The Troika Dolls - Miranda Darling [133]
The nurse whisked them on. Stevie’s sunglasses made it difficult to see properly in the half-light and her fur coat overflowed from the wheelchair, dragging along behind like a royal train.
The nurse had not turned a hair at Stevie’s get-up. They obviously got all kinds at Hoffenschaffen. Stevie had thought it best to be prepared for anything, even if she wasn’t quite sure what that anything would be.
They moved on through the dim corridors, past Turkish baths, hydrotherapy pools, shower rooms, massage rooms, meditation caves, treatment suites, and exercise studios filled with pilates balls, wooden frames and mysterious machines. Stevie thought she spotted a gyroniser—Sandy Belle’s awful spinning machine—and was relieved that exercise was forbidden on her programme.
The nurse stopped at a door marked Prüffenmitte—testing centre. ‘Please,’ she gestured. ‘This way.’
The room was not overly large, the walls tiled in gleaming white. Various electronic monitoring machines mounted on wheels stood neatly along one wall. A huge treadmill stood in the centre of the room, hoses and suction cups hung off it like some horrid mechanical squid.
The next hour passed—was it really only an hour?—in a jigsaw of tests for Stevie. The nurse’s cold, chalky hands took her pulse, listened to her heart, undressed Stevie completely. She stuck her with needles and drew blood through butterfly tubes, efficiently, without speaking.
Out came a pair of callipers and Stevie’s skin was pinched all over, apparently an effort to measure subcutaneous fat percentages; Stevie was deemed undernourished by an uncompromising wall chart, her reflexes were tested, her pupils, ears and nostrils examined.
The whole process felt surreal. Stevie felt rather helpless in the face of all the technology, the efficiency, the charts, the cream-coloured boxes that housed the gas chromatograph and a mass spectrometer for testing blood. She was glad of Henning’s solid presence just outside the door.
Finally the nurse called him back in.
‘The preliminary results of the blood test can only determine which basic category of toxin is present. Miss Duveen’s blood contains a venom of some kind.’ Here the nurse paused and raised a querying glance at Henning. He made no comment.
‘The samples will now have to be tested for specific toxins within that category,’ she continued. ‘Certainly we can say at this stage that Miss Duveen has poisoned herself quite severely. With what, it remains to be seen.’
The nurse’s tone was as hard and perfect as a ceramic bowl.
‘It’s been a rough month, shooting film after film,’ Henning lowered his voice and bent his head towards the nurse, taking her into his confidence. ‘Oscar week is always an emotional time for actors . . . She’s very sensitive. All actors are, you know, it’s part of the craft.’
The nurse’s expression betrayed nothing.
Stevie was impressed with Henning’s performance. He really was very convincing. She realised her hands and knees were quivering, possibly from her exquisite sensitivity, more likely from the effects of the poison which remained in her system.
The recommendations for Stevie’s treatment programme involved multiple steam-room visits, ice baths, and a rigorous diet plan. The nurse finished by snapping a green plastic bracelet on her wrist, the kind they use in hospitals and at music festivals.
This mission was not going to be all sugar flowers and sunshine . . .
The psychologist came at dusk, knocked efficiently at the door. Ste-vie, still fragile from her battery of tests, fled instinctively into the bathroom.
‘Henning, I can’t possibly. Tell her to go away.’
‘The manager was really very firm on this point, Stevie,’ Henning said through the bathroom door.
‘Are you mad?’
‘Are you afraid of what she’ll uncover?’ Henning was obviously amused, which Stevie thought quite unseemly.
‘Of course I am. Any sane person would be. Now tell her to push off.’
She locked the bathroom