‘Omnipotent now, are you?’ she said, not bothering to hide her irritation, and he grinned.
‘Nah. Just good at wheedling stuff out of people. In fact…’
‘In fact, what?’ she asked as he came to a sudden halt and stared at her as though he wasn’t actually seeing her, but something a million miles away. ‘Eli—’
‘Of course!’ he exclaimed, slapping the heel of his hand against his forehead with triumph. ‘Now I remember why your name sounded so familiar. Wendy Littleton, sister in Obs and Gynae at the Pentland. She and I dated a couple of years back, and she shared a flat with someone called Brontë. Don’t tell me it was you?’
She sighed inwardly. She supposed she could try to deny it, but how many Brontës were there likely to be in Edinburgh, and what did it matter anyway?
‘Yes, that was me,’ she said with resignation.
‘Talk about a small world,’ he declared. ‘Wendy Littleton. Gorgeous black hair, and big brown eyes, as I recall.’
‘Actually, her hair was brown, and her eyes were blue,’ Brontë replied drily.
‘Oh. Right,’ he muttered. ‘But you and I never actually met, though, did we?’
Should she be nice, or should she make him squirm? No contest, she decided.
‘Yes, we’ve met,’ she replied. ‘Just the once, but I obviously didn’t make much of an impression. Neither did Wendy, come to think of it,’ she continued, ‘considering you dumped her.’
‘I didn’t dum—’
‘Dumped—walked out on—call it whatever you like,’ she declared. ‘The bottom line is she was so miserable after you left she emigrated to Australia. She actually got married a couple of months ago.’
‘Well, that’s good news,’ he said with clear relief but, having started, Brontë wasn’t about to stop.
‘Not for me, it wasn’t,’ she said. ‘Wendy’s father owned the flat we lived in so when she emigrated he sold it to give her some stake money which left me homeless.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yes, oh.’ She nodded. ‘Luckily, I managed to get a room in a flat with one of the Sisters in Men’s Surgical at the Pentland. Anna Browning. Name ring any bells?’
To her surprise a dark tide of colour crept up the back of his neck.
‘Yes,’ he said awkwardly. ‘Look, Brontë—’
‘Unfortunately, Anna went back to Wales after you dumped her,’ Brontë continued determinedly, ‘so I had to go flat hunting again. Which was how I met Sue Davey of Paediatrics. She was the one with the gorgeous black hair, and big brown eyes.’
‘Okay—all right—so you’ve roomed with some of my ex-girlfriends!’ Eli exclaimed with obvious annoyance. ‘Dating is hardly a crime, is it?’
No, but making women fall in love with you, and then leaving them, sure is, she wanted to retort, but before she got a chance to say anything their radio bleeped and Eli reached for the receiver.
‘A38,’ he all but barked.
‘Hey, Eli, don’t shoot the messenger,’ a female voice protested. ‘Code amber. Twenty-six-year-old female, Rose Gordon, apparently unable to walk or talk properly. Number 56, Bank Street. Her family’s with her.’
‘Possible CVA?’ Brontë said, quickly emptying the remains of her coffee into the gutter, and putting the ambulance in gear.
‘Maybe, maybe not,’ Eli declared, clearly still irritated. ‘While those symptoms would certainly suggest a stroke, it’s better not to go in with any preconceived idea because we could miss something. Luckily, her family are with her so hopefully we’ll be able to get more information.’
They did. Though Mr and Mrs Gordon were clearly very upset, they weren’t hysterical.
‘She’s never been like this before,’ Mrs Gordon said, looking quickly across at her husband for confirmation. ‘She can’t walk, or talk, and—’ a small sob escaped from her as she glanced back to her daughter who was slumped motionless in a seat ‘—she seems so confused. It’s almost as though she’s drunk, but Rose never drinks.’
‘Any underlying medical condition we should know about?’ Eli asked, kneeling down beside the young woman to take her pulse.
‘Rose is a type 1 diabetic,’ Mr Gordon replied, his face white and drawn, ‘but she tests herself regularly, never misses an insulin dose, so I don’t think it can be linked to that.’
Brontë exchanged glances with Eli. Actually, there was a very good chance it could be. Rose Gordon’s face was pale and clammy, her eyes unfocused, and when a type 1 diabetic’s sugar level became very low they could all too quickly develop hypoglycaemia which made them appear confused, and agitated, and unable to speak or stand properly.
‘Has she been working under a lot of pressure recently?’ Brontë asked as she handed Eli one of their medi-bags. ‘Changed her routine at all?’
Mrs Gordon shook her head. ‘She’s a schoolteacher—has been for the past four years—and the pressure’s just the same as it always was. As for her routine…I can’t think of anything she’s doing she hasn’t done before.’
‘She’s going to the gym now before she comes home,’ a small voice observed. ‘She said it was good for anger management.’
Eli and Brontë turned to see a young boy of about eight hovering by the door, his eyes wide and fearful, and Mrs Gordon reached out and put a comforting arm around his shoulders.
‘This is Rose’s brother, Tom,’ she said. ‘Rose will be all right, sweetheart. These nice people will make her all right.’
She sounded as though she was trying to convince herself as much as her young son, but Brontë’s mind was already working overtime and, judging by the speed with which she saw Eli take a blood sample from Rose Gordon, his was, too. Exercise could all too easily affect blood sugar. Particularly if the diabetic hadn’t eaten enough beforehand to ensure their blood sugar stayed high.
‘1.6 mmols,’ Eli murmured, handing the sample to Brontë, and she sucked in her breath sharply.
The normal range for a diabetic was between 4.5 and 12.0 mmols so this was dangerously low, and swiftly she handed him some glucagon.
‘What’s wrong—what’s the matter with Rose?’ Mrs Gordon asked, panic plain in her voice, as Eli searched for a vein in her daughter’s arm.
‘She’s hypoglycaemic,’ Brontë explained. ‘My guess is she’s forgotten to take a snack before going to the gym and all the energy she’s expended has really leached the sugar from her body. Don’t worry,’ she continued, seeing the concern on the woman’s face, ‘she’ll be fine. Give her fifteen minutes, and she’ll be as good as new.’
That the Gordons didn’t believe her was plain, but, within fifteen minutes, Rose was standing upright, albeit a little unsteadily, and able to apologise profusely to everyone. Eli gave her some sugar jelly to raise her blood sugar still further and, when Rose’s blood sugar reading reached 4.6 mmols, he asked Mrs Gordon to make her some pasta.
‘Rose needs carbohydrate,’ he explained. ‘What I’ve administered given her a quick boost, but what she needs now is something to give her slow-burning energy.’
Quickly, Mrs Gordon bustled away to the kitchen, and, after reassuring Rose’s father that Rose was unlikely to become hypoglycaemic again if she kept her food intake high before she took any exercise, Brontë followed Eli out to the ambulance with a smile.
‘It’s nice when you can get someone back to normal in such a short time, isn’t