‘Alison, isn’t it?’
You have no idea how much that stung. ‘Constance.’
‘Constance . . . of course, Constance. I’m sorry. I’m terrible with names.’
‘Alison’s in reception.’ I took the mug to the sink and rinsed it along with the residue of my breakfast.
‘And the office manager is Linda? Is that right? Is that it, then?’
‘Yes. Yes, that’s right. Apart from the R—’ I stopped myself. ‘Carol and Janet, the agency nurses. They’re just part-time, covering maternity leave. For Rayowa, the proper nurse.’
‘Well, thank you, Constance. For saving me from embarrassing myself again.’
I smiled, then turned back towards you, shaking the mug free of water. ‘I’ll leave all Dr Williams’s medical things here, but let me know if you need anything ordering. Stationery or other supplies.’
‘Are you feeling better?’
I dared to look at you properly, but your smile caught me off guard. ‘Yes, Dr Stevens. I feel fine now. Thank you . . . I’m just embarrassed, that’s all. Your first day as well.’
‘Yes, I prefer at least a week to go by before the staff vomit in my presence.’
I would have smiled back had I not been so mortified. Instead, I quickly grabbed the box and said, ‘I’ll let you settle in, Dr Stevens, shall I? Get the rest later?’
You followed me to the door. Held it open like the gentleman I thought you were. It was then I caught your eyes directly for the first time. They were cold in the paleness of their grey. Unnervingly familiar. I turned my head, focused on a bald patch of carpet until you said, ‘You couldn’t possibly get me a coffee, could you? White, one sugar. Strong but milky.’
I didn’t see much more of you during that first day. Not as much as I’d hoped, anyway. Most of Dr Williams’s patients cancelled, and I went to your room only twice. Once with the cup of coffee you requested, which had taken three attempts to get right. I was unsure what was meant by ‘strong but milky’. I’d made the first too weak, so chucked it down the sink. The second, I was certain I’d overdone the sugar, so remade it with a level spoonful. After placing the third version in front of you, I loitered at the door, waiting for the verdict, which judging by your expression, wasn’t very good at all. I was so annoyed at myself for not sticking with the sweeter one.
The second time was with a file you’d requested. You were busy sorting out your desk.
‘Hey, Constance. Come in. I’m just trying to make myself feel more at home.’
I’d already noticed that your hand was ring-free, but I still feared that the following day you’d be displaying a photograph of your own.
With the last patient gone, Alison and I tidied reception and prepared to finish for the day. I was hoping you’d leave at the same time. Prayed you got the Tube. But your door remained closed.
Outside, I stopped at the bottom of the entrance steps, breathed in the fresh air before digging in my bag for a desperately needed cigarette.
‘You shouldn’t be smoking, Constance. Not when working at a doctor’s surgery,’ said Alison.
Luckily, with the fag now hanging from my mouth, it was too awkward to tell her to fuck off. She lingered as I struggled to get a spark from my near-empty lighter. But thank God, she didn’t want to be late for her sewing class, so fucked off on her own accord.
Still determined to get the ciggie lit, I huddled into the adjacent wall and cupped my hand to shield it from the warm breeze. Finally it took. I turned back round and leant against the rough bricks. Closed my eyes. Thought about you as the chemicals performed their tricks.
When I reopened them, there was a face in front of mine that I wasn’t expecting.
We never talked about Dale much, I know. I never wanted you to think there was . . . that I had any romantic feelings towards him. I didn’t. Whatever I share with you from this point, you must believe that. I’d avoided discussing him to prevent you from enduring unnecessary jealousy. Regardless of what you did, I’d never want to put you through that.
‘I’ve been calling and texting you all day. Nearly forgot to process the payment run, I was getting so worried . . . Would have given Jean yet another reason not to give me the account-manager job.’
‘Oh, have you? I’m sorry.’ I removed my phone from my bag. Although we had to keep them on silent at work, I would usually check and reply to his messages, which were generally asking if I wanted to share a pizza or go for a drink at Connolly’s. There were nine missed calls. Numerous blocks of blue text. I looked up at his concerned face. ‘Sorry. I . . . It’s been . . . Dr Williams died.’
‘Shit, man, you’re joking. Which one’s he? How?’
‘Run over.’
‘Run over? Jesus, who gets run over?’
‘At the weekend. It’s weird . . . He’s the nice one. The Man U supporter.’
‘Still, he didn’t deserve to die.’
I didn’t fake-laugh as I usually would, which forced him to back-pedal.
‘That sucks. It’s always the nice ones, isn’t it? You’ve remembered about tonight, though, right?’ My blankness must have shown. ‘The film? I knew you’d—’
‘Of course. I have . . . remembered. I thought you meant something else when you said . . . The film I have. I’m looking forward to it.’
‘Well, we need to get a move on, then. You know I get all angsty being late and that.’
As I flicked the rest of the cigarette to the ground and we headed off, I heard the surgery door open. I stopped, turned to look. You were oblivious to us. Chatting with Dr Harris as he locked up. You laughed. Forced. I understood. You were holding your linen jacket in one hand and your doctor’s bag in the other. Car keys dangled from your fingers, quashing my wish of us ever getting the Tube together.
‘Constance, for fuck’s sake. What are you doing?’
‘Sorry . . . I—’
‘Who is that?’
‘It’s just Dr Harris. And the new doctor.’
‘Right. Well, can we go, please?’ He tugged my arm to encourage me to move again, causing me to trip on a raised corner of pavement. ‘Why are you so clumsy?’
After walking for a few seconds, he said, ‘The new doctor looks a right dickhead. Where does he get his hair cut – 1995?’
I wanted to glance back at you once more. I didn’t. But noticed that Dale did.
It was a foreign-film festival at the South Bank and they were showing the only Almodóvar Dale hadn’t seen: Talk to Her. The last thing I wanted to do was to sit through some subtitled arty bollocks.
We were informed that the trailers had already started. This was, of course, my fault and he slipped seamlessly into a sullen mood. Before he could argue, I rushed towards the bar and stood on my tippy-toes to get served as quickly as possible. He followed me, once again gripping on to my arm, pulling me away.
‘I need a Coke . . . and a snack or something. I’m starving.’
In silence, he escorted me to the corner of the foyer. His eyes flicked from side to side, paranoid and spy-like. Two triangles of blush appeared on each cheek, and his signature stress-sweat seeped from his upper lip. He lifted the flap of his record bag to reveal two small Lidl apple-juice cartons with attached straws and a stack of cling-filmed cheese-and-piccalilli sandwiches that were as sweaty as he was.