Chapter 3

      Lisa eyed the posters in the waiting room. She could probably recite the text on them word for word after the length of time they’d been waiting. Her head ached slightly, which was annoying after she’d turned down the rest of the bottle of Prosecco as she and Siena sat and watched Bridesmaids.

      Nan fidgeted beside her and sighed loudly, making sure the administrator at the front desk could hear her.

      ‘I could have died by the time I get to see this chappie,’ she tutted. ‘Waste of time. My dahlias need looking after. I’m dying for a cuppa.’

      ‘Do you want me to go and get one for you? It shouldn’t be too much longer.’

      ‘Hmph, you said that an hour ago. If it says the appointment is at half past nine, it should be at half past nine, not half past whenever the flamin’ doctor feels like it.’ She waved the appointment letter, which hadn’t left her hand since they’d arrived, like a matador’s cape. All eyes in the packed waiting room turned their way.

      Lisa gritted her teeth, fighting the urge to shrink back in her seat.

      ‘The doctor’s very busy. I’m sure he’ll call you soon.’

      ‘Hmph. He might have all day, but I don’t. I’ll give him another five minutes and then we’re off.’

      Lisa counted very slowly to ten in her head before saying, as placidly as she could, ‘Do you want me to ask how much longer it will be?’

      The secretary at the window opposite had her head down, busy sorting papers, avoiding catching anyone’s eye, even though she had to have heard every word of Nan’s carrying voice. Sensible woman. Cantankerous patients were probably the norm.

      ‘What’s the point? They never tell you the truth,’ she grumbled, looking pointedly at the watch on her scrawny wrist.

      ‘Mrs Whitaker.’ The Irish accent rang out as Dr Gupta, Nan’s favourite nemesis, appeared. Tall and patrician, with a narrow aquiline nose and dark skin, he reminded Lisa of some ancient king, and next to him, Nan, an irritating terrier nipping around his ankles who he always forbore with regal grace.

      ‘About bloody time.’ Nan’s voice, sharp and shrewish, made the whole waiting room look up.

      Dr Gupta smiled, his expression completely bland. Poor sod, no doubt, was used to it.

      ‘Do you want me to come in with you?’ offered Lisa. She ought to. She felt increasingly responsible for her gran, even though she knew what the response would be.

      ‘What the flamin’ hell would I want that for? I’m old enough to be your grandmother.’

      Lisa smiled as serenely as she could manage. ‘You are my grandmother.’

      ‘Exactly.’ Nan glared at Lisa, picked up her capricious handbag and, like a stately ostrich, head held high, stalked towards the doctor, who, bless him, exchanged a subtle, understanding look with Lisa.

      She wilted back into her seat. Another round to Nan. It was all very well for her to be gung ho and have that I’m made of granite attitude, but she was getting on a bit and didn’t look after herself properly; her blood pressure was sky high, she didn’t take her tablets, refused to cut down on her salt and persisted in having regular fry-ups as well as Friday-night fish and chips every week. And the doctor didn’t even know about the sneaky pack of Benson and Hedges she kept in the sideboard for high days and holidays.

      Lisa had tried, but she’d lost count of the times she’d been accused of being the healthy-living police. Nan’s attitude was when I go, I go, which was all well and good, but she was putting herself at risk.

      Lisa frowned down at the institutional greyed carpet. And when Nan went, what then? She didn’t do feeling sorry for herself. Most of the time she refused to think about it, but when Nan went … she would be on her own. There were some second cousins in Glasgow, a generation older, with their own families now and hundreds of miles away. Family by blood, but not much else.

      Lisa’s chest tightened thinking about it. But Nan had years left … if she followed the doctor’s advice.

      Dr Gupta’s face was stern when he came out and Nan’s a pallid white.

      Lisa jumped up. ‘Is everything alright?’

      Dr Gupta started to shake his head, but Nan glared up at him with a basilisk stare. ‘I’m fine. Old age and fussing. Just a lot of nonsense.’

      ‘Make sure you get the prescription from the pharmacy and,’ his voice hardened, ‘take the tablets.’ He looked at Lisa, his face softening fractionally, ‘She needs to make sure she takes her medication regularly. Not,’ he sighed, ‘a tablet or two, here and there.’

      ‘She is the cat’s mother,’ Nan sniffed, her prune mouth wrinkling, ‘and I’m not in La La Land yet, y’know.’

      ‘Just take the medication, Mrs Whitaker.’ Dr Gupta’s thin lips sealed in a terse line.

      Lisa could understand his frustration. He could have an armful of medical degrees and boy-scout badges but Nan would still know best.

      ‘Can we go home, Lisa? I don’t like the smell. It smells of hospitals. Old people and cat pee.’

      Nan marched towards the door and, as Lisa turned to follow, the doctor laid a hand on her arm. ‘You need to make sure she takes the tablets. She’s at very high risk of a stroke, which might not be fatal but could seriously impair her life. Do you know the signs of a stroke? What to do, if she should have one?’

      Lisa shook her head, mute, fear clutching at her heart.

      He nodded towards the receptionist. ‘Take some leaflets with you.’

      ‘Thank you.’

      ‘Remember, with a stroke, the faster you act the better the outcome.’