Free A Is for Apple by Kate Johnson Page B

was at five a.m., and I spent my time at the airport trying to clean myself up with the limited medical supplies I had in my bag. I’d bolted back to the hotel and found my room empty. God only knew where Xander might be. I was hoping desperately he’d avoided Shapiro’s men (if indeed that’s who they were), that maybe he’d gone out for a cigarette or something, and I’d missed him, but at the back of my mind lurked the awful fear that he was really just dead.
    Throwing things into my case, I made a desperate and rather garbled call to the airport and cashed in my return ticket. I called Luke and left a message on his machine that I was coming home ASAP. I hailed a taxi—a new experience and one I should have been proud of, but I was too frazzled to think about it.
    My eyebrow tweezers were in my suitcase. I knew my security restrictions, and although I really couldn’t see what damage you could to with tweezers (viciously over-pluck a stewardess’s eyebrows, maybe?), I stuck to them. Consequently there was nothing to help me get the bits of grit and dirt out of the graze on my shoulder, but hey, at least the pain there and from the throbbing lump on my head and the big dent in my leg made me forget about the raw patches on my feet.
    I slept through most of the flight, tempted as I was by the movies on offer, ate nothing and stumbled through passport control (the joys of having a native passport!), only to find that it took twenty minutes to allocate us a conveyor belt and a further hour for them to put our luggage on it. The only explanation we got was a garbled PA announcement saying our bags were delayed because of beer bear jam. Or something. I was half dead and really just wanted to go home and sleep forever.
    Finally I got my bag (I mean really, Ace Airlines pay peanuts for monkey work, but they can still get the right bags on the right belt) and tripped off to the car park, nearly getting run over twice on the way, but what kind of news was that? I gave Ted a big hug and collapsed in him, seriously doubting I'd get home without falling asleep or passing out from pain (supermarket painkillers not being much help to me), but I managed, and pulled up outside my lovely flat, almost weeping with joy.
    The geranium in my little courtyard was pretty much dead, but I didn’t care. I unlocked the millions of unbreakable locks that Luke helped me install (his own place is like Fort Knox) and fell inside, so happy to be home I was actually crying. Tammy sauntered up, trying to look malnourished, and pulled a face at me when I scooped her up for a tearful cuddle.
    I threw all my dusty, bloody, smelly clothes on the floor (the couple in the plane seats next to me had not looked impressed—we were in Economy but I looked like I should be in the hold) and got into the shower. The hot water stung the raw patches on my skin, and there were tears streaming down my face when I got out and probed around for bits of dirt and poured half a bottle of Dettol on, but I felt slightly better for being clean.
    I pulled on an old long white nightie and crawled into bed, my lovely soft warm welcoming bed, my adorable bed, my beloved bed, and sank into unconsciousness.
     
    I woke to hear my name being called by Luke’s voice, and figured I was dreaming. I let myself sink back down into blissful sleep again, but he called me once more, and then I heard my bedroom door open and Tammy, who’d curled up by my feet, squeaked in welcome and ran away, as is her wont.
    “Sophie? Didn’t you get my message?”
    I feigned sleep, hoping he’d go away.
    “I know you’re faking it.”
    There was nothing for it but to open my eyes and squint rather unattractively up at him. He was wearing jeans and an FCUK T-shirt and he looked edible.
    “What message?” I yawned.
    “The one I left on your phone. Where is it?”
    I tried to remember. “Bag?”
    “Where’s that?” Luke asked patiently.
    “Sofa?”
    He disappeared, and I tried to go back