it.
I spot Tom then, blond hair shining.
Normally I would smile at the sight of him, but he’s tiny beside one of those black-haired boys. The ones who were fighting.
Tom’s body leans away from the boy, his pose awkward.
I feel my heart judder.
Someone spots me looking – a teacher, I think – and pushes the double doors closed.
Then the headmaster returns with a book in his hand. ‘Jot some details down here,’ he says, offering me the lined pages. ‘Don’t worry – we don’t need a medical history or anything. Just the name of Tom’s medication, the quantity you’re leaving here, the dose Tom needs and today’s date.’
I write, pen-marks jerky.
‘You keep the medicine cabinet in your office?’ I ask.
‘Pardon?’ Mr Cockrun takes back the notebook.
‘Don’t you have a nurse’s office?’
Mr Cockrun smiles again, a wide version that still doesn’t reach his eyes. ‘As I said, Mrs Kinnock, there’s method to our madness. Don’t worry.’ He pats my shoulder. ‘We have it all under control. Let me show you to the gate.’
We walk slowly across the playground, me watching my plain lace-up DMs tap tap over tarmac.
On my way home, I see a dead bird. There’s a lot of blood. I suppose a fox must have got it.
It’s right by the hole in the school fence – the one I saw before, repaired with a bike chain. The hole is very small. Not big enough for an adult to climb through.
There’s probably some logical explanation.
Given my past, it would be strange if I didn’t get twitchy about odd things. But there’s no need to be paranoid.
‘Look, keep still. It’s broken.’
I put my hand on Olly’s knee, which bulges at an eye-watering angle under his padded O’Neill trousers.
He’s lying on thick snow, one ski boot bent back under his snowboard, the other boot snapped open, his socked foot falling out.
Under the bright morning sunshine, Olly’s blue eyes water, tanned skin squeezing and contorting. He has English colouring – sandy hair dusting his ski goggles and an unnatural orange hue to his suntan.
‘I’m pretty lucky to have a nurse here,’ says Olly, after another wince of pain. ‘Have I told you I love you yet today? I do. I love you, Lizzie Nightingale. Remember that, if I die out here on this slope.’
He doesn’t realise how serious this is.
‘I’m not a nurse yet. Don’t try to move.’
Olly, of course, makes a stupid attempt to get up, pushing strong, gloved hands onto the snow. But then his eyes widen, his skin pales and he falls back down. This is just like him. Give him a boundary and his first impulse is to overcome it.
‘Please don’t move,’ I beg. ‘God – this is awful. I can’t bear seeing you hurt.’
Olly reaches up to trail fingers down my cheek. ‘Is it bad that even in all this pain, I still want to do things to you?’
‘You know, there are times for jokes. And this isn’t one of them.’
‘I’m not joking.’ He gives me the soft, blue eyes that make my stomach turn over. ‘We could have sex right here on the snow. The ambulance will take ages.’
‘Olly. You’ve just broken your leg.’
‘I get it. You can’t have sex in public until we’re married.’ He heaves himself onto his elbows and grasps my fingers. ‘So marry me, Lizzie.’
‘I just said this is no time for jokes.’
‘I’m not joking. You’re the one for me, Lizzie Nightingale. I knew it from the moment I saw you stumbling along that icy path in your big purple coat, looking like a little elfin angel thing. I promise I will take care of you for the rest of my life.’ He gives another wince of pain. ‘Even if I never walk again.’
Olly is so impulsive. A risk-taker. I suppose that goes hand in hand with snowboarding. He goes full-pelt into everything. Including love.
In a few short weeks, he’s made me feel so special and adored. Lying in Olly’s chalet bed, wrapped up in his arms, watching snow fall outside, I have never known love like this – utterly consuming, can’t-be-apart love.
He makes me breakfast every morning, constantly tells me how beautiful I am and texts me all day long.
I’m waiting for him to work out who I really am. Just a nobody. And then this holiday romance will come crashing down.
‘Just lie down and rest,’ I say, stroking his forehead. ‘They’ll take you to hospital. I’ll bring you chocolate Pop Tarts.’
Olly loves sugar. He’s a big kid, really. So enthusiastic. And when we’re in bed he’s like that too – just ‘wow!’ at everything. ‘Wow, you look incredible, wow your body is amazing.’
He makes me feel so alive. So adored. So noticed. The exact opposite of how my mother makes me feel.
How did this happen so quickly?
I’m so in love with him.
Olly lies back on the snow, staring up at the sky. ‘I’ll heal. Won’t I? I’ll be able to compete?’
He looks right at me then, blue eyes crystal clear.
‘I don’t know, Olly. Just try to rest. The paramedics will be here soon.’
Olly reaches out a snowy, gloved hand and takes my mitten. ‘You’re an angel, Lizzie Nightingale. You have fabulous dimples, by the way.’
I smile then, without meaning to.
‘You will stay with me, won’t you?’ Olly asks, suddenly serious. ‘Until the stretcher comes?’
‘Of course I will. You fall, I fall. Remember? We’re in this together.’
I sit on the cold snow, my mitten clasped in his glove.
1.45
