‘Dr Zhivago,’ I say firmly, ‘there really is no need. I’m so sorry I caused so much drama. Both of you, really – I’m fine now, and I’m sorry I overreacted like that.’
‘We don’t mind,’ Guy answers, shaking his head. He’s lurking by the window, enjoying the scenic view of the staff car park. ‘Neither of us minds – and it’s going to get annoying if you keep apologising, Suzie. No more saying sorry.’
Ella nods and agrees. ‘What he said. It was completely natural for you to react how you did – there was no “over” involved. I’m so happy it’s worked out like it has, but you were right to come and get everything checked, just in case. I second Guy’s ban on apologies, okay?’
‘Okaaaay,’ I reply slowly, dragging out the word, ‘but I’d feel much better about that if you’d do like I said, and go back to Starshine. I might be a while here, and I wouldn’t want either of you to miss the party.’
‘I hate parties,’ Guy says, shrugging. ‘I’m going nowhere. Ella, I’ll make sure she gets home okay if you want to go. Because, you know, you probably don’t hate parties?’
She thinks it over and then breaks out into a smile. ‘I really don’t! Plus, and I’ve never felt more delighted to say this, my services are no longer required here, are they? You’re fine. You have a UTI!’
She punches the air again as she says this and gathers up her bag and her car keys. ‘Right. Well, I’ll be off then. Check in later, but for the time being I’ll leave you in safe hands, Suzie.’
I’m possibly imagining the speculative tilt to her head as she says this, the way her eyes flicker between me and Guy before she finally leaves. Possibly.
Things actually move on a bit quicker than I’d anticipated after that, with my antibiotics arriving and me basically being kicked out. Which I suppose is a good sign. I also get a small lecture about making sure I complete the course, because infections like mine can go on to cause complications if they’re not nipped in the bud. I pinky promise, cross my heart and swear on an imaginary Bible that I will – the last thing I want is more complications.
The drive home is a lot more light-hearted than the drive there was, and even my dodgy tummy and busting bladder can’t put a dent in my good mood.
‘Just imagine,’ I say as we park Bettina back outside my dad’s house, ‘the next time I do this drive, it might be the time I bring an actual real-life baby home!’
We both pause and consider this, and the concept starts to become real. ‘Crikey,’ I add. ‘That’s pretty terrifying, isn’t it? The idea of me being responsible for a real-life baby? Do you think I should get one of those fake ones they use in sex education classes, the ones that cry and you have to keep them alive? Do you think I should practice?’
He laughs and gets my bag of bed socks out of the back for me. We head inside, and I’m relieved that my dad is not in – hopefully he’ll be partying away at the inn, maybe singing ‘Fly Me To The Moon’ on the karaoke by now. I’d rather he didn’t know about any of this.
‘You’ll be fine,’ Guys assures me. ‘No point trying to practice – nothing comes close to the reality. It’ll be harder than you think, but also better than you think. I was away a lot when Miranda was little, but I remember it being a weird combination of exhausting, boring and exhilarating. Now, get yourself settled upstairs, and I’ll bring you some green tea.’
I don’t actually feel like going to bed now I’m home. It’s been a strange day full of awful lows and incredible highs, and mybrain is telling me it needs to be doing something more than resting. My body, though, disagrees – and I know Guy is right.
I head to the bathroom and do my business, haunted by the memory of the last time I was here. I finish up, wash my hands, and point at myself in the mirror. ‘You have a UTI!’ I say out loud. ‘Best thing ever!’
I change into my pyjamas, because realistically I won’t be leaving the house again today, and climb under the covers. I am actually wiped out, I realise, both emotionally and physically. I glance at my phone, see that it’s almost five pm, and I’m ready for bed. Rock and roll.
Guy soon appears, lurking in the doorway with a steaming mug in one hand and a water bottle in the other. ‘Hydrate,’ he tells me firmly.
‘Aye aye, captain!’
I drink some of the water, and he places the mug on the bedside table. He prowls around the room, inspecting my few belongings, my battered paperbacks and the framed photo of me with my class at the school in India. He picks it up and smiles.
‘This was where you worked for the last few years?’
‘Yes. I loved it. The kids were so bright, so enthusiastic… It was a lot of fun, and I felt like I was making a difference, you know?’
‘I do. But you came home anyway?’
I nod and slide down under the covers. It’s a warm day and I don’t really need them, but there’s something very comforting about being cosy under the covers. ‘I did. I got this awful chest infection, probably Covid, and I was wiped out by it. Spent a bit of time in hospital, and then even longer recuperating. After that, I just decided I needed to come back. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t some big near-death experience or anything – it was just a bit of a wake-up call. It made me realise I had unfinished business here. So I set off on possibly the longest journey homeknown to man, and three months or so later, landed back in Starshine.’
‘Calling off in Spain to make a baby first.’
‘Yeah, apparently so. I’ve never been the most organised of people. I suppose maybe I was putting it off, coming back, even though I knew I had to. I was dilly-dallying across continents, visiting friends, catching up with other travellers I hadn’t seen for years. Some more than others, obviously, in the case of Alex.’
He puts the photo down, and grimaces slightly at the dream catcher I have hanging in the window. I know it’s a cliché, but I’m very fond of it.
‘Hey, mind your manners – that’s been with me since my first trip to Mexico when I was twenty-one. What souvenirs do you have? Hand grenades, night-vision goggles, that kind of thing?’
‘Nothing much. A bead bracelet some villagers made for me in South Africa. Some cowrie shells from Zanzibar. A nasty scar on my thigh from a training accident when I was stationed in Kenya, though I’m not sure that counts.’
I have never seen Guy’s thighs, I realise. This is not a weird thing – I’ve also not seen Archie’s thighs, or Jake’s thighs, or Trevor’s. The difference is that I’d like to see Guy’s, and that little tingle of curiosity and possibly more makes itself known with a sudden speeding-up of my pulse.
