‘Are you feeling better today, Linda?’
‘Not really. I’m . . . I’m just very sad, to be honest. He was a great man.’
‘Yes . . . Yes, he was.’ I dropped my head.
The moment hung like smog until Linda broke the silence. ‘When you’ve settled, can you take these files into Dr Stevens for me, please? I find it quite distressing going in there.’
‘Of course. No problem. You know, I . . . I can do all Dr Stevens’s stuff if you want. It’s no trouble. You mustn’t upset yourself, Linda.’
She mouthed the words ‘Thank you’, then performed a succession of fast little nods before running into the back room. I suppose I was expected to follow her, comfort her, but I took the file and headed to your office.
After calling me in, I realized you were on the phone. ‘Look, I can’t talk about it now,’ you said to the caller. I sensed it was personal. A woman. You bit the end of your weighty silver pen. After placing the file on your desk, I went to leave, but you raised your hand to stop me.
‘It’s nearly two months . . . Well, just get them, then . . . Look, I’ve really got to go. I’ll see you later.’
My stomach churned.
You ended the call, placed the pen in your inside jacket pocket, then smiled as you patted the file. ‘Sorry about that. Thank you, Constance. How are you feeling today?’
‘I’m . . . I’m fine. Much better, thank you. Dr Stevens, Linda’s asked if I can do all your work from now on. She feels too upset to keep coming into Dr Williams’s office. So if . . . if you need anything, just ask me. Not Linda . . . or Alison.’
‘Oh right. OK. You’ve not been sick again, then?’
‘No. No, I’m fine now.’ You looked directly at me, squinted, ensuring I was telling the truth. You cared. ‘Can I get you a coffee, Dr Stevens?’
Sitting back in your chair, you pushed your fingers through your hair. ‘Constance, do you think they’ll ever accept me?’
‘Of course. Of course they will. It’s just very early days, isn’t it?’
‘Because I like it here, you know. I do. I prefer it to Harley Street. I can tell already. For a start, I live less than a ten-minute walk away. Not that I’ve walked it yet, mind. Lazy bastard . . . Sorry.’
‘It’s OK. You can say “bastard”. I don’t mind.’
You laughed. I laughed too. Although I wasn’t sure what was funny.
‘I’m glad, anyway . . . that you’ll be doing my stuff.’
You have no idea of the overwhelming delight I felt at you saying this and forced a cough to conceal the evidence of blood surging to my face.
‘You really should give up the fags, you know.’
My surprise at you saying that transformed the fake cough into a genuine one, and you handed me a small half-empty Evian bottle from your desk. I unscrewed the lid. Aware I’d be placing my lips directly on top of where yours had been, I sipped. And while doing so, my blouse draped open and I was certain you glanced at my chest.
‘I noticed you smoking . . . with your friend yesterday.’
‘Oh . . . I . . . He’s not my boyfriend . . . just a . . . I will.’ I took more water. ‘I know I should . . . give up smoking.’
‘You OK now?’
I nodded, handing him back the bottle.
‘Good. Anyway, Constance, tell me – what are you doing for lunch?’
You probably noticed the sharp intake of breath. I couldn’t believe you were already inviting me to lunch.
‘Well . . . I . . . It depends . . .’
‘Do you ever go out for a sandwich or something?’
‘Yes, well, I’m sure I will . . . I mean, I usually do.’
‘Excellent. If I give you the money, will you pick something up for me as well? I’ve got all these patients to swot up on.’ You handed me a tenner. ‘Something chicken would be great. I’ll let you decide.’
Outside your office, deflated, I noticed Dr Franco bounding down the hallway. ‘Well, hello, young Constance.’
‘Hey, Dr Franco. Are you all better now?’
‘I am. I am, indeed. Thank you. Lost a couple of pounds in the process too,’ he said, patting his belly. ‘But it’s truly terrible about dear Dr Williams. I was so shocked. You must all be terribly shocked.’
‘Yes . . . yes, we are. It’s very sad.’
His tearfulness was magnified under the convex of his glasses and he rested his hand upon my shoulder. ‘It is indeed.’ He paused, then said, ‘Though, sadly, as life goes on, I must get going. I have a patient.’ And off he went up the stairs.
I liked Dr Franco. Still do. Despite everything he now knows about me.
The hours up until lunch went quickly. We were extra busy due to the patients who’d cancelled the previous day now deciding they wanted to be seen. Apparently, being rich permits such things.
Finally, able to escape, I headed to M&S. Tesco was closer, but I thought I’d get a higher-quality sandwich for you in Marks.
Once there, I grabbed a basket and within seconds had thrown in Alison’s requested tuna sarnie (Linda was on SlimFast) and my egg and tomato. Allowing me time to study the chicken selection.
After much stress, I opted for the last remaining chicken salad sandwich, in a bag rather than a plastic packet, but the lettuce looked decidedly ragged. I asked the acnefied boy filling the crisp stand if there were any more in the back, and after some resistance, he relented, returning with a much perkier one that I was happy to give you.
On the way back, fantasizing about us eating our lunch together in the staffroom, I realized I’d run out of fags, so popped into Mo’s kiosk. While waiting for my change, which took longer than it should, as Mo was, as always, on the phone and running a one-armed operation, my eyes scanned the papers next to me. ‘Austerity Not Over.’ A picture of an elderly woman being evicted from her council house. Then I noticed the date: 26 July.
I’d forgotten.
I’d never forgotten before.
Panicked, I searched for a card. An array of faded drawings with naff proclamations of happy occasions perched in what appeared to have once been a rotating stand. But lack of space and rack rheumatism meant it could barely swing a centimetre side to side. There was only one for a father. An embossed watercolour of a man playing golf. Happy birthday to the best dad in the world. I paid for it, along with a book of four stamps, and mouthed for Mo to lend me a pen so I could write the same words I always did. Happy birthday, Dad. Love, Constance. Beneath, my number and current address. On the envelope, MR PATRICK LITTLE, written in clear block capitals. A stamp.
Aware time was racing, I hurried back to work via the postbox.
A postman was filling a sack with all the mail. I hovered next to him.
‘Shall I take that, darlin’?’
I hesitated, placed the card in his hand, then swiftly continued down the road.
‘Hello . . . Excuse me, love,’ I could hear him shout. ‘Miss.’
I didn’t stop. But neither did he. ‘Woohoo, miss.’ He whistled. So shrill that I had no choice but to turn.
‘You’ve forgotten to write the address on it, my darlin’,’ he shouted.
I ran back to him. Smiling, rolling my eyes. ‘I’m such an idiot,’ I said, as I took it back. He handed me a pen he’d removed from behind his ear. ‘Oh . . . thank you, but I haven’t even come out with the address.’