Unexpected Billioniare Wife

Chapter 2

“Well, that does all sound rather...tricky,” she says at last. “But I expect things will soon turn around for the better.”

“That's what my friend Fi said!” I suddenly have a memory of Fi's eyes shining in the rain. “And look, I end up in hospital!“ I make a despairing gesture at myself. ”How is this turning around for the better?“

”I'm... not sure, dear.“ Sally's eyes are darting helplessly from side to side. ”Every time I think everything's crap... it just gets even crapper!“ I blow my nose and heave a massive sigh. ”Wouldn't it be great if just once, just one time, life fell magically into place?“

”Well, we can all hope, can't we?” Sally gives me a sympathetic smile and holds out her hand for the cup. I pass it back and as I do so, I suddenly notice my nails. Bloody hell. What on earth... My nails have always been bitten-down stumps that I try to hide. But these look amazing. All neat and varnished pale pink... and long. I blink at them in astonishment, trying to work out what's happened. Did we go for a late-night manicure last night or something and I've forgotten? Did I get acrylics? They must have some brilliant new technique, because I can't see the join or anything.

“Your handbag's in here, by the way,” Sally adds, putting the plastic bag on my bed. “I'll just go and get you that juice.”

“Thanks.” I look at the plastic bag in surprise. “And thanks for the bag. I thought it had been nicked.” That's something good, anyway, to have got my bag back. With any luck, my phone will still be charged up and I can send a few texts.

As Sally opens the door to leave, I reach into the shopping bag and pull out a smart Louis Vuitton tote with calfskin handles, all glossy and expensive-looking. Oh, great. I sigh in disappointment. This isn't my bag. They've got me mixed up with someone else. Like I, Cassidy James, would possess a Louis Vuitton bag.

“Excuse me, this bag isn't mine,” I call out, but the door has already closed. I gaze at the Louis Vuitton wistfully for a while, wondering who it belongs to. Some rich girl down the corridor, must be. At last, I drop it onto the floor, flop back on my pillows, and close my eyes.

I wake up to find c****s of morning light edging underneath the drawn curtains. A glass of orange juice is on the nightstand and Sally is bustling about in the corner of the room. The IV drip has magically disappeared, and I feel a lot more normal.

“Hi, Sally,” I say, my voice scratchy. “What time is it?” She turns around, her eyebrows raised. “You remember me?” “Of course,” I say in surprise. “We met last night. We talked.” “Excellent! That shows you've come out of posttraumatic amnesia. Don't look alarmed!” she adds, smiling. “It's a normal stage of confusion after a head injury.” Instinctively I put my hand up to my head and feel a dressing. Wow. I must really have whacked it on those steps. “You're doing well.” She pats my shoulder. “I'll get you some fresh orange juice.” There's a knock at the door. It opens and a tall, 22 slim woman in her fifties comes in. She has blue eyes, high cheekbones, and wavy, graying blond hair in straggly layers. She's wearing a red quilted waistcoat over a long printed dress and an amber necklace, and she's holding a paper bag. It's Mum. I mean, I'm ninety-?nine percent certain it is. I don't know why I'm even hesitating.

“The heating in this place!” she exclaims in her familiar thin, little-?girl voice. Okay, it's definitely Mum. “I feel quite faint!” She fans herself. “And I had such a stressful journey....” She glances toward the bed almost as an afterthought, and says to Sally, “How is she?” Sally smiles. “Cassidy's much better today. Far less confused than she was yesterday.”

“Thank goodness for that!” Mum lowers her voice a fraction. “It was like talking to a lunatic yesterday, or some... retarded person.” “Cassidy isn't a lunatic,” says Sally evenly, “and she can understand everything you say.”

The truth is, I'm barely listening. I can't help staring at Mum. What's wrong with her? She looks different. Thinner. And kind of... older. As she comes nearer and the light from the window falls on her face, she looks even worse. Is she ill? No. I'd know about it if she was ill. But honestly, she seems to have aged overnight. I'll buy her some Creme de la Mer for Christmas, I resolve.

“Here you are, darling,” she says in overly loud, clear tones. “It's me. Your mo-?ther.” She hands me the paper bag, which contains a bottle of shampoo, and drops a kiss on my cheek. As I inhale her familiar smell of dogs and tearose perfume, it's ridiculous, but I feel tears rising. I hadn't realized quite how marooned I felt. “Hi, Mum.” I reach to hug herbut my arms hit thin air. She's already turned away and is consulting her tiny gold watch. “I can't stay more than a minute, I'm afraid,” she says with a kind of tension, as though if she lingers too long the world will explode. “I'm due to see a specialist about Roly.”

“Roly?”

“From Smoky's latest litter, darling.” Mum shoots me a glance of reproach. “You remember little Roly.” I don't know how Mum expects me to keep track of all her dogs' names. There's at least twenty of them and they're all whippets, and every time I go home there seems to be another one. We were always an animal-?free familyuntil the summer when I was seventeen. While on holiday in Wales, Mum bought a whippet puppy on a whim. And overnight it triggered this total mania.

