Heather's Busy Week Pt. 07

Dr Lester nodded. 'I've heard about that. I didn't realize she was a friend of yours.'

'She's not really close. We play on the same football team. I'm closer to her brother, Alex. And I get on well with her mother. We were all shocked when it happened.'

'Is Alex your boyfriend?'

'He's a boy and he's my friend, but he's not officially my boyfriend. I don't have boyfriends, as a rule.'

Dr Lester raised an elegant eyebrow but stuck to her task. 'Surely Miss Hart got her all clear on Monday or Tuesday. I can understand you missing the odd class earlier in the week, but not a whole day yesterday.'

Sneaky cow, thought Heather. You knew about Carrie all along!

'I'm going to be late for my next tutorial,' she hedged.

'No you are not. Dr Sykes knows I'm having this chat with you.'

Okay then, time for more truth. 'Can I talk confidentially, Dr Lester?'

'Please do.'

'We didn't know it, but Carrie's a cocaine addict. Up until last weekend we didn't suspect she was taking anything at all. We thought the overdose was a one-off. Then the hospital ran tests on her. She needs help, desperately. Eleanor . . . Carrie's mother, that is . . . has booked her into a private clinic for a month. She should be on her way there just about now.'

'And yesterday?'

'Carrie did a run . . . a . . . I mean, she sneaked out of hospital yesterday morning, in the early hours. Alex totally freaked. He's her twin and he reckoned she'd escaped to take more drugs. So I helped find her. That's why I blobbed classes.'

'Had she been taking more drugs?'

'I'm afraid so. I bet she's still regretting them, even as we speak.'

Dr Lester's fine-boned features relaxed a little. 'So you've been playing the hero yet again.'

'I don't feel particularly heroic.'

'Heather, can you please do us all a big favour? And can you do yourself a big favour? These next few weeks are the most important of your life. You're on the verge of achieving the best results the Department has ever seen. Will you please put your Superman costume away and concentrate on your studies?'

'I already have done.'

'What about the work you've missed this week?'

'I'm going to borrow Ruth's notes and catch up over the weekend. In fact I'll probably borrow Ruth as well, so she can talk me through them.'

'Heather . . . do you do drugs?'

'Absolutely not.'

'Okay.' Dr Lester finally smiled with her eyes. 'I'll tell everyone the problem has been resolved and won't arise again. One final thing and I'm done. I know I'm not your personal tutor and I have every faith in Dr Jones. If, however, you feel unable to confide in him . . . for any reason at all . . . please, please come and see me.'

Heather glanced at Dr Lester's left hand. It was ring-less. Some of her straighter-than-straight classmates reckoned the woman was a lesbian. Until right now Heather had pooh-poohed the idea. She had never caught any vibes . . .

Until right now.

'Thank you,' she said, imagining the petite woman writhing beneath her. Writhing and begging and screaming. 'I'll remember that the next time I need a shoulder to cry on.'

Heather got through the rest of the morning without any more tutorial grief. Bryn, apparently Lucy-less once more, tried to persuade her to dine with him and Ruth in the refectory, where hot meals were to be had at knockdown prices. And in relative peace and quiet, he added in seductive tones. Catch-up work could be done before afternoon classes. She politely declined on the grounds that the refectory was an alcohol-free zone. And Ruth tagged along with Bryn because . . .

Well, Heather wasn't sure why. She'd expected a gritty, blow-by-blow account of Wednesday night. Especially seeing as "the guys" had had their hands all over her. Perhaps being such a hit had given Ruth an inclination for a tryst with a descendant of Owain Glyndwr?

And by the way, what is Welsh for "Please fuck me on the refectory table"?

Heather gave up on that one. "Refectory" was too tricky to translate. And, whatever they may claim to the contrary, in her experience Welshmen could always perfectly understand English. So too could Welshwomen. They could understand English sex-speak even better than their menfolk . . .

Rita was in the not-very-peaceful Union Bar, drinking Marston's and talking to Tony who was, as usual, letting the other bar staff do all the work.

'Hev,' Rita began, 'don't you ever answer your phone?'

'I haven't dared even look at it today. I've just had the hard word for skipping tutorials.'

'What about last night? I must have called you a dozen times.'

Rita and Tony were both grinning at her. The array of white teeth on display was frightening. They'd clearly been comparing notes, so didn't need an honest answer. Consequently, they didn't get one.

'Two pints please, Tony,' Heather said, reaching for her cash. 'And a cheese and tom.'

'Oh no you don't,' said Rita. 'Superheroes don't buy their own drinks in here. Not for a day or two, anyway. After the weekend you're back to buying your own.'

