By now, I’ve walked round the park twice. The combination of air and exercise has worked its magic on my head and the nausea is at last easing off. But I have to keep walking till all these worrying thoughts get blown away. There’s not much a good brisk walk can’t make better, that’s what my dad always says. I set off for the gate on the far side of the park and soon I’m crossing the road for the houses on the other side.

Gone are the Victorian and Edwardian terraces that make up most of the dwellings where Ross and I live. Here it’s mainly 1930s housing with stucco or pebble-dashed walls and big front gardens. They remind me of the house I grew up in, before we moved to Dovercourt. I was one of the few children at my school who lived beyond the limits of the sprawling Garleywood Tippet housing estate.

I’m almost at Plumtree Lodge now. It’s a modern two-story building with white stucco walls and an elaborately curved roof. The locals call it the Wedding Cake. I wonder how long you have to live in a place to call yourself a local?

The pressure in my bladder is starting to build. It’s going to take at least twenty minutes to walk home, and I’ll be really uncomfortable by then. Perhaps I could nip in to the surgery and use their toilet. I don’t want to, but if I’m quick, I could be in and out before anyone notices me, and they’re bound to, after the party. One thing’s for sure, I won’t be applying for that part-time job, no matter how convenient it might be. Not with Catherine working there.

22

I’m heading back to the main entrance when I hear someone call my name. It’s Gloria Williams, the senior partner. She’s come out of her consulting room and is walking toward me.

“How’s Ross’s father?” she says.

“Not sure yet. His plane was delayed.”

“Oh dear,” she says. “Well, give him my love when you speak to him. It must be so hard with his father living all the way up there.”

“Yes, yes, it is.”

I’ve just spotted Catherine talking to one of the receptionists. I need to get away before she sees me, but it would be rude to cut Gloria off and, anyway, it’s too late. Catherine is waving and coming over, looking every inch the efficient nurse in her navy uniform with her dark, glossy hair swept up into a bun. Once again, I see Alice in her face.

“Hi, Lizzie. We were all so sorry to hear about Ross’s dad,” she says. “Sounds like he’s in a bad way.”

Gloria touches me gently on the arm. “I’d better dash,” she says. “Thank you again for that wonderful party at your house.”