Lies and Weddings(76)
Eden immediately called her back. “Deepa, I just got your text and I’m not sure I understand. I have back-to-back patients starting at ten. Why are you asking me to take the week off?”
“We…um…we just thought…in light of the situation…,” Deepa stammered.
“What situation are you referring to exactly?”
Deepa sighed. “This morning, Eden. At Nero’s…”
“I don’t see how that pertains to my ability to perform my duties.”
“But…are you sure you’re feeling okay?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“How far along are you?”
“Deepa! I’m not pregnant! And even if I were, I’d probably be able to work right up to the moment my water breaks, just like you did.”
“It’s just that all the patients are talking about the incident. The waiting room is in an absolute tizzy. One of Dr. Thorne’s patients actually requested to see you.”
“First of all, there was no incident, only a private conversation that’s obviously been wildly misconstrued.”
“I see. Well, we just think it’s for the best that you consider taking a leave of absence, until things settle down and a proper investigation can be rendered.”
“Investigation?!” Eden exclaimed.
“Please don’t raise your voice, Eden. Believe me, I’m on your side. You hurling your cappuccino all over the countess was a boss move, if I might say.”
“Whaaaat? I did no such thing.”
“So you didn’t scald the right side of the countess’s face?”
“Oh for fuck’s sake, it was an iced latte that some bloke spilled onto her. I had nothing to do with it. This story has gotten completely out of control.”
“Which is why we suggest you lie low for the moment. We have to preserve the integrity of the hospital, we can’t have things devolve into an episode of Love Island.”
“I assure you the truth is more like The Great British Bake Off.”
“Far too much drama for us!”
“Fine,” Eden said, relenting. She hung up in frustration and cut through the lavender field in order to get up the hill more quickly. By the time she had reached the gate of the cottage, she realized that tears were streaming down her face uncontrollably. Why the bloody hell was she crying? She was so angry at herself for crying. This was all so ridiculous—she was a grown woman, a doctor, and Arabella Gresham had in barely twenty minutes successfully ruined her reputation all through the county even though she had done absolutely nothing wrong. All she had ever tried to do was to be helpful to the Greshams, to be the most loyal friend to all of them. She hadn’t even wanted to go to Hawaii. She’d never asked to be kissed by Rufus. That damn kiss had ruined everything. So why was she the one feeling all the guilt, as if she had committed a cardinal sin?
Eden suddenly felt the same wave of emotions that had come over her that day in Hawaii when that fashion editor lying on her bed at the Four Seasons had barked at her as if she were some kind of lower-status employee. It was as though a veil had been lifted, and she now saw with alarming clarity that she had spent most of her life sublimating herself whenever she was around the Greshams—never appearing at the Big House without looking immaculate, putting on her best manners at all times, always striving to be the perfect child. And yet, she must never be faster or funnier or prettier or smarter than, or in any way outshine, Bea and Augie. When a model scout once approached her in Soho when she was sixteen, she laughed it off and refused to take the woman’s business card. When she scored distinctions on five A levels, she didn’t tell a soul except her father for a week.
She had told herself a story for so long that she was accepted and safe in her own village, that she belonged, but all this time, there was one person who had been lurking in the shadows, always observing and assessing and discriminating against her. The one other woman in all of Greshamsbury who looked like her: Arabella. What she had assumed was self-absorbed indifference from the countess was actually pure disdain, as if she were some sort of second-class interloper who didn’t belong in the village, much less anywhere near the manor house. She wondered if she would ever feel at home here again.
Walking up the garden path, she arrived at the front door of the cottage and saw that it was blocked by a giant package wrapped in cellophane and tied with an elaborate silk bow. She unlocked the front door, dragged the package into the hall, and grabbed a pair of scissors from the chest of drawers in the foyer. Underneath the acres of cellophane was a handsome wicker hamper with leather handles. As she began to unfasten the lid, a wisp of smoke wafted out through the cracks of the hamper. She stepped back for a moment in alarm before carefully flipping open the lid. The smoke turned out to be vapors from dry ice, and nestled in the packing hay was a mound of fresh pineapples and coconuts, cans of coconut cream, an exquisite bottle of Appleton Estate rum, a set of Baccarat crystal tumblers, and ube syrup from Hawaii. A handwritten note read: Here’s a good recipe:
2 ounces rum
3 ounces coconut water
1 ounce pineapple juice
? ounce coconut cream
1 ounce ube syrup
Now you can make your own ube coladas, but be sure to save some for me.
Love ya,
Freddy
Eden began to laugh. Wiping away her tears, she dialed Freddy’s number. He picked up after several rings.