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A shiny blob obscured the bottom right corner of her camera’s viewfinder. Georgie reared back, digging in her purse for a lens wipe, but the shimmering arc persisted and grew, blighting her gaze wherever she looked. She glanced toward Oliver; only half his smiling face was visible. Oh no. Oh shit. Her stomach dropped. “Ollie?” She winced. “I’m having a migraine attack.”
THIRTY-SIX
GEORGIE
Two days later, Wednesday, March 17, 1993
Leafs record: 36 wins, 25 losses, 9 ties (in overtime)
Three pills and forty-eight hours later, Georgie’s visual aura, facial numbness, and sensitivity to light and sound were thankfully behind her. The nausea-inducing jackhammer of a headache, while still making its presence known upon standing or bending over, had fizzled out to a dull throb in her temple. The worst had passed, but fatigue relegated sightseeing and a visit with Rafferty to another day.
However, not all was lost. Bedbound Georgie had Oliver and Waffles, the most devoted of nurses, snuggled up with her in the darkened room. And much like her post-attack exhaustion, neither showed signs of departing.
She squinted at the light peeking around the edges of the closed bedroom curtain and yawned. “What time is it?”
“Just gone three p.m. Wednesday,” said Oliver.
“I slept through Tuesday and most of today? Yikes.” Georgie let go of his hand and blinked sluggishly, realizing the only good thing about blacking out during the attack was that a discussion about moving to London couldn’t happen. She slowly scratched the basset hound’s freckled belly, and his back left leg pawed the air with fervour, unlocking a childhood memory of her family’s bassets doing the same thing.
“Will called to say hi, and so did Michael,” said Oliver. “He left a message with Monday’s score—Leafs lost 4-2 to the Nordiques.”
Damn. Georgie rubbed her right eye. “What’ve you been up to? Did you go mudlarking?”
“I stayed here with you.” Oliver left a tender, smiley kiss on her temple. “It’s St. Patrick’s Day, so we have the house to ourselves. Xander’s working a double.”
Georgie’s heart sank. “St. Paddy’s? Oh Ollie, I’m sorry I ruined our trip.”
“Nothing’s ruined. I usually swerve St. Patrick’s Day—too many people,” said Oliver. “And we flew here to spend time together, and we are.”
As she shifted sideways, a sharp twinge pounded above her left eye. “Not like this,” she groaned, and Waffles flipped onto his tummy, his big brown eyes and droopy brow soft with concern.
Oliver softly stroked her cheek with the back of his hand. “Don’t worry about me. It’s the company that matters, not the activity.”
This from the man who had made Georgie his priority when the migraine attack struck atop the Monument, who eased her panic about being stuck so high up by holding her close as they carefully made their way down the spiral staircase. Back on the ground, he flagged one of London’s famous black cabs and politely requested a journey without jerky starts and stops in case Georgie felt nauseous. Clasping her hand the entire drive, Oliver never seemed inconvenienced or annoyed, which was a novelty after Kyle’s lack of compassion.
Ollie’s too good to be true. She sniffed, her nose still congested from the attack.
“Can I bring you water?” Mid-ask, the phone began ringing. “More pillows?”
Her gaze strayed from Oliver. “Don’t you wanna get that?”
“The machine will.” He leaned in, kissing her gently as a loud beep gave way to…
“Ol, it’s Demelza! Confirming tomorrow at ten. Looking forward to catching up. See you then.” BEEP!
“Good, you’re getting out.” Georgie hugged Waffles. “I’d want to escape me, too.”
He laughed. “Hardly! Demelza’s my boss here in London. I’ll be back by lunch.”
The thought of Oliver having a meeting about his post-Toronto life made Georgie’s head pound again.
Grabbing a pillow, he pushed himself up. “Another foot massage?”
“Yes please,” she murmured, recalling how he’d sat on the bed with her feet in his lap on top of a pillow, gently caressing and kneading until she’d dozed off late Monday afternoon. “There should be one of those blue historical plaques outside your front door saying, ‘Oliver Jönsson and his magic hands lived here.’”
Grinning, he peeled back the duvet and rested Georgie’s left foot on a pillow. He smoothly stroked the heel, arch, and ball of the foot in one fluid motion.
She relaxed into the sheets, whispering, “You spoil me.”
