‘S’OK, you’re all right, just hang on and the police’ll be here.’ God, she felt so sick. The pain at the back of her head was intense. But the woman next to her in the road was now sobbing hysterically, in need of reassurance and comfort.
‘Th-they tricked m-me, I th-thought someone was hurt .. . then when I stopped the c-c-car they d-dragged me out ..’
‘Hey, hey, don’t be upset.’ Lola stroked the woman’s leg, the only part of her she could reach. ‘I can hear sirens, someone’s coming, you’re OK now.’
‘I’m not OK, there’s b-blood everywhere, he punched me in the face and b-broke my n-nose.’
‘Sshh, don’t cry.’ Squeezing the woman’s calf and shivering with cold, Lola forced down a rising swell of nausea. ‘Here’s the ambulance. I hope they don’t run over my shoes ...’
The next twenty minutes were a confusing blur. Lola was dimly aware that she was having trouble answering the questions put to her by the paramedics and the police. She hoped they didn’t think she was paralytic with drink. Blue flashing lights gave the otherwise pitch-black street the look of an eerie disco but no one was dancing. Requested to hold out an outstretched arm then touch her nose with her forefinger, Lola missed and almost took her eye out. Asked to name the Prime Minister she struggled to put a name to the face floating around in her mind.
‘Hang on, don’t tell me, I know it ... I know it ... is it Peter Stringfellow?’
The other woman had already been whisked off to hospital in the first ambulance. When a second arrived in the narrow, suddenly busy street and a stretcher was brought out, Lola waved her hands and protested, ‘No, no, I can’t go to the party, I’ve got work tomorrow.’
‘You need to be checked over, love. You were knocked out.’
‘I know I’m a knockout.’ Lola beamed up at the curiously attractive paramedic ... OK, so he was in his fifties and resembled a pig but he had lovely eyes. Will you dance with me?’
‘Course I will, love. Just as soon as you’re better.’ He grinned down at her.
‘You’re gorgeous.’ How on earth had she never found big double chins and enormous stomachs attractive before? ‘I know, I know. Johnny Depp, that’s me.’
‘No you’re not, you’re way better than him.’ As she was expertly lifted onto the stretcher Lola gazed adoringly up atthe paramedic and wondered why he was swaying back and forth. ‘You look like Hagrid.’
’Mum, I’m fine. They’ve X-rayed my skull and checked me out all over. It was just a bash on the head.’ Gingerly Lola leaned forward in bed to show her mother the egg-sized bump. ‘They’re discharging me later. They only kept me in overnight because I was knocked out for a few seconds and when I came round I was a bit muddled.’
‘So I’ve just been hearing in the nurses’ office,’ said Blythe. ‘Apparently you were hilarious, propositioning one of the poor ambulance men. I can’t believe you did something so ridiculous.’
‘It wasn’t my fault! I was concussed!’
‘I don’t mean that. I’m talking about you launching yourself into a dangerous situation. You could have been killed.’
This had occurred to Lola too; at the time she’d simply acted on impulse although in retrospect it had been a bit of a reckless thing to do. ‘But I wasn’t. And I’m OK.’ Apart from the blistering headache. ‘Could you give work a ring and tell them I should be in tomorrow?’
‘I most certainly will not. I’ll tell them you might be in next week, depending on how you feel.’
‘Mum, how are they going to feel if you tell them that? It’s December! Everyone’s rushed off their feet!’
‘And you were knocked unconscious,’ Blythe retorted. ‘Anything could have happened. My God, for once in your life will you listen to me?’
A man who’d been walking up the ward stopped and said genially, ‘It always pays to do as your mother tells you.’ He was in his sixties, well-spoken and smartly dressed in a suit. Was this her consultant? Lola sat up a bit straighter in bed and smiled expectantly, all ready to convince him that she was well enough to be allowed home. After last night’s debacle with the paramedic she’d better put on a good show
‘Miss Malone?’
‘That’s me.’ Eagerly Lola nodded. To prove her brain was in good working order, he’d probably ask her the kind of questions doctors used on old people when they wanted to find out if they were on the ball. OK, what was the capital of Australia? What was thirty-three times seven?
Yeesh, don’t let him ask her to name the Shadow Chancellor of the Exchequer.
‘Hello.’ He moved towards her, smiling and extending his hand.
‘Hi!’ Quick, was it Melbourne? Victoria? Lola’s brain was racing. People always thought it was Sydney but she knew it definitely wasn’t. Might he give her half a point for that, at least?
The man shook her hand warmly. ‘It’s very nice to meet you. I’m Philip Nicholson.’
He even smelled delicious. Watching him turn to shake her mother’s hand, Lola breathed in his expensive aftershave. Goodness, what charming manners, this was like being in a private hospital and getting — ooh, was it Perth?
‘I just had to come and see you,’ he went on.
‘Well, I suppose you couldn’t avoid it. All part of the job description!’ Lola beamed at him, aware that he was looking at her head. Touching the tender area she said, ‘Bit of a bump, that’s all. I’m absolutely fine. Except, can I just quickly tell you that I’m rubbish at capital cities?’
Philip Nicholson hesitated and glanced over at Blythe, who shrugged and looked baffled.
‘In case that’s what you were going to ask me,’ Lola hurriedly explained. ‘I mean, some are all right, like Paris and Amsterdam and Madrid, they’re easy, and I do happen to know that the capital of Azerbaijan is Baku, but in
