Page 17

‘To Book Haven.’

‘When you say the wrong PDF –’

‘It’s a different book,’ says Duncan.

‘Which different book?’

‘Torture Tales from WWII.’ Duncan makes an ‘oops’ face.

‘So, you’re telling me,’ I say slowly, ‘that Tracy Moor's light-hearted look at marriage throughout the ages now contains unflinching torture scenes from the Second World War?’

‘At present, that is the situation.’

‘How many copies have been printed and shipped to Book Haven stores?’

‘One thousand.’

‘GOD!’ I turn and kick the vending machine. A Polish zloty coin drops into the change tray and the machine vends me a free coffee. ‘DUNCAN, I TOLD YOU NOT TO PUT FOREIGN COINS INTO THE VENDING MACHINE!’

‘Kat.’ Alan creaks to standing, skinny in his leather jacket and Pet Shop Boys T-shirt. ‘Book Haven just called. They’reveryangry. The copies of,Why Good Girls Get Married… apparently there are torture scenes –’

‘Tell them it’s a printing error. Apologise. Say we’ll send them new copies by the end of the week –’

A lightning bolt of pain shoots down my cheek and behind my eyeball.

Oh,shit. Please don’t let me be having an MS flare up …

I stop talking, waiting patiently for the agony to pass.

‘Are you okay, Kat?’ Alan looks worried.

I give him a distracted nod. The pain is still there. Which is not good news. Then the left side of my face starts to sag.

‘Team, hang tight.’ I grab my bag, trying not to feel car sick as my aching left eye spins out of control. ‘I need to make a quick visit to Doctor Martin.’

‘Are you relapsing?’ Gabriela looks worried above her many, many scarves.

‘I don’t know.’ I head out of the office. ‘I hope not. But don’t worry. Just … stay here and don’t proofread. I’ll do it. Later.’

CHAPTER11

Dr Martin’s private surgery is conveniently located near the Little Voice office, which is, of course, the main reason I go there. I certainly don’t go for the windowless ambience or the many brown-green oil paintings of Dr Martin’s miserable-looking mother.

By the time I’m called into Dr Martin’s office, the pain in my face has subsided, but both legs are trembling and I’m using my folding cane to move.

I let Dr Martin take my temperature, observing that he looks more like the emperor from Star Wars every time I see him. It’s shocking that a healthcare professional can look so ill.

Eventually, Dr Martin falls heavily onto his seat, takes a swig of Red Bull, grabs a Maryland cookie from an open packet and announces: ‘It’s a pseudo-flare-up. Nothing to worry about. Your temperature is a little high. I’ll prescribe you a broad-ranging antibiotic.’

‘Brilliant!’ I crumple with relief. ‘I love it when you can fix me with pills. How soon can I get hold of the antibiotics? I have a lot to do today.’

‘I have some around here somewhere.’ Dr Martin chomps on his cookie, then rummages in a desk drawer. ‘Ah! A month out of date, but they’ll do the job. Oh, and some codeine! Do you fancy a spot of that too?’

‘Why not?’

‘And how about some steroids?’ Dr Martin keeps rummaging. ‘You haven’t had a full relapse for a while, have you? Which means you must be due one soon.’

‘Not necessarily.’ I grab my cane and try to stand. ‘Actually, I don’t plan on having another relapse ever again.’