system that’s probably malfunctioning again. Another thing to add to my to-do list.
“Trish? Are you cooking someth-” I stop short as I reach the kitchen door, and Tank comes barreling towards me with a yelp.I barely pay attention to him, because I’m too thrown by the sight of Dominic, in my kitchen, wearing nothing but low-slung jeans and a checkered red and white apron.
