Dead Romantic by Ruth Saberton Page A

to me? Bloody hell, Suse, you need to sort your eyes out. Especially,” I lower my voice, “if you can’t see that bright yellow wool!”
    “I can’t see her, Cleo,” says Susie slowly, “because there’s nobody there. The bed’s empty.”
    Click, click, click go the needles. Knitting Lady shrugs. “They can’t all see us, dear. You must have the gift.”
    “I don’t have a gift! I just have good eyesight!” I snap. “Stop messing about, Suse.”
    Susie is staring at me with eyes like saucers. “Shall I get a doctor, Cleo? Does your head hurt?”
    “No!” I snap. “But you’re doing it in! Stop winding me up; it isn’t funny.”
    “Babes, I’m seriously not winding you up. You’re scaring me.” Susie plops herself onto the bed and lays the back of her hand against my forehead. “There’s nobody in that bed. Honestly.”
    Shaking off her hand I open my mouth to apologise to Knitting Lady – and then close it abruptly.
    The bed’s empty. The skeins of eye-wateringly loud wool are nowhere to be seen and the overblown roses that have been dropping petals on the floor have gone. The sheets are tucked tightly against the bed and the pillows are plumped in readiness for the next poorly head.
    Oh dear Lord. I’ve lost it.
    “Head trauma is a serious thing.” Susie is in nurse mode now. “You may well experience changes in smell and vision.”
    Changes in smell and vision I could handle. Having conversations with imaginary people I cannot.
    “But she was knitting all night! She drove me mad!”
    “Hallucinations,” says Susie wisely. “It’s not uncommon.”
    Hallucinations of knitting grannies? I work with mummies, for goodness’ sake. Couldn’t I hallucinate something a bit more exciting, like a chat with Tutankhamun? No, there has to be a rational explanation. There’s always a rational explanation for these things, isn’t there? Maybe she slipped out of bed and the nurses tidied up while I wasn’t paying attention?
    “Bollocks,” says Susie bluntly when I offer this explanation. “Total bollocks. Your mind’s playing tricks on you, babes. It’s not unusual after a head injury.”
    “ My mind doesn’t play tricks,” I say through gritted teeth. “ My mind is rational. I have a PhD. I publish in academic journals. I do not imagine things. Ever.”
    Susie holds up her hands. “OK! OK! Don’t get upset; it isn’t good for you.”
    I swing my legs out of bed. “I’m going to settle this right now. Then we’ll see whether or not I’m hallucinating.”
    My feet touch the floor – which is a little sticky actually, a detail that would send Tolly into orbit – and suddenly I feel very weird. The room rocks like a Tube train passing a bumpy bit of track and I sway before Susie clutches my elbow in alarm.
    “Take it easy!”
    “Yes, take it easy,” echoes a nurse, shoes squeaking on the floor as she scuttles across the ward to propel me back into bed. “We’re not ready to get up yet! What are we thinking?”
    If I didn’t feel so sick I’d tell her I’m twenty-nine, not nine, but unfortunately I’m too busy retching into a kidney bowl to say anything. Several doctors and bowls of vomit later, I’m safely back in bed and pinned beneath the stiff sheets like one of my mummies.
    OK. Maybe I’m not as well as I thought I was.
    “Be a good girl and stay in bed,” says the nurse firmly, opening the curtains and revealing that the bed next door is indeed empty. “You need to rest.”
    I close my eyes in defeat. I’m seeing things – so it’s a shrink I need, not rest. If, that is, I was seeing things? Maybe my accident has bumped the bit of my brain that processes space and time? That’s likely, isn’t it?
    “What about the old lady in the bed next to me?” I ask. “Where’s she gone?”
    I open my eyes again, just in time to see Susie and the nurse exchange a look.
    “Babes,” Susie says gently, “I already told you: the bed was empty.”
    “But I saw her! I