So the man was still here. During the misery and pain of delivering her innards to the toilet, Honor had kind of forgotten about him. She held back her hair, sweat leaking down her forehead and behind her ears. And despite flames licking her skin whenever she moved, she was shivering like a frightened puppy. ‘OK,’ she managed.
Cautiously, she inched to her feet, ran water in the basin and washed her face with the tiniest little pats, then swilled out her mouth.
Another rap at the door. ‘Hello? This is Dr Zoë Mayfair. Can you let me in?’
‘It’s not locked.’ Honor hung over the basin, breathing hard. She couldn’t straighten; her right side had been set in hot glue.
And then there was a neat woman in the tiny room with her, flushing the toilet, looking into her face, turning her cautiously to frown sympathetically at her skin. ‘Let’s see if we can get you out of here so that I can examine you. Have you stopped vomiting?’
‘For now.’
‘Martyn, the bedroom’s at the back, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, through here.’
Allowing herself to lean on the dark-jacketed arm of the doctor on one side and — gingerly — the bare arm of the man on the other, which struck almost as hot as her own miserably scarlet limb, Honor weaved to the blue bedroom with white furniture, like a doll’s house, that would be hers for the next four months and where most of her cases stood waiting to be unpacked.
Scared her skin might split, she sort of oozed down on to the edge of the bed.
Dr Mayfair was coolly efficient. ‘Right, Martyn, I don’t think we need you in here. See if you can find a jug to fill with cold water and bring a glass. She needs fluids.’ The door clicked. ‘Poor you.’ Dr Mayfair was all sympathy. ‘The first hot spell of the summer and you have to go and fall asleep in it. The sea breeze makes the sun deadly.’
‘Jetlagged, I think. I didn’t set out to sleep.’
‘No doubt you’re sore.’ Doctorly understatement, like when they said, ‘There will be a scratch,’ and then thrust a massive needle into the heart of one of your joints. ‘Your skin’s quite inflamed and you’ll be feeling dehydrated. Let’s get some fluids into you and something on that blistered skin.’
‘You bet,’ Honor murmured, watching Dr Mayfair open the door to take from manly hands a jug and glass, suddenly realising that all she wanted in the world was to feel that cold clear liquid easing down her throat.
‘Just sip,’ the doctor cautioned. ‘Or you won’t keep it down.’ She pulled up a bedroom chair and watched with a little furrow between her eyes as Honor sipped. She’d discarded her jacket around the back of the chair and her white blouse looked crisp and cool, her short mousey hair neatly bobbed, making Honor aware of her own sweat-draggled clothes and hair frizzing around her face.
Dr Mayfair turned to the fat black bag at her feet. ‘So you’re here on holiday? From America?’
Honor began to nod, but stopped when pain jabbed its fingernails into the backs of her eyes. ‘I live in Connecticut. I’ve rented this house for the summer.’
The doctor turned back, her hands full of sachets of white cream. ‘You’ve rented it from my sister, Clarissa, in fact. Martyn, who found you, is our brother. She’d sent him down to do the welcome thing and check that the place was in full working order because you caught her on the hop. She’d hardly put it on the market as a holiday rental when you booked it for four months.’ She wriggled her hands expertly into surgical gloves and snipped open the first sachet. ‘Pity you weren’t wearing sleeves because the burn’s extended behind your shoulder. Can we get the top off . . . ? Ah, I see, the straps loosen.’
‘This is an antibiotic cream, for mild burns. It’ll take away some of the pain, cool the inflammation and help you heal. I’m afraid you’re going to be sore but Martyn caught you before you got to the hospitalisation stage.’
‘That’s goo — ow! OW!’
‘I know.’ The doctor might be sympathetic but she wasn’t to be deflected from her aim of slathering the thick white cream over Honor’s puffy red skin. ‘Keep drinking water. Cool baths might help but don’t put any oils or salts or foams in. And stay out of the sun, obviously. You’re pale skinned and freckly so you’ll probably need to be careful for the next month. Getyourself some high-protection sun lotion or sun block — and use it so that this doesn’t happen again. You can expect to feel better in a week or so, but you’ll have skin loss. Do you have any medication for pain or inflammation?’
Wincing miserably, Honor shook her head.
‘I can leave you half-a-dozen of these — ibuprofen. Take two now, two at bedtime and two in the morning, then you’ll need to get more. Do you have any family in the area?’
‘Probably not the way you mean.’ And as the doctor hesitated, Honor added, ‘I think I do, through my English mother, around Brighton. While I’m over here I hope to look them up.’
‘Sounds interesting. Have you registered with a local doctor?’
‘I hadn’t planned on getting sick.’
Dr Mayfair smiled. ‘I presume you have your health insurance card? I suggest you do register — I’ll give you a list of the local practices in Rottingdean and Brighton. Most patients from Eastingdean and Saltdean register in Rottingdean, as it’s between here and Brighton. And you might need to see a practice nurse because you’re going to have trouble reaching around to those blisters on your shoulder. Do you think you’ll be all right alone?’
‘I think so. Maybe I’ll call a cab in the morning and get taken to a local drug store.’ Honor paused, focusing her fuzzy mind on all the information she’d absorbed on her annual vacations in England. ‘You call it a pharmacy, right? Where I can get Tylenol or something? And I need a supermarket. I don’t have food, yet. I really just landed.’
‘They won’t know what Tylenol is, you’d better ask for ibuprofen.’ The doctor snipped open a fresh sachet. ‘Or maybe it would be better if I lent you Martyn for an hour. I’ll send him in and you can give him a list.’
Honor felt her face — the rest of her face that wasn’t scarlet already — flood with colour. ‘I can’t give your brother a list of errands.’
