Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow? by Claudia Carroll Read Free Book Online Page B

call, of course he does; phones never, ever go ignored in this house. Turns out it’s a local farmer who needs him to call out ASAP. No surprises there; just about every call we get to the practice is urgent. In fact, the day a client calls and says take your time in calling out, sure there’s no rush whatsoever, is the day that hell will freeze over.
    Dan immediately whips out a pen and starts scribbling down symptoms on a spare supplement to Andrew’s paper that’s lying on the kitchen table, still talking away on the phone and never for one second losing focus.
    ‘OK,’ he says patiently, ‘just slow down, I’m on the way. Any symptoms of fever or loss of appetite? No progressive paralysis? General listlessness? OK…I’m on my way. Give me thirty minutes and I’ll be there. And don’t panic, I’m pretty certain we can sort this.’

    I pour out two juices while Dan wraps up the call, then hand one to Andrew and try giving the other one to Dan, but he’s too busy packing up his bag and pulling on his warmest coat from where it’s hanging on the back of the kitchen door.
    ‘Sounds to me it might be a straightforward case of Listeria,’ he calls back to Andrew, ‘but I’d better go out there and take a look to be on the safe side. Are you OK handling the surgery here on your own till I get back?’
    ‘Of course, you head off and I’ll see you later on.’
    I grab the juice I made for him and follow him down the kitchen passageway, as he strides on ahead of me, huge and hulking, making the passageway seem smaller just because he’s in it.
    ‘Dan, I still haven’t told you the most important part of my news…’
    ‘Can this wait till I get back?’ he asks, heading out the side door and over to where his jeep is parked.
    ‘But I mightn’t be here when you get back, that’s what I’m trying to tell you. My audition is up in Dublin, you see, it’s for a part in a new play…’
    ‘Good, good, good,’ he says automatically, although I know right well that he’s only half-listening. ‘Best of luck with it, love. You know I’ll be rooting for you.’
    He’s already clambered up into the driver’s seat by now, engine on, raring to go.
    ‘Dan, that’s not really what I wanted to tell you…’
    ‘OK, gotta go. You’ll do really well at your…emmm…your whatsit…your audition…I’m certain.’
    ‘That’s not actually the issue here…’
    ‘…and I’ll try my best to catch you tonight…’
    ‘Dan! Don’t leave just yet, I urgently have to talk to you…’

    Suddenly one of his black-eyed glares.
    ‘Annie, can you not just understand? I really have to go…so this’ll just have to wait. We’ll talk about whatever it is later, OK…?’
    He’s sounding irritable and narky now which I try my best not to take personally; deep exhaustion always makes him a bit snappy.
    ‘But this will only take two minutes! I still haven’t explained to you why…’
    Jesus, by now my face must be blue from the pressure behind it of needing to talk, but he doesn’t even seem to notice. And what’s really stabbing me is that I remember a long-distant time when he would have actually paid attention. Would have listened.
    God knows, might even have been supportive.
    ‘See you when I see you, drive safe to Dublin.’
    And just like that, he’s pulled the car out of the driveway and is gone, sending gravel flying in twenty different directions in his haste to get away. Most astonishing of all though is that this is actually the longest conversation we’ve had in I can’t remember how long. Honestly.
    Which leaves me feeling yet again like I’m the lowest priority in my husband’s life. Or worse, that I married a man who’s just not that into me. Because everyone, absolutely everyone and everything else comes ahead of me: cats that need neutering, constipated race horses, his mum and all her neuroses, his sister Jules and her cash flow problems, Lisa shagging Ledbetter and her entire catalogue