The Cure

Chapter 16

They hadn't forgotten her. Doctor Wells was perched on the arm of his wife's chair, holding his glass forward to be filled by his son, and nearly spilled again as he leapt up eagerly upon hearing the bathroom door open.

Nate chuckled under his breath, shaking his head as he continued the refills, the muscles in his forearm evident from beneath his soft, artfully creased white linen shirt; Lola swallowed.

The laid-back white material of the shirt against his tanned skin, envying the whiteness of his teeth; the soft black jeans, the bare feet.

Being with his family clearly agreed with him, eased him, made him happy.

The sunlight peered gleaming through the window, turning the dust in the air into glitter, his skin into white gold.

Lola clenched her jaw.

'Come on, Lola,' came Doctor Wells' persuasive rumble, and Lola started again, taking her eyes off Nate with difficulty, to find his smaller father approaching with great haste. 'It's time for aperitif. There's nothing better for a Sunday.'

'No, I swear – I haven't slept since yesterday,' she replied sheepishly, which earned an appreciative holler from Melissa and another soft chuckle from Nate.

'Impressive.' Nate's tone wasn't derisive, but Lola felt embarrassed anyway.

'Impressive, but no excuse.' Lola couldn't decide if Melissa's retort was kindly meant, and she eyed the perfect table and the perfect family and their perfect bottle of champagne, her stomach still turning, having long forgotten the cardboard ham-and-cheese, 99p sandwich swallowed, untasted at ten A.M.

The moment's dithering was enough, and Doctor Wells took her elbow with a barely-there finger and thumb, leading her to the only free armchair.

'You'll be doing me a favour, my dear,' Doctor Wells explained, as if trying to excuse his mild manhandling, 'I made far too much – I always do.'

'Always,' Nate agreed with a grin, and Lola stole a glance in his direction as she settled self-consciously into the armchair, cross-legged, tucking her grubby Converse beneath her. He caught her eye, and mouthed a hurried 'sorry', accompanied with another smile and a tilt of his head towards his insistent father, who was clattering in the kitchen.

'Grab a glass, Greg, won't you?' Mrs. Wells had Nate's eyes in their colour, a woody and rich brown; her hair was his, too, thick, the darkest brown before finding black, and her features equally balanced and fine. She wouldn't look out of place in a modelling magazine, lounging on some extortionate Italian bistro terrasse, sensuality and class combined.

Now Nate was leaning over Lola, sliding a glass into her hand; her skin burned as his finger glanced hers. She held her breath in his shadow, purposefully intent upon the pale liquid fizzing against its flute. She had never tasted anything so good, the mouthful dry, but fruity, and clear.

'Thanks,' she gasped, looking surreptitiously at Nate, who, with another soft laugh, filled the glass back to its brim, before returning to his seat opposite her.

Lola braced herself for a new silence, the customary fresh expectation heavy on the newcomer, but Nate plucked at a thread of conversation with ease, a natural gentleman, and the chatter began about her again.

They were talking about one of Nate's night shifts at the hospital, and his father listened with his head bowed, nodding here and there, offering intermittent advice; Melissa joined the conversation with ease.

Another doctor, then, Lola thought.

'You'll be glad to get out of it, Nathaniel, you'll see,' Doctor Wells said at the end of Nathaniel's story, which had seemed to involve the care of victims of a road traffic accident.