Page 23 of When Lemons Give You Life

I gulp, the saliva evaporating in my mouth. Maybe I won’t have to cook that cake after all.

“Thanks again, Griff. Call the chef and let him know I’ll be raring to go tomorrow.”

Wouldn’t be too sure about that, love. I consider giving her the Heimlich maneuver but conclude that it would likely kill her anyway.

I step into the hall after her, about to say something, but for once it’s crawling with staff who I never speak to anymore. I can only hope the tablets won’t be enough to knock the old bird off her perch. Guilt follows me back to my room, knees grumbling as I bend down to pick up the sticky pills. I briefly weigh up consuming them again—who cares about the ten-second rule where I’m going? But Gladys’s voice is stuck in my ears. If she does make it, even I’m not such an arse that I could go back on my word. Anyway, I still have enough medicine to knock off a barber-shop quartet if needed, so I flush the old ones down the toilet and plonk onto the couch.

I decide to binge-watch some mindless renovation show, even though I know I’ll regret it once they start pretending a new splashback can fix a broken marriage.

Halfway through, a heavy thud echoes.

I abandon the bickering contestants and run out to the hall, where poor Gladys has conked out on a row of chairs. My breath catches in my chest. Oh no! What have I done? Looks like her cooking days—nay, all her days—are over after all. A nurse rushes to her, and for one horrifying moment, I truly think I’ve killed her.

A snore rumbles to life, breaking the tension. Phew!

She’s alive, meaning I need to be too, for now.

The relief and anticipation are dizzying, and a strange, unexpected warmth spreads through me. I’m already responsible for at least one person’s death; I don’t think I can take another.

15

Lisa

“Bumface.” Frank chortles and takes a long sip of water from the shallow restaurant glass that would do better as a candle holder.

I cup my hand over my mouth, barely managing to contain the scrumptious rosé I’ve just taken a sip of.

“That’s what I used to call my big brother.” Frank smiles, revealing perfect teeth.

“I’m going to have to tell Griff how good he’s got it then! Bumface trumps Ratbag any day.”

“So do you have a name for Walter?”

“Walter?”

“Your, um . . . grandbrother?”

My face burns. Time to spill the beans. “Oh. He’s . . . actually not my brother,” I confess. “The truth is, I really wanted to see you again, but Griff refused to leave his room. I thought it would be weird turning up alone, so I brought Walter.” I grimace. “You probably think I’m crazy now!”

He frowns, shaking his head softly, like he’s not quite sure what to make of me, but he doesn’t look away. “For what it’s worth . . . I’m really glad you came.”

I smile and pick at a loose sequin on my emerald-green dress. Is it too short? I shuffle in my seat, tugging the hem over my knees. My fingers brush stubbly hair. Crap. I forgot to shave. They’re hidden now, but what about when we stand up?

Frank’s tall—maybe too tall to notice? His eyes must be six feet from my shins. I tilt back slightly and squint at the calves of the woman at the next table, about that distance away. I can’t tell if she has shaved or not, which is reassuring.

She catches me staring and frowns, pulling her skirt further down. I force a smile. Then, for some reason, I wink.

Why the hell did I wink? Now my neck’s locked, and I can’t look away.

“Lisa?” Frank’s voice snaps me back to the present. “You okay?”

“Sorry! Off with the fairies. What did you say?”

He motions to the waiter, who asks me what I’d like to order.

“I’ll have the special, please—the seafood linguine.” I point to the board then hesitate. “It, um . . . doesn’t have calamari in it, does it?”

“No, madam.”