Jesus, what had he started? He had to think of some way to deter her. Flora stirred.
‘Dylan? Is that your phone?’ she croaked.
‘Yes,’ he whispered, ‘just some random message from my brother. I think he’s pissed.’ Two can play at that game, he thought.
‘Dylan?’
‘Yes?’
‘I need the loo.’
‘Oh. Right.’
‘My nightie’s in the top drawer.’ He got up and put the bedside light on. Dylan took out her nightshirt and placed it over her head, then helped her to put it on. His hands touched her skin. She had cooled down, thank God. He carried her to the bathroom and assisted her. ‘Sorry, I feel so useless,’ she spoke weakly. He hoped she wasn’t embarrassed.
‘Don’t be silly, Flora. You’re unwell. I’m ringing for the doctor in the morning.’
Flora didn’t argue, she was just so glad he was there.
The next morning the doctor examined her. He recommended plenty of fluids and rest, suspecting she had picked up a virus that had been prevalent in the village. Dylan was reassured to hear it, fearing it may have been a far worse scenario, which got him thinking. He was going to set up private medical insurance for Flora. He’d cover the cost – he was her employer now and he ought to make sure she was covered. He watched her again, on the sofa now, tucked up with a hot-water bottle and blanket. Her hair was greasy and ruffled, her complexion translucent white, black shadows surrounded her eyes and Dylan realised at that moment he’d never cared for anyone more.
