The Woman Who Stole My Life Read Online Free Page B

what?’
    ‘Like … your tongue is swollen.’ He grabbed my glass and took a swig, and said, ‘There’s nothing wrong with that orange juice.’
    I tried another sip. It burned me again.
    Jeffrey materialized at my side and said accusingly, ‘Did you put butter on this toast?’
    ‘No.’
    We played this game every morning.
    ‘You’ve put butter on it,’ he said. ‘I can’t eat it.’
    ‘Okay.’
    He looked at me in surprise.
    ‘Give him some money,’ I ordered Ryan.
    ‘Why?’
    ‘So he can buy himself something for breakfast.’
    Startled, Ryan handed over a fiver and, startled, Jeffrey took it.
    ‘I’m off,’ Ryan said.
    ‘Grand. Bye. Okay, kids, get your stuff.’ Normally I ran through a checklist as long as my arm for all their extra-curricular activities – swimming, hockey, rugby, the school orchestra – but today I didn’t bother. Sure enough, about ten minutes into the car journey, Jeffrey said, ‘I forgot my banjo.’
    There was no way I was turning around and going back to get it. ‘You’ll be fine,’ I said. ‘You can manage without it for one day.’
    A blanket of stunned silence fell in the car.
    At the school gate dozens of privileged, cosmopolitan teenagers were milling in. It was one of the greatest sources of pride in my life that Betsy and Jeffrey were pupils at Quartley Daily, a non-denominational, fee-paying school, which aimed to educate ‘the whole child’. My guilty pleasure was to watch them as they traipsed in, in their uniforms, both of them tall and a little gawky, Betsy’s blonde curls swinging in a ponytail and Jeffrey’s dark hair sticking up in tufts. I always took a moment to watch them merge with the other kids (some of them the offspring of diplomats – the light bulb of my pride glowed extra-bright at that bit, but obviously I kept it to myself; the only person I ever admitted it to was Ryan). But today I didn’t hang around. My focus was on home, where I was hoping for a quick lie-down before going to work.
    As soon as I let myself into the house, I was overtaken by a wave of weakness so powerful I had to lie down in the hall. With the side of my face pressed against the cold floorboards, I knew I couldn’t go to work. This was maybe the first sick day of my life. Even with a hangover I’d always shown up; the work ethic went deep in me.
    I rang Karen and my fingers could barely work the phone. ‘I’ve the flu,’ I said.
    ‘You haven’t the flu,’ she said. ‘Everyone says they’ve the flu when they just have a cold. Believe me, if you had the flu, you’d know all about it.’
    ‘I do know all about it,’ I said. ‘I’ve the flu.’
    ‘Are you putting on that funny voice so I’ll believe you?’
    ‘Really. I’ve the flu.’
    ‘Tongue flu, is it?’
    ‘I’m sick, Karen, I swear to God. I’ll be in tomorrow.’
    I crawled up the stairs, stumbled gratefully into bed, set my phone for 3 p.m. and fell into a deep sleep.
    I woke dry-mouthed and disoriented and when I reached for a swig of water, I couldn’t swallow it. I focused hard on waking myself up and swallowing the water, but nothing happened: I really couldn’t swallow it. I had to spit it back into the glass.
    Then I realized that, even without the water in my mouth, I couldn’t swallow. The muscles at the back of my throat just wouldn’t work. I concentrated hard on them, trying to ignore the rising panic, but nothing happened. I couldn’t swallow. I actually, really, couldn’t swallow.
    Scared, I rang Ryan. ‘There’s something wrong with me. I can’t swallow.’
    ‘Have a Strepsil and take some Panadol.’
    ‘I don’t mean my throat is sore. I mean I can’t swallow.’
    He sounded bemused. ‘But everyone can swallow.’
    ‘I can’t. My throat won’t work.’
    ‘Your voice sounds funny.’
    ‘Can you come home?’
    ‘I’m on a site visit. In Carlow. It’ll take a couple of hours. Why don’t you go to the doctor?’
    ‘Okay. See you later.’ Then I