Leaving Tony to serve a few customers for a change, they took their pints and Heather's new, fresh, botulism-free cheese and tomato baguette to the far side of the barroom, perching on a window ledge beside an unused dartboard. There were other dartboards in use, but they were smart and shipshape; this nearest one had stuffing bursting out in all directions. Darts would not actually stick into it anymore, not even professional-style tungsten ones, so there was no danger of being asked to move.

Heather gave Rita a run-through of the previous afternoon, warts and all, not sparing Carrie's blushes. Then, while she got stuck into the latest baguette, Rita summed up Friday morning's events.

'I got in on time today because I've already had my hard word. Alex hasn't been in all week so he's due his on Monday. Mrs H has been keeping everyone informed though. Alex is as lucky as four four-leafed clovers, so he'll probably get away with it.'

'Four four-leafed clovers,' Heather said. 'Wow, that's lucky beyond belief. I looked for them on the farm all the time. I only ever found one.'

Rita didn't even seem to hear. 'Talking about Alex,' she went on, 'he really is doing my head in. This clinic is more like a high security prison. Mrs H calls it "Stalag Luft 13, Preston". Alex knows they're going to lock Carrie away for fourteen days of detox. He knows she can't have visitors during that time. And he knows that visiting after detox is strictly limited. So what does he do? He insists on going with her in the ambulance. Never mind it's supposed to be Mrs H and Carrie only. Never mind it's meant to be a swift handover. No, Alex thinks the rules don't apply to him. He thinks he's going to be allowed to sit at her bedside night after night.'

'Carrie got off smoothly, then?' Heather swigged beer and momentarily left her baguette alone. 'Apart from Alex acting up, that is?'

'They lost half an hour while the ambulance crew got permission to take an extra passenger. Last I heard, they'd finally set off. They should be there by now. No doubt Alex is arguing with the doctors already.'

'I think you've been a brick throughout all this.'

'A brick?' Rita scowled. 'Is that good or bad?'

'It's The Famous Five's highest compliment, usually applied to Aunt Fanny. You've heard of them?'

'Of course I have. I'm as English as you are, even though my mum's Irish. I've just never been compared to a bit of building material before.'

'Let me explain. In Famous Five lingo, it means you're solid and reliable. Come to think about it, the origins are even older than Enid Blyton. The term "as a brick" comes from an early king of Sparta. He coined it three thousand years ago.'

'I wasn't so solid when I last spoke to Alex. I tore a strip off him for being a prat. And another for forsaking you on Friday night. He plans to stay there in or outside the clinic, holding a vigil if he has to.'

'By candlelight?'

'Almost certainly.'

Heather laughed. 'Thanks for sticking up for me,' she said. 'Even if you do have an ulterior motive.'

'Well, that's changed a bit.' Rita actually flushed. 'I hope you don't mind, but I cancelled your date. I told him that, if he couldn't be arsed to tell you he wasn't going to be able to make it, he didn't deserve to shag you in the first place. Officially, I'm going out with you instead, and he's not to come within two hundred yards of either of our houses.'

'I thought he was staying at the clinic.'

'You know those nurse-types . . . they'll run him out of Preston like Wyatt Earp. He won't stand a chance against them.'

'Okay,' said Heather, 'officially you're shagging me. What's really planned?'

'My date's still on. I've given up hope for the rest of the weekend, but I'm going to make the most of tonight. You, my sweetheart, can look after yourself.'

'Sweetheart? What about you, darling? Who's dipping it in your well tonight? Or is it a she?'

'Details, details. Does it really matter?'

'Well yes, actually . . .'

Rita finished her pint and departed, saying she had to prepare for a lecture only half an hour away. Heather rang Naz as soon as she'd gone.

'Naz, guess what? We've got the green light for tonight, preferably at your place. Fancy an early kick off at six o'clock?'

Naz did. Heather made a note of her address and sauntered back to the bar. Tony pulled her a fresh Marston's and hesitated when she offered him a fiver.

'Superheroes don't pay for their own drinks,' he said. 'I don't suppose you'll tell me what you did, yesterday. Apart from the obvious later on, of course.'

'We were two superheroes,' Heather replied, still holding out the fiver. 'Although it was more like The Perils of Pauline than Wonder Woman. We tracked down a kidnapped girl to a fancy house, burst into it and snatched her away to freedom.'

'Wasn't she tied to railway tracks with a train due any second?'

'That must be in the next episode.'

'And what happened to the evil villain?'

'He's probably still choking on our dust.'

Tony grinned. 'Put your money away. And not a word or you'll get me sacked.'

Back on her window ledge Heather steeled herself to call Eleanor. She'd been impressed by Mrs H's maturity late yesterday afternoon. Now she felt lowdown and ashamed. She shouldn't have held Naz's hand. No, she shouldn't have done that.

