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 p.m.
I take deep breaths, lifting knuckles to the door. The red-brick house is identical to its neighbours – except for the large crack in the front door.
Knock, knock.
No answer.
Tessa’s words ring in my ears: Get on to that Tom Kinnock case as soon as possible. He should never have been passed over to us. Get it shut down and off your desk.
I would peer in the window, but the curtains are closed, even though it’s gone lunchtime.
Knock, knock.
I put an ear to the door and hear voices. Someone is home.
Knock, knock, knock.
‘Hello?’ I call. ‘It’s Kate Noble from Children’s Services.’
I knock again, this time with a closed fist.
There are hurried footsteps and a woman opens the door, blonde hair scraped back in a hairband.
‘Keep it down.’ The woman’s eyes swim in their sockets. ‘Alice is sleeping.’
So this is Leanne Neilson. Mother to the infamous Neilson boys.
She wears Beauty and the Beast pyjamas with furry slippers and looks exhausted, huge bags under her eyes. Her grey pallor is a drug-abuse red flag. Unsurprisingly, the files note that Leanne has a problem with prescription medicine.
Behind Leanne is a tidy-ish living room with red leather sofas and a shiny flat-screen over a chrome fireplace. The voices, I realise, were coming from the television.
‘You must be Miss Neilson,’ I say, reaching out my hand. ‘Lloyd, Joey and Pauly’s mum. Can I call you Leanne?’
Leanne Neilson isn’t the person I wanted to see today. I should be at Tom Kinnock’s house, getting his file shut down and letting his mother get on with her new life.
But social services is all about prioritising highest need.
‘All right,’ says Leanne, tilting her head, eyes still rolling around, not taking my hand.
‘So my name is Kate. I’m your new social worker.’
Leanne blinks languidly, grey cheeks slackening. ‘What happened to … er … Kirsty?’
‘She’s been signed off long-term sick.’
‘What do you want?’ A rapid nose scratch. ‘I’ve been in hospital.’
‘Yes – that’s what I wanted to chat to you about. Can I come in for a minute?’
Leanne looks behind her. ‘I mean, the house is a mess.’
‘It looks okay. Are the sofas new?’
‘Leather is … easier to clean. But give it a few weeks and Lloyd … he’ll wreck them.’ More rapid nose scratching.
‘Can I come in?’
‘When is Kirsty back?’
‘She probably won’t be coming back.’
‘Another one gone then.’ Leanne walks back into the lounge, her hand going to the sofa arm for support.
I
