Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?. Claudia Carroll

in her. You know, the type of genetic make-up that makes a girl plump for hair extensions, acrylic nails and a soft-top sports car later on in life.

      Next thing a chunky-looking fair-haired guy who looked like he’d be more at home in a rugby scrum than in a classroom wolf-whistled at me. Then, to a wave of sniggers, he cheekily asked me what I was doing later on that night – and that he’d be more than happy to show me around the place.

      I wasn’t to know it at the time, but this was one Mike Sherry, the class pin-up and something of a lust object among all the female seniors. One of those guys who didn’t so much romance women as play roulette with their feelings. Later on that same day, he’d indicate romantic interest in me by tying my shoelaces to my desk when I wasn’t looking and later that same week, he’d top that by grabbing the towel I was clinging on to to keep me as covered up as possible in the swimming pool…and flinging it into the deep end. Mike was one of those guys who didn’t believe in acting cool or ignoring women he fancied; no, he was from the PT Barnum school of flirtation.

      ‘That’s it, Annie, the seat to your left, right by the window,’ said the teacher helpfully, as I tripped over myself in full view of everyone in the classroom, still unused to the clunky, Amish-like school shoes I was wearing. More giggles and I honestly thought I’d hurl myself out the shagging window if the spotlight wasn’t taken off me very soon.

      Next thing I was aware of a big, beefy hand grabbing my arm to steady me, helping me up with my heavy schoolbag and putting it on the floor beside the desk. A firm grip, strong. I slipped into the empty seat and turned to whisper a heartfelt thanks to this giant, rugged-looking stranger. And honest to God, for a split second it was almost as though I was looking into my mirror image; sallow skin, dark, unruly hair and a pair of dark chocolate brown eyes stared back at me. Then a twinkling, crooked smile and a warm, friendly handshake.

      ‘Don’t pay the slightest bit of attention to Mike,’ this guy said gently, in a soft-spoken voice, ‘he won’t bite. But if he gives you any hassle, I’d be more than happy to sort him out for you.’ I smiled back gratefully.

      ‘You’re Annie. It’s great to meet you. Welcome to life at Alcatraz. It sucks. You’re going to love it.’

      I laughed at this and then it was as if he read my thoughts.

      ‘Oh and by the way?’ he grinned. ‘My name is Dan.’

      Chapter Two

      Thing about The Moorings is that first thing in the morning it honestly resembles the chaos of Grand Central Station at rush hour. Because the surgery is in an extension at the side of the house and is open for business from early morning, by eight am, without fail, the house is always wide awake and buzzing.

      I do not befeckinglieve this. The one morning I didn’t want to oversleep. My cunning plan was to get up at the crack of dawn and wake Dan before he did his usual disappearing act, so I could grab my chance to bring him up to speed on the latest development in my life. Before half the village descended on us, that is.

      But by the sounds of it, I’m already too late. I’m up in our bedroom, frantically pulling on jeans and a warm woolly jumper and from downstairs I can already clearly hear Andrew Leonard stomping around, letting himself in with his own key like everyone else seems to.

      Andrew is Dan’s father’s old veterinary partner, by the way and at seventy-five years of age, he’s still going strong and working every bit as hard as he did twenty years ago. He and Dan always start the morning surgery together and so Andrew, a widower who lives alone, has got into the habit of calling here for breakfast beforehand most days. And by the sounds of it, he’s with James, the practice’s new intern as well.

      As I hurriedly pull on a pair of boots, I can hear the two of them chatting away and clattering open the kitchen cupboards, before Andrew shouts up the stairs at me that there’s no milk for the tea and would I please mind running out to get some?

      Next thing I hear old Mrs Brophy. the practice’s elderly and very cranky receptionist, clattering in and yelling up at me that if I’m going to the shops anyway, would I mind picking up a few sticky buns for the tea as they ran out yesterday when I wasn’t there to do a run to Tesco?

      Oh God, oh God, oh God. This is what happens when I’m missing for one single afternoon and when I oversleep on one single morning? Dear Jaysus…

      ‘AND WILL YOU GET SOME TEA BAGS WHILE YOU’RE AT IT TOO, ANNIE?’ she screeches upstairs at me and I call back down that I’m on my way. Mrs Brophy, I should tell you, has worked here since old Dan Senior’s time and point blank refuses to let me help her out with the surgery’s paperwork in any way whatsoever. Honest to God, even if I as much as answer the phone and take an appointment when she’s in the house, she feels threatened and, I’m not kidding, will actually go into a sulk about it that can often last for days on end. I’ve been here ever since Heaven started, she’ll snap at me, and I do NOT need your help, thank you.

      Nor does she have any intention of retiring in the foreseeable future and believe me, every carrot you can think of has been dangled at her to entice her off in that direction – a Mediterranean cruise, a week’s spa break in a five-star hotel, you name it. But no, nothing doing. She gets offended if I even offer to give her a hand and there’s no budging her to leave either; a classic catch twenty-two. She’s also chronically hard of hearing with the result that anyone ringing up the house or surgery tends to holler down the phone at whoever answers, just in case it might be her.

      A sudden, disconnected thought flashes through my mind: how weird it is that I should feel so completely isolated and lonely in this house and yet I’m constantly surrounded by other people.

      Anyway, I scrape my hair back into a ponytail and race to the bathroom, where Dan’s just stepping out, washed, shaved and ready for the day. Perfect chance for me to nab him, because I know only too well that once he launches into his day’s work, trying to hold a one-on-one conversation with him will be pretty much like trying to nail mercury to a wall.

      ‘Dan, before you go downstairs, I really need to…’

      ‘Hey, you were out so late last night. Where were you?’

      ‘Yeah, I know, I had to go to Dublin…I phoned you, didn’t you get my message?’

      ‘You left a message? No, never got it. My phone must have been out of coverage. Oh rats, that reminds me, I think I must have left my mobile in the car last night…’

      Absolutely zero interest in why I had to go to town, not even a raised eyebrow, nothing. He’s thundering down the main staircase now, taking two steps at a time in that long-legged way that he has and I’m racing just to keep pace with him.

      ‘The thing is, Dan, I have to talk to you and it’s really important…’

      ‘Sure, sure, yeah…MRS BROPHY? DID PAUL FORGARTY CALL ABOUT THE RACEHORSE WITH THE BROKEN FEMUR?’

      I’m not joking, that is the actual decibel level you have to speak to Mrs Brophy at.

      ‘You see, I got a phone call from my agent in Dublin yesterday…’

      ‘MORNING, DAN,’ says Mrs Brophy, sticking her head around the kitchen door. ‘WHERE DID YOU DISAPPEAR OFF TO YESTERDAY, ANNIE? THERE’S A LOAD OF SHOPPING NEEDS TO BE DONE.’

      ‘DON’T WORRY, MRS BROPHY, I’LL GET TO IT…’ I yell back, before trying to grab Dan’s arm. ‘Look, something’s come up that I really need to talk to you about, before you rush off to start work…’

      ‘YES, PAUL FOGARTY RANG; HE SAYS WOULD YOU MIND CALLING OUT TO HIM AT SOME POINT TODAY, WHEN YOU’RE ON YOUR ROUNDS,’ Mrs Brophy cuts in.

      ‘TERRIFIC, WILL DO,’ says Dan, rubbing his eyes exhaustedly and dropping his voice a bit when he sees that between Andrew, James and Mrs B, we’ve got a kitchen-full of guests.

      ‘Morning all,’ we both say together, as I wonder how in hell I can try collaring