I do like dogs. Kind of. Except when six of them jump up at you every time you open the front door. And whenever you try to sit down on a sofa or a chair, there's a dog on it. And all the biggest presents under the Christmas tree are for the dogs.

Mum has taken a bottle of Rescue Remedy out of her bag. She squeezes three drops onto her tongue, then breathes out sharply. “The traffic coming here was terrible,” she says. “People in London are so aggressive. I had a very unpleasant altercation with a man in a van.” “What happened?” I say, already knowing that Mum will shake her head. “Let's not talk about it, darling.” She winces, as though 24 being asked to recall her days of terror in the concentration camp. “Let's just forget about it.” Mum finds a lot of things too painful to talk about. Like how my new sandals could have got mangled last Christmas. Or the council's continual complaints about dog mess in our street. Or, to be honest, mess in general. In life. “I've got a card for you,” she says, rooting in her bag.

“Where is it, now? From Andrew and Sylvia.” I stare at her, bemused. “Who?” “Andrew and Sylvia, next door!” she says, as though it's obvious. “My neighbors!” Her next-?door neighbors aren't called Andrew and Sylvia. They're Philip and Maggie. “Mum” “Anyway, they send their love,” she says, interrupting me. “And Andrew wants to ask your advice on skiing.” Skiing? I don't know how to ski.

“Mum...” I put a hand to my head, forgetting about my injury, and wince. “What are you talking about?” “Here we are!” Sally comes back into the room, bearing a glass of orange juice. “Dr. Flinch's just coming along to check you over.”

“I must go, darling.” Mum gets to her feet. “I left the car on some extortionate parking meter. And the congestion charge! Eight pounds I had to pay!” That's not right either. The congestion charge isn't eight pounds. I'm sure it's only five quid, not that I ever use a car My stomach plunges. Oh my GodMum's getting dementia. That has to be it. She's already going senile, at the age of fifty-?four. I'll have to speak to one of the doctors about her.

“I'll be back later with Amy and Alex,” she says, heading to the door. Alex? She really calls her dogs some odd names. “Okay, Mum.” I smile brightly, to humor her. “Can't wait.” As I sip my juice I feel a bit shaken up. Everyone thinks their mum is a bit crazy. But that was seriously crazy. What if she has to go into a home? What will I do with all the dogs? My thoughts are interrupted by a knock at the door, and a youngish doctor with dark hair enters, followed by three other people in medical uniforms.

“Hello there, Cassidy,” he says in a pleasant, brisk manner. “I'm Dr. Flinch, one of the resident neurologists here. These are Nicole, a specialist nurse, and Diana and Garth, our two trainee doctors. So, how are you feeling?”

“Fine! Except my left hand feels a bit weird,” I admit. “Like I've been sleeping on it and it isn't working properly.” As I lift up my hand to show him, I can't help admiring my amazing manicure again.

I must ask Fi where we went last night. “Right.” The doctor nods. “We'll take a look at that; you may need some therapy. But first I'm going to ask you a few questions. Bear with me if some of them seem blindingly obvious.“ He flashes a professional smile and I get the feeling he's said all this a thousand times before. ”Can you tell me your name?“

”My name's Cassidy James,“ I reply promptly. Dr. Flinch nods and adds a tick mark in his folder. ”And when were you born?“

”Nineteen seventy-?nine.“ 26 ”Very good.“ He makes another note. ”Now, Cassidy, when you crashed your car, you bumped your head against the windshield. There was a small amount of swelling to your brain, but it looks as though you've been very lucky. I still need to do some checks, though.“ He holds up his pen.

”If you'd like to look at the top of this pen, I'm going to move it from side to side.“ Doctors don't let you get a word in, do they? ”Excuse me!“ I wave at him. ”You've mixed me up with someone else. I didn't crash any car.

“ Dr. Flinch frowns and flips back two pages in his folder. ”It says the patient was involved in a traffic accident.“ He looks around the room for confirmation. Why is he asking them? I'm the one it happened to. ”Well, they must have written it down wrong,“ I say firmly.

”I was out clubbing with my friends and we were running for a taxi and I fell. That's what happened. I remember it really well.“ Dr. Flinch and Sally exchange puzzled looks. ”It was definitely a traffic accident,“ murmurs Sally.

”Two vehicles, side-?on. I was down in Emergency and I saw her come in. And the other driver. I think he had a minor arm fracture.“ ”I couldn't have been in a car crash.“ I try to keep my patience. ”For a start, I don't have a car. I don't even know how to drive!“ I'm intending to learn to drive one day. It's just that I've never needed to since living in London, and lessons are so expensive, and it's not like I can afford a car.

”You haven't got a...“ Dr. Flinch flips over a page and squints at the writing. ”A Mercedes convertible?“ ”A Mercedes?“ I snort with laughter. ”Are you serious?”