‘I don’t know. I don’t recognize the number. But it’s only seven thirty, Dale.’
My heart rate increased tenfold when I heard your voice. Foot aside, I could have skipped around the room. You were enquiring about the sprain, but it was more than that. You wanted me to know you cared.
I must have sounded so flustered. Could you tell? ‘It’s . . . it’s . . . a lot better, thank you. I’ll start walking on it more tomorrow.’ You told me Dr Harris had passed on my number when you’d informed him that I wouldn’t be in for a few days. Hoped I didn’t mind. You had no idea how much I didn’t mind.
I desperately wanted to talk to you longer. And I’m sorry if I came across as rude or ungrateful. I wasn’t. I wasn’t at all. I was so happy, but it was Dale. Lingering. Static. Listening to my every word. As our conversation wrapped up, he put the top back on the tube and stood to leave. I said goodbye to you and ended the call. He stopped at the door, requiring answers.
‘Dr Stevens. Just seeing how my foot is doing.’
‘Oh right. That’s so nice of him. Anyway, at least your headache seems to have lifted. You should eat up before it gets cold,’ he said, and left.
Able to feel my excitement in his absence, I took a bite of pizza and turned the TV back on. And there it was. Taunting me. That scene. The pain of lost love. What it can do.
My thoughts flashed to my mother. Forever haunting me.
I’m going to play Shostakovich’s Symphony No. 5 now. Hopefully, it will help me slip away and erase the image that has invaded my mind once again.
I made it back to work on the Thursday. Off the crutches but sore-footed and limping. I couldn’t bear being cooped up any longer and all I could think about was seeing you.
I got the bus in. It took almost twice as long, but involved less walking, and when I’d envisaged being on the Underground, my breathing shallowed and I imagined being buried alive.
After snagging a window seat with ‘Jan loves cock’ etched in the glass, I watched the other humans, wondering what it was like to be them, not me. And I thought how much Mum would have liked it. Riding a London bus. We always took the bus at home. Smirking, as we telepathically knew we’d both clocked specific people, then talking about them once we’d got off.
Until that day.
When she thought she saw the green suede of his jacket swagger down the street.
Banged her hands against the window. Pushed the people out of the way to get to the exit. Pressing each bell she passed, again and again and again. How the driver wouldn’t stop. And the passengers tutted and cussed until silenced by her screams.
From that day she only looked outwards. Quiet. Watchful. Searching.
I’d arrived only twenty minutes late, though Linda wasn’t quite as impressed with my achievement.
‘Thank you for joining us, Constance. How’s the foot?’
‘It’s like I’m walking on a hundred tiny razor blades. But you know . . . I didn’t want to let you down.’
‘Right . . . Well, thank you.’ She resumed the pretence of reading a document.
‘Hi, Constance.’ Alison waved at me like an overexcited child, sunkissed from her mountain climb. My heart sank. She’d have so much to tell me.
Cranking up the limp, I walked around reception to my seat, surprised by the scent of a new white orchid on the front desk. Why does everything remain the same, day in, day out, but if you’re away for even a short space of time, things are different? Or perhaps we don’t notice change when we’re part of it. I never noticed the change within me.
‘So, what do I need to know?’ I asked Linda.
‘Nothing, really. Dr Harris is in his office. Dr Short is on a house call. Mr Copeland is just waiting to have some blood tests with the nurse. Dr Stevens has a couple of patients booked in, but then he’s off to the Harley Street practice. Alison’s working on this report for . . .’
I tried to appear as if I was still listening, but her words became noiseless and my insides twisted.
When her mouth stopped moving, I said, ‘Why is Dr Stevens going to Harley Street?’
‘Don’t ask me. It’s not my job to know why . . . So you need to go into this file Alison’s working on, then join her in adding all the—’
‘Sorry, Linda. I . . . I need the toilet . . . Sorry.’
When passing your room, a woman with a crusty-nosed child exited. She smiled. I somehow managed to return a warped version, then continued down the corridor with the full intent of going to the ladies’. But I stopped, turned and limped back towards your door.
My knock lacked confidence. When you called me in, I noticed the room contained less of Dr Williams. His certificates had been removed from the wall, exposing rectangles of original crisp white paint. You hadn’t replaced them with yours, which added to my concerns.
‘Constance . . . hey . . . You’re back.’ You finished scribbling in your diary, then put your pen down and looked up at me.
‘Yes . . . well, I didn’t want to let people down.’ I thought perhaps you’d offer me a seat.
‘And how’s the foot?’
‘It’s OK . . . You know . . . still bruised but getting there.’
‘Well, these things take time, unfortunately. Use it, but don’t overdo it.’
‘Yes . . . yes, I will.’
An uncomfortable silence hit.
‘Well, it’s good to have you back.’ You took your pen in hand once more, jiggled it between your fingers.
‘Thank you. So . . . so Linda says you’re going to Harley Street this afternoon?’
‘Yes, they’re struggling without me, apparently.’
‘Right. So you’re going back to work there now?’
‘Oh no . . . At least, I hope not. It’s only for a couple of days, they said.’
I controlled the extended expulsion of air from my lungs. ‘OK . . . That’s nice . . . that you can help them out.’
Once again you scrawled onto the pages. ‘Anyway, I had better get on. I’ve got a patient coming in.’
‘Of course. Sorry. I just wanted to say hello . . . and thank you again for last week. So, thank you, Dr Stevens.’
‘No need to thank me, Constance. I’m a doctor – that’s what I’m supposed to do.’ You spoke down towards your desk, muffling your words.
‘OK, Dr Stevens.’ For the second time I waited for you to correct me. Insist I called you ‘Samuel’. You didn’t. Merely stopped writing and turned. Fixed a smile. But it wasn’t warm like the smiles we’d shared that night. It was a smile that said the conversation was over.
I tried to work as best I could, pasted on a cheerful demeanour, but couldn’t stop going over and over the night of the hospital. The change in you. And I had no choice but to begin a new list of negatives, which started with the rogue wiry nasal hair I’d noticed would poke out when you held your head at certain angles. I reached into my bag for my phone to add this observation to my notes but dropped it back in immediately when surprised by the unusual presence of Dr Harris looming in reception. His face even more humourless than usual.
‘Girls, can I have a word, please?’
Alison and I stopped what we were doing. Linda was already not doing anything to stop.