Three Amazing Things About You(22)

‘Whoa. Stop it. Look at it from my point of view.’ Bea shook her head at her. ‘You’re my best friend, and if you refuse to come to Paris you will spoil things. I mean it,’ she went on when Hallie opened her mouth to protest. ‘My birthday will be ruined and it’ll be all your fault.’

She actually meant it. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure. You have to be there. I don’t want to turn thirty without you.’

Hallie was an infrequent crier, but her eyes were brimming now. Moved, she said, ‘OK. If you really mean it, I’ll come to Paris.’

‘I really really mean it. Come here, you.’ Careful not to dislodge the transparent oxygen tubing, or trigger a bout of coughing, Bea gave her a hug.

‘And the others don’t mind? You’re sure they’re OK with it too?’

‘Completely sure. You’re the must-have accessory of the season.’

‘I’ll have to get travel insurance.’ Which would probably cost a fortune.

‘There are specialist companies. It’s not a problem.’

Well, not quite true. It was easy for Bea to be airily dismissive, but Hallie knew it was going to involve travelling with a wheelchair, oxygen tank, nebuliser and assorted other vital bits and pieces. But if Bea was determined to have her there . . . well, she could make the effort.

‘OK, let’s do this thing.’ Paris! How glamorous! ‘Have you decided where you want to stay?’

‘I have brochures. I have chocolate.’ Bea withdrew both from her huge glittery shoulder bag. ‘And now I have you to help me choose a hotel. So,’ her eyes gleamed, ‘shall we make a start on it now?’

It was midday and there still hadn’t been any word from Rory. Tasha checked her phone for the fiftieth time to make sure a message hadn’t arrived and somehow been missed.

No, still nothing, even though he’d promised faithfully to keep her updated. Unable to help herself, she sent a text: Please call and let me know you’re still alive. Xxx

‘You’re looking worried.’ Moira, a TV chef who was being made up for today’s photo shoot, was watching her in the mirror. ‘Everything OK?’

‘It’s just my boyfriend. He should have been in touch by now and he hasn’t been.’ Did she sound hopelessly neurotic? ‘He’s on his way up to Edinburgh.’

‘Ah well, maybe there isn’t any signal.’ Moira, in her forties, was sympathetic, chatty and good company. ‘Is he flying?’

Tasha shook her head. ‘No. Riding up there on a Harley-Davidson motorbike.’

‘What? Oh God!’ Pulling a horrified face, Moira said, ‘No wonder you’re all of a faff. All that way? And bikes are so dangerous. My neighbour’s son had the most dreadful accident last year, came off his motorbike and nearly died. Ended up having to have both legs amputated.’

‘Oh dear.’ Sometimes Moira could be a bit too chatty. Tasha felt her insides curdle at the thought.

‘Then there was my friend’s auntie, she crashed her moped into a wall and she’s had a withered arm ever since!’

‘Right.’

‘And Alan from the golf club went under a bus on his motorbike. Killed outright. Oh, sorry.’ Moira clapped a hand over her mouth, evidently realising that her comments might have been less than tactful. Belatedly she said, ‘I’m sure your boyfriend’s fine.’

The shoot, for a women’s magazine, dragged on interminably. First one o’clock, then two o’clock went by, with still no word from Rory. Tasha’s stomach continued to tighten with fear. On the outside she carried on applying make-up to models, while on the inside her brain conjured up terrifying images of an accident on the motorway . . . bits of broken motorbike strewn across three lanes . . . blue flashing lights . . . sombre-faced paramedics shaking their heads at each other . . .

‘Tash! Has my forehead gone shiny? Could you sort me out with some powder?’

Moira again. Tasha went over to deal with the shine.

‘Any news from your boyfriend?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Oh well, I’m sure he’s OK!’ Eager to make up for her earlier faux pas, Moira patted her arm. ‘Don’t you worry about a thing.’

‘Why?’ The photographer was busy setting up a different backdrop. ‘Is he in hospital?’

‘We hope not!’ Moira shook her head vigorously at the photographer. ‘No, definitely not! He was riding his motorbike up to Edinburgh this morning and poor Tasha hasn’t heard from him since he set off. Not a word! She’s worried sick that he’s had a terrible accident!