Three Amazing Things About You(11)

He was also far less likely than Dr West to give her a long, boring New Year’s Eve diatribe on the perils of alcohol-inflicted dehydration.

Spotting Luke through the crowd, Hallie waved and watched him zigzag his way across the dance floor. He was wearing a striped green and white shirt, dark trousers and a black leather jacket. His hair was fair and cut short in a neat, doctory sort of way, and he was carrying a bottle of alcohol-free lager, which, presumably, meant he was on call.

‘Hi. You made it down here, then.’

‘I did.’ Hallie smiled; he had such lovely eyes, grey and warm and sympathetic. ‘I wasn’t sure if I’d be up to it, but thought I should give it a go.’ She showed him her glass. ‘This is my first drink, by the way.’

Luke shrugged. ‘I’m not going to lecture you.’

‘Thanks. I’ve got my chair with me, anyway. I might leave at nine, have a bit of a rest at home then come back later if I’m still awake.’ Hallie pulled a face. ‘I know, right? Rock and roll.’

‘Nothing wrong with pacing yourself.’ He nodded at the bag in her left hand. ‘Are you going to offer me one of those crisps or not?’

Hallie held out the packet, but just as he reached in, his phone rang.

‘Yes . . . yes . . .’ He listened to the voice at the other end. Finally he said, ‘No problem, on my way now.’

‘Selfish patients,’ said Hallie as he put down his drink. ‘Being ill and spoiling your evening. Hope it doesn’t take too long.’

‘Never can tell. Anyway, I’m off.’ He pinched a few crisps to keep him going. ‘If I don’t make it back, happy new year.’

‘Thanks.’ Would it be? Who knew? Hallie smiled and said, ‘You too.’





Chapter 6


OK, this was turning into one hell of a New Year’s Eve. And so far, not in a good way.

Rory McAndrew was by nature impatient. He hated to queue for anything. He hated to wait. It was all so pointless, such a waste of time; why be waiting when you could be doing something interesting or fun or constructive instead?

This time, though, he was waiting for a reason. The process itself might be mind-crushingly boring, but if he stuck it out, the end result would hopefully be worth it.

And he was going to stick it out; after fourteen hours, there was no way on earth he’d give up now. Even though the mixture of boredom and anticipation was playing havoc with his system.

But if this was the only chance he had to find her again, he wasn’t going to miss out on it.

Rory drummed his fingers against the side of his takeaway coffee cup, looked again at the arrivals board and saw that the delayed flight from Nice was finally about to land. It was his best chance, and the one he’d spent the evening pinning his hopes on, although there was always the possibility that she’d been forced to catch an indirect flight.

He absolutely refused to countenance the idea that she could be travelling back to a different airport. Or that when she’s said a week, she’d actually meant six days, or eight . . .

Right, no more coffee; he didn’t want to risk not being here in pole position at the exact moment she appeared through the doors before promptly disappearing within a matter of seconds in the direction of the car park.

One of the women who worked in WHSmith came past and said chattily, ‘You still here, love? Bless, it’s no way to spend New Year’s Eve, is it?’

Rory smiled at her; she’d spent the day on the till selling him cans of Coke, packets of chewing gum and bags of Jelly Babies. Furthermore, she had a point. He just hoped none of the other men hanging around the arrivals gate were here to meet the same girl as he was.

When the glass doors slid open thirty minutes later and there she was, Rory felt as if he’d been hit in the chest with a medicine ball; delight that his mad plan had worked mingled with relief that the unbearable wait was at last over. He hadn’t been hanging around the wrong airport on the wrong day after all.

She was here.

Better still, no one else was flinging their arms around her yelling, ‘Welcome home, darling, me and the kids have missed you so much!’

Rory watched from his position ten metres from the exit as she stopped to unzip her suitcase and pull out a scarf and gloves. She was going to need them, too; it was icy outside.

Oh, but look at her, just look at her: she had a face he knew he would never tire of looking at. She was wearing a black beret, black sweater, black tights and a swingy purple skirt, the kind an ice skater might wear. And low-heeled black suede boots. She looked fantastic. Comfortable, too. And now that she’d pulled on her gloves, she was about to leave the airport . . .