Christmas at Rosie Hopkins' Sweetshop by Jenny Colgan Page A

lived together for nearly a year; it was absurd to be worried
    But she knew him; she knew how his earlier experiences had affected him. Being proud and sensitive was such a tough combination. Please, please let him not be too upset. She thought about what had happened in Africa. He’d been working out there as a teacher and had accompanied his class on a field trip. One of his children had strayed off the track and stepped on a landmine. Two boys, brothers, had died, and Stephen had suffered severe wounds—­both physical and mental. It had taken meeting Rosie for him truly to come back to himself, something his high-­handed mother, who found communicating with her wayward son extremely difficult had never forgiven her for.
    But could something like this set him back?
    She didn’t hear a reply, so she pushed open the heavy door. She paused for a second, then stepped into the room.
    Stephen was lying on his front, which at first gave him the aspect of a sullen teenager, but Rosie realized immediately that it was of course to avoid pressure on his scar. He could barely lift his head.
    â€œHello,” he said glumly.
    â€œHello,” she said. “You look like you’re going surfing.”
    He didn’t raise a smile.
    â€œPlease,” he said. “Cresta Run.”
    Rosie went over and kissed his head.
    â€œHey,” she said.
    â€œHey,” he said. “I look stupid”
    Rosie glanced at his back; his side was swathed in bandages, but the muscles, bare in the overheated hospital room, still stood out.
    â€œActually,” she said, “you look surprisingly hot for someone who’s just had a bum transplant.”
    Stephen tried to force a smile.
    â€œI think I preferred things a lot more yesterday when I was monged off my face on all the drugs.”
    â€œDid you not get any drugs today?”
    She flipped through his chart.
    â€œI did,” said Stephen. “But not the really good ones like yesterday.”
    Rosie raised her eyebrows. “They gave you diamorphine?”
    â€œMmmm,” said Stephen.
    â€œYes, well, no wonder, that’s basically heroin.”
    â€œOh,” said Stephen suddenly.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œNothing. Only I thought I wrote a song and it was brilliant. But that was probably the heroin, wasn’t it?”
    â€œI must hear your song,” said Rosie instantly.
    â€œUm, no.”
    â€œWas it about me?”
    Stephen winced and smiled again.
    â€œSeriously, I thought it was going to change the shape of music forever.”
    â€œWas it to the tune of ‘Agadoo’?”
    â€œNow you come to mention it . . .” He winced again.
    â€œIs it awfully painful?
    â€œSkin is REALLY SORE,” said Stephen. “It’s all right when it’s your insides. ­Peoples’ appendices don’t feel a thing, do they? It’s that skin thing that will really do for you. I wish I hadn’t seen Prometheus .”
    â€œEveryone wishes that,” said Rosie reassuringly.
    â€œHave you seen Edison?”
    â€œI’m going to see him when I get bored with hanging out with you.”
    â€œIs he going to . . .”
    Stephen tried to twist his neck around. It looked painful.
    â€œI think so,” said Rosie. “It’s going to be a long road, a really long road, but it looks like . . . he should walk again. Moray thinks so.”
    There was a long silence.
    â€œOh, dear Jesus,” said Stephen finally. “Thank God.” A single tear ran down his cheek.
    â€œCan you get that?”
    Rosie leapt up with a tissue; he really couldn’t move.
    â€œDidn’t anyone tell you?”
    â€œYes,” said Stephen. “But I only believed it coming from you.”
    Rosie put her arms around his neck.
    â€œAre you going to be okay about this?” she demanded.
    He knew immediately what she meant. Stephen’s brusqueness could sometimes mask a real