‘Is this safe?’ Her voice squeaked.
She was trying to think rational thoughts, even though her brain was moving to rapid calculations of exactly how many months’ worth of nursing-home fees that sum would cover.
It was all her own fault. When her mother had had the stroke over two years ago she’d spent the first few months trying to care for her mum herself. When it had become clear that she couldn’t care for her mum and work at the same time, she’d changed jobs, swapping from a sister in an ITU, working shifts, to a school nurse with more regular and shorter hours. But the pay cut hadn’t helped, particularly when she’d had to pay two mortgages and supplementary day care for her mother. And when the day-care assistants had failed to show for the seventh time and her mum had had an accident at home, she’d finally faced up to the fact that her mother needed to be in a home.
Picking a nursing home that was up to her standards hadn’t been easy—and when she’d finally found one, the fees were astronomical. But her mother was happy, and well cared for, hence the reason she needed to work for the agency to supplement her salary.
Trish stood up. ‘Of course it’s safe, Samantha. I wouldn’t send you anywhere you need to worry about. Now, can you be on a flight out of Gatwick at seven tonight?’ She held out the non-disclosure agreement again, along with a pen.
Sam hesitated for only a second. How bad could this be? It was probably some aging actor who needed some basic guidance and hand-holding for a few weeks. She’d heard of Innsbruck before—hadn’t the Winter Olympics been held there? The money was just too good to turn down. She grabbed the pen and scribbled her signature before she started asking any more questions that might make her change her mind.
She stood up. ‘Innsbruck—that’s Austria, isn’t it?’ She wrapped her scarf back around her head, trying to ignore the fact that she and skiing didn’t mix. She shot Trish a beaming smile and held out her hand to shake it. ‘A ski resort at Christmas? What more could a girl want? This’ll be a piece of cake.’
Mitchell Brody felt terrible. He wasn’t even going to look in the mirror because then he’d know that he looked terrible too.
The timing couldn’t be worse. This was the last thing he needed right now. His tour kicked off in three weeks. He had to be fit and well for that. He needed to be able to perform. He had to get this under control.
The consultant was still shaking his head and frowning. ‘You can’t sign a discharge against medical advice. I won’t allow it.’
Mitchell planted his hands on his hips. ‘You can’t stop me. Find me someone who can get me through this.’
‘I’ve already put in a call to an agency in London. But it’s a difficult time of year, staff are at a premium, and it will be hard to find someone with the skills you’ll require.’
He sighed, frustration was building in his chest. ‘Just find me someone, anyone, who can do this for me. I can pay. Money isn’t a problem.’
The consultant narrowed his gaze. ‘You don’t understand. This isn’t about someone “doing this” for you. You have to do it for yourself. You have to learn to take care of yourself with this condition. This is twenty-four hours a day, for the rest of your life. And it isn’t an issue of cost. At this time of year staff come at a premium price. You have no choice but to pay it.’
Mitchell threw up his hands. ‘I get it. I just don’t have time for it. Not now. I’ll learn about it later. I’ll take the time then—in six months when this tour is over.’
‘No.’ The consultant folded his arms across his chest. ‘If you don’t do as I ask for the next three weeks, I’ll notify your tour insurers. You won’t be covered.’
For the second time in two days Mitchell was shocked. He wasn’t used to people saying no to him. He was used to snapping his fingers and everyone doing exactly as he said. That was the joy of being a world-famous rock star. Once you earned beyond a certain point, people just didn’t say no any more.
He could almost feel the blood draining from his body—as if he didn’t feel sick enough already. ‘You wouldn’t do that.’ His voice cracked as he spoke. This nightmare was just getting worse and worse. First the weeks of feeling like death warmed over. Then the ill-timed diagnosis of diabetes. Now a threat to his tour.
‘I would, you know.’ The consultant’s chin was set with a determined edge. Mitchell recognised the look because he so frequently wore it himself. ‘A sick rock star is no insurer’s dream. You need to be healthy and in control to take part in the tour. To be frank, I don’t think three weeks of specialist care is going to cut it. Even then, you’ll need additional support on your tour. If you can’t even adhere to the first set of guidelines I give you, then …’ He let his voice tail off.
Mitchell’s stomach was churning. It wasn’t as if he wasn’t rich already. But this tour had been planned for two years. The proceeds were going towards the funding of the children’s hospital in this area. He’d supported it for years—but always on the condition that no one knew. The last thing he needed was the press invading the one part of his life that was still private. His funding had kept the children’s hospital afloat for the last ten years. But things had changed. The building couldn’t be repaired any more, the whole place needed to be rebuilt. And why rebuild anything half-heartedly? The plans had been drawn up and approved for a brand-new state-of-the-art facility. All they needed was the guaranteed cash. That’s why he couldn’t let them down—no matter how sick he was.
‘Fine. I’ll do it. Just find me someone.’ He walked away in frustration and started stuffing his clothes into a holdall.
The consultant gave him a nod and disappeared down the corridor, coming back five minutes later. ‘You’re in luck. The agency called, they’ve found you a nurse. Her qualifications are a little unusual but she’s got the experience we need.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means she’ll be able to help you manage your condition. I’ll send her some written instructions by email.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘She’ll be on a flight out of Gatwick at seven tonight. She’ll be here around eleven p.m.’ He pointed to the packed bag. ‘I’m not happy about discharging you until her plane lands.’
Mitchell shook his head and picked up the case with his injector pen. ‘You’ve taught me how to do the injections. I take ten units tonight before I eat.’ Then he pointed to another pen on the bedside table. ‘And twenty-six units of that one before I go to bed. I get it. I do. Now, let me go. The nurse will be here in a few hours and I’ll be fine until then.’
He could see the hesitation on the guy’s face. It had only been two days and he was sick of the sight of this place already. Hospitals weren’t much fun, even if you had the money to pay for a private room.
He tried his trademark smile. ‘Come on. How much trouble can I get into in a few hours?’
The plane journey had been a nightmare. The man next to her had snored and drooled on her shoulder from the second the plane had taken off until it had landed in Innsbruck. She’d been doing her best to concentrate on the info she’d downloaded onto her tablet about the latest types of insulin and pumps. She wasn’t sure what kind of regime her patient would be on but she wanted to have some background knowledge on anything she might face.
Her phone pinged as soon as she hit the tarmac. Great. An email from the doctor with detailed instructions. She struggled to grab her case from the revolving carousel and headed to the exit. She would have time to read the email on the journey to her hotel.
She scanned the arrivals lounge. Her heart gave a little jump when she saw a card with her name: ‘Samantha Lewis’. It was almost like being a pop star.
She trundled her case over to the guy in the thick parka. It was late at night and his hat was coated with thick snowflakes.