'Hello, Heather. It's Eleanor speaking.'

'Hi, Eleanor. How's it going?'

'I'm at the clinic, sitting in reception, waiting for a taxi to take me to the airport. Carrie is safely booked in. They whisked her away while I did the paperwork. Apparently they didn't much like the look of her. Not that that's so surprising, after her latest escapade.'

'Er, how's Alex?'

'He's outside, sulking while he waits for his taxi. He put up a bit of fight, but these doctors and nurses have dealt with his sort before. He's had to accept defeat, albeit with bad grace.'

'It'll do him good to be apart for a while. And he needs to get on track with his studies. I've just been told off for missing a day. He's missed a whole week.'

'He's aware of that. And he's sound at heart. He'll pull himself together before Monday.'

'Eleanor . . . I want to say sorry for yesterday. Declining dinner, I mean. And . . . and . . .'

'Don't worry about me, Heather. I could see how the wind was blowing. And I had another adventurous, wonderful meal before smuggling Mario up to my hotel room.'

Heather's eyes lit up. The phone actually glittered in her hand. 'Did you really?' she gushed.

'Yes, I'm getting very good at smuggling. I'm going to try wrecking next.'

'Believe it or not, hearing about Mario makes me feel much better. I'm glad you said a proper goodbye to him.'

'It wasn't goodbye, he's visiting me in Kent for a couple of days next week. I've half a mind to take him to the golf club one night. That will make C jealous as hell.'

'Claudia, you mean?'

'Who told you about Claudia?'

Heather sniggered. 'I think you let her name slip in a moment of passion. Don't worry, I won't be blabbing about it. I never do blab. Not unless a guy comes out with something beyond the pale. Then I tend to character assassinate. And that tends to be game-ending.'

'Are you really going to keep in touch?'

'You bet. Late at night. Very, very late at night . . .'

By four o'clock Heather was done with studying and on her way home, eager to prepare for a long night at Naz's. Proud of herself for showering without even thinking about jilling (well, not thinking about it much), she used the drier on her hair, combing before brushing. The smell of apple shampoo was almost overpowering. So too was the urge to kiss Naz. To kiss her and kiss her and kiss her.

She smiled at her reflection. Yesterday she had claimed that kissing was underrated. She still believed she was right. No, she still firmly believed she was right. Didn't some prostitutes refuse to kiss because it was "too intimate"? Some of those girls who sell the ultimate intimacies will not kiss because they think kissing is too intimate. Heather admired the ones who stuck to their guns like that. The ones who sold their bodies but not their souls would be able to hold their heads up come Judgment Day.

Kissing really was intimate, though. Kissing occupied all the senses, not just bog-standard feel. Okay, the feel of lips on lips and tongue . . . there was nothing to complain about there. Heather thought sight was possibly the weakest kissing sense; sight required open eyes, and open eyes could detract from other sensations. But one little peep could be exciting. A close-up of a lover's irises, the pores of her skin . . .

Taste sort of spoke for itself. Unless a lover's mouth tasted like an ashtray, she was always going to seem exciting and fresh. Sound too: hearing each other breathe, synchronized heartbeats . . .

Or was heartbeats another feel?

Sound and feel . . .

Perhaps best of all, smell. The smell of shampoo, powders and perfumes. Of sweat and lust and woman . . .

Her mobile rang. Aware she must have countless unanswered messages, she picked the call up without checking the ID.

'Hiya Heather, it's Alex.'

'Oh, hi Alex. How's tricks? Are you at the clinic?'

'They threw me out. I'm back at home. At mine and Carrie's, I mean. I'm ringing to thank you for all you did yesterday. And to wish you well with Rita tonight.'

Rita? Good grief, the cover story! 'Oh yes,' Heather said, 'you don't mind, then?'

'I'm suitably jealous. But Rita's right. I have been a prat.'

'You're the first man who's ever admitted anything like that to me.'

'What can I say? I'm . . . Oh, hang on, there's someone at the door.'

Heather consulted her social diary while Alex answered. A severe overhaul was required, not to mention a formal, written version. Tonight had sorted itself out, thankfully, but the rest of the weekend . . .

Perhaps Ruth could be "borrowed" for more than her notes. Or maybe . . .

She momentarily moved the phone away from her ear, deafened by a sudden clamour and an agonized cry from Alex.

What on earth is going on? she wondered.

As she cautiously brought the receiver back in range, she heard a new voice.

'Sorry caller. This number is temporarily unavailable. Please try again later.'

Heather's blood froze. She'd recognize that particular Lancashire accent anywhere.

It was Spider.