She leaned forward. She smelt of antiseptic and baby powder and chocolate. Dillon’s heart thumped. She was going to kiss him.
Then suddenly they heard Hugh’s voice in the corridor, exchanging idle banter with the nurses. Alice pulled back sharply, and Dillon got to his feet, moving away from the bed. Dillon usually left at half six, because Hugh came in at seven and he wanted to be long gone. But today, because of the bandage and the conversation about the scar, he was running late.
The door opened and there was Hugh, in his City suit, his hair slicked back, self-important. He glared at Dillon.
‘What the fuck are you doing here?’
‘I’ve been visiting Alice.’
‘He’s been reading to me.’
‘Isn’t there gardening to be done?’
‘Don’t be so rude!’ Alice was indignant.
Hugh turned to look at her.
‘Jesus Christ,’ he said, when he saw her scar.
‘Shut up,’ said Dillon under his breath.
Hugh looked appalled. ‘Look, it’s OK. We’ll get the best people. There must be something we can do.’
He leaned forward to take a closer look.
Alice looked between Dillon and Hugh. ‘Dillon said it wasn’t too bad.’
‘What is he – blind? He’s just told you what he thinks you want to hear. We’ll talk to the consultant. We’ve got time to sort it before the wedding.’
‘I think what Alice needs is support,’ said Dillon. ‘Not a plastic surgeon.’
Hugh stared at him. His eyes were dead, thought Dillon.
‘I better be going,’ he said.
‘You had.’
‘You don’t have to go,’ said Alice. ‘Just because Hugh’s here.’
‘My parking’s running out any minute.’ Dillon made his way to the door. Hugh followed him and opened it for him.
‘I don’t want to see you here again,’ he said, sotto voce.
‘Fine,’ said Dillon, thinking you won’t see me, because I’ll be gone before you get here.
‘I mean it,’ said Hugh.
And it turned out he did, because when Dillon went to see Alice the next day, the nurse at the reception desk stopped him.
‘I’m really sorry, it’s close relatives only for Miss Basildon.’
‘But she’s expecting me.’
The nurse looked sympathetic.
‘I can’t let you through.’
Dillon went to push past her. ‘Let’s see what Miss Basildon says.’
The nurse put a hand on his arm. ‘I’m sorry. If you go any further, I’ll have to call security.’
Dillon stopped. He looked at her. ‘It’s that bastard, isn’t it? He’s told you not to let me in.’
‘I have to obey the wishes of the family.’
‘Not the patient?’
The nurse sighed and Dillon knew he couldn’t push it.
‘Could you tell her I came to see her? Dillon. Could you tell her Dillon came to see her?’
‘Of course.’
He turned to leave, knowing full well the message wouldn’t be passed on.
Seventeen
On the day of Mick Gillespie’s book launch, Thomasina went to the cheesemonger to get some Irish cheese. She stood outside, looking in the window at the display, keeping half an eye on the queue inside until she could be sure that she would be served by Jem. It was the most calculating thing she had ever done.
‘I want some Cashel Blue, for some baby tartlets,’ she told him. ‘And some Gubbeen, so I can make little cheesy choux puffs.’
‘Sounds great.’ Jem lifted a wheel of Cashel Blue out of the refrigerator and grabbed the end of the cheese wire. ‘What else are you doing?’
‘Potato cakes with smoked salmon. And Clonakilty Blackpudding with pan-fried apple on skewers. And miniature chocolate and Guinness cakes.’
‘Wonderful.’ Jem handed her the two cheeses, wrapped in wax paper with the shop’s logo printed on it.
There was a silence.
‘Twelve pounds seventy,’ he said eventually.
She paid him quickly and scurried off. She’d wanted to ask him, because Emilia had given her two tickets. But she didn’t have the courage. This was exactly why she didn’t push herself forward when it came to men, she thought. She didn’t have the guts.
She got back home and started to instruct Lauren on how to prepare the canapés.
‘I’m going to teach you how to make flaky pastry,’ she told her. ‘It’s time-consuming, but it’s worth it.’
The two of them spent the afternoon rubbing butter into flour, kneading the dough, rolling it out, cutting up cubes of butter, folding the dough and rolling it out again. The mixture was smooth and soothing beneath Thomasina’s fingers and Lauren was a natural pastry maker and had an innate understanding of the process: her results were as neat and professional as Thomasina’s. As she looked at the results of their afternoon’s work, she felt hugely satisfied.
Thank God for cooking, she thought. Cooking never let her down.