Debbie Johnson - The Birthday That Changed Everything - Perfect summer holiday reading!

I held back his blood-clotted hair and examined the wound. I gently cleaned it with some warm water, and probed as softly as I could to see how deep it was. James sat stoically, wincing only slightly as I poked around.

‘You’ll live,’ I said. ‘It looks much worse than it is. I don’t think you’ll need stitches, but I’ll dress it and you’ll need to wear a very attractive bandage for the next day or so. Keep your head away from blunt objects, don’t swim for a while, and avoid salsa dancing because your balance might be off. If you feel sick or sleepy, let me know.’

I bustled around, getting gauze and a long strip of bandage, then stood in front of him, tilting his head slightly so I could work at a better angle.

‘You seem pretty good at all this – are you a nurse in real life as well as fancy dress?’

‘Nope,’ I said, trimming off some tape, ‘but once upon a time I was going to be a doctor. Lucy came along and it never happened. Can’t say I’d be much good at open-heart surgery, but the basics like this you never forget.’

‘Why don’t you go back and finish your training?’ he asked as I leaned in closer to apply pressure to the dressing.

I couldn’t answer for a few seconds. My bikini was still damp and the air-con was on full, giving me goosebumps. I could feel his warm breath on my breasts as he spoke. His lips were only a whisper away, and the unexpected heat on cool flesh was amazingly erotic. All I’d need to do was lean forward an inch or two…

It was an odd moment to feel turned on, but I was, and I was sure it was obvious. I was seriously considering seeking medical help for these inappropriate rushes of lust. I wasn’t usually like this. It could be early menopause.

I reminded myself to breathe, and to talk.

‘Well, that was a long time ago. Lucy’s sixteen now. My training is probably next to useless these days,’ I replied, feeling my hands tremble slightly as I secured the dressing and started to wrap the bandage.

My patient was quiet. All I could hear – and, deliciously, feel – was his breathing against my chest.

‘Am I hurting you?’ I asked, pulling away slightly to look at his face. His eyes were glazed and he was struggling to focus. Maybe he had concussion after all.

‘No, you’re not,’ he said, ‘and I’d probably wouldn’t say this if it wasn’t for the head injury…but even through that bikini, your nipples look exactly like the tops of Walnut Whips…’

Yikes. Time to get him out of my room right now, or I was going to have to carry out a full physical.

Breakfast on the Gaza Strip again. But that morning, there seemed to have been something of a ceasefire.

Ollie was chirpy as ever, his little round glasses perched on his nose, reading a book with a dragon on the cover. Lucy was uncharacte‌ristically chatty. She’d been into town with Max and his friends the night before, giving me barely enough time to lecture her about the dangers of alcohol before she dashed off.

There was a lot of laughter and surreptitious shuffling about on the corridor outside before I finally heard the key turn in the lock. I considered bursting out to catch them in the act, but I didn’t really want to see my daughter with her tongue down someone’s throat. It’s like world poverty – you know it’s happening, but you don’t necessarily want to witness it up close.

She’d wisely kept herself scarce most of the day, knowing the longer she avoided me, the less angry I’d be about the pervert’s parade she’d ambushed me with. I’d spent a good half-hour packing it all up again ready for the airline people to collect, and was fairly sure a few smaller items had gone missing.

Still, seeing her smiling and laughing at breakfast made it impossible to stay mad. In fact, it had totally thrown me – that boy must be a heck of a kisser.

‘So anyway,’ she said, between bites of toast, ‘turns out that Max is really cool. I know he seems total surfer boy, but he’s read all The Walking Dead graphic novels, and runs an online forum on classic horror, and he’s really into The Smiths as well.’

‘Are you sure he’s not just gay?’ Ollie asked, peering up from his page.

‘Shut the fuck up, John Lennon,’ she answered, reassuringly. Glad to see that love hadn’t quite tamed the beast.

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