The last thing she needed was more guilt, let alone the risk of being clamped. Instead, she parked as close as she could to the entrance, and then sprinted across the car park, pulling her coat tight against the pounding rain. She reached the hotel with her head and upper body soaked, rain oozing coldly down her collar. Jesus, she thought, and all those bloody disabled spaces standing empty. It was Liam she was thinking of really, of course. Liam who would be perfectly entitled to park in those spaces. Liam and his condition, and the unknown, unknowable prognosis. She had a superstitious half-belief, barely acknowledged even to herself, that if she didn’t tempt fate, everything might be all right. Whatever all right might turn out to mean. She stood in the reception, dripping rainwater gently on to the thick pile carpet. It was the usual sort of place; an anonymous, soulless business hotel, suitably mid range, conveniently positioned minutes from the M60. There were a dozen or more such venues, scattered around the city centre and the suburbs, catering to sales executives, visiting middle managers, off-site business meetings.
