on the stainless steel shelf in her apartment, which only had room for exotic coffee beans and expensive olives. Would she just throw them away? It seemed a waste. Or give them to her mother’s friends? Did people want jam and pickle made by a dead person? Was it ghoulish, or the perfect memento?
By now she’d arrived at the medical centre, an ugly flat-roofed building which had caused great excitement when it was built twenty years ago. Kate could remember her mother’s glee at the brand-spanking-new facilities. It was now looking pretty tired, with grey carpet, yellow walls and hundreds of out-of-date magazines.
She only had to wait five minutes before she was called through to Doctor Webster, who had been their family GP since Kate was small, and was now in her early sixties, a slight woman with cropped grey hair and a perspicacious gaze. Kate remembered going to her over the years for ringworm, a lingering chest infection, a persistent sty – and, as a teenager, asking to be put on the pill and praying Dr Webster wouldn’t mention it to her mother …
‘My dear, I wondered if it was you when I saw your name. I’m so sorry.’ The doctor clasped Kate’s hand in both of hers. Her touch was cool and reassuring. ‘You know how very much we valued your mother here at the surgery. I’m hoping to be able to come to the funeral and pay my respects.’ Dr Webster smiled. ‘I learned a lot from her over the years. She was a very wise and special woman.’
‘I know,’ said Kate. ‘She’s a very hard act to follow. But thank you. It’s lovely to hear how much she meant to people.’
‘And what can I do for you?’
Kate tried not to grip the handles of her bag too tightly. Now she came to vocalise it, she was embarrassed.
‘I’ve just realised I left all my medication in the bathroom at the airport.’
‘What medication was it?’
Kate looked down. It was hard to explain without sounding desperate.
‘Well, my sleeping tablets. I can’t sleep without them. I’m worried about how I’m going to get through the next few days, especially with the jet lag and the time difference …’
She could see Dr Webster processing the information. She steeled herself for a grilling.
‘How long have you been prescribed sleeping tablets?’
‘Um … I don’t know.’ Kate tried to remember the first time she’d asked the swanky Upper East Side doctor for some help to get her to sleep. ‘Maybe … two years?’
‘Two years? Without a break?’
Dr Webster’s gaze bored into her. Kate knew she wouldn’t get away with a lie. She was the kind of woman there was no point in lying to.
‘I’ve got a stressful job. I work anti-social hours.’
‘What is it you do, again? I know from your mother it was something very high powered …’
Kate looked away. She couldn’t, just couldn’t, tell this intelligent, hardworking, conscientious woman that, when it came down to it, no matter what fancy title you gave it, she was a party planner.
‘I’m an … executive … events … executive. I have to be on call twenty-four seven.’
In case some princessy party thrower got arsey about her guest list or her goodie bags.
Dr Webster didn’t comment. She just smiled.
‘It’s a tough job,’ said Kate weakly, ‘but someone’s got to do it.’
‘When are you going back?’
‘Only about a week. I’m expected back at work as soon as possible.’
Compassionate leave wasn’t really in Carlos’s lexicon. She had an open ticket but she’d sworn not to leave him too long unattended.
Dr Webster consulted her computer.
‘I’m not keen on prescribing sleeping pills long term without a detailed history and some sort of sleep management plan, but under the circumstances … Your body clock is going to be all over the place anyway, and it’s a tough time. I don’t think throwing you into cold turkey is going to help matters.’ She started to type. ‘I’ll give you enough to tide you over until you get home.
By now she’d arrived at the medical centre, an ugly flat-roofed building which had caused great excitement when it was built twenty years ago. Kate could remember her mother’s glee at the brand-spanking-new facilities. It was now looking pretty tired, with grey carpet, yellow walls and hundreds of out-of-date magazines.
She only had to wait five minutes before she was called through to Doctor Webster, who had been their family GP since Kate was small, and was now in her early sixties, a slight woman with cropped grey hair and a perspicacious gaze. Kate remembered going to her over the years for ringworm, a lingering chest infection, a persistent sty – and, as a teenager, asking to be put on the pill and praying Dr Webster wouldn’t mention it to her mother …
‘My dear, I wondered if it was you when I saw your name. I’m so sorry.’ The doctor clasped Kate’s hand in both of hers. Her touch was cool and reassuring. ‘You know how very much we valued your mother here at the surgery. I’m hoping to be able to come to the funeral and pay my respects.’ Dr Webster smiled. ‘I learned a lot from her over the years. She was a very wise and special woman.’
‘I know,’ said Kate. ‘She’s a very hard act to follow. But thank you. It’s lovely to hear how much she meant to people.’
‘And what can I do for you?’
Kate tried not to grip the handles of her bag too tightly. Now she came to vocalise it, she was embarrassed.
‘I’ve just realised I left all my medication in the bathroom at the airport.’
‘What medication was it?’
Kate looked down. It was hard to explain without sounding desperate.
‘Well, my sleeping tablets. I can’t sleep without them. I’m worried about how I’m going to get through the next few days, especially with the jet lag and the time difference …’
She could see Dr Webster processing the information. She steeled herself for a grilling.
‘How long have you been prescribed sleeping tablets?’
‘Um … I don’t know.’ Kate tried to remember the first time she’d asked the swanky Upper East Side doctor for some help to get her to sleep. ‘Maybe … two years?’
‘Two years? Without a break?’
Dr Webster’s gaze bored into her. Kate knew she wouldn’t get away with a lie. She was the kind of woman there was no point in lying to.
‘I’ve got a stressful job. I work anti-social hours.’
‘What is it you do, again? I know from your mother it was something very high powered …’
Kate looked away. She couldn’t, just couldn’t, tell this intelligent, hardworking, conscientious woman that, when it came down to it, no matter what fancy title you gave it, she was a party planner.
‘I’m an … executive … events … executive. I have to be on call twenty-four seven.’
In case some princessy party thrower got arsey about her guest list or her goodie bags.
Dr Webster didn’t comment. She just smiled.
‘It’s a tough job,’ said Kate weakly, ‘but someone’s got to do it.’
‘When are you going back?’
‘Only about a week. I’m expected back at work as soon as possible.’
Compassionate leave wasn’t really in Carlos’s lexicon. She had an open ticket but she’d sworn not to leave him too long unattended.
Dr Webster consulted her computer.
‘I’m not keen on prescribing sleeping pills long term without a detailed history and some sort of sleep management plan, but under the circumstances … Your body clock is going to be all over the place anyway, and it’s a tough time. I don’t think throwing you into cold turkey is going to help matters.’ She started to type. ‘I’ll give you enough to tide you over until you get home.
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