Snapped from your trance, you pushed your hair off your face. ‘OK, I think it’s just bruising and swelling on the knee, but I’m not sure if you’ve broken your foot or not. It could just be a bad sprain and ligament damage, which believe me, can be as painful.’ Your tone was professional. ‘Let’s clean up your cuts and grazes quickly, then get you to hospital for some X-rays.’
‘What? I . . . I really don’t want to go to hospital . . . It’s fine.’ I stood. Then sat again, realizing that I was both half naked and the pain still immense.
‘Sure you are. Look, you’ve got no choice, I’m afraid. You can’t ignore a potentially broken foot.’
‘I . . . I don’t like hospitals.’
You didn’t respond but turned my hands over to expose my damaged palms and placed them on your knees. We were even closer. I could smell coffee on your breath. Your hair draped your eyes as you cleaned my grazes with an astringent wipe. It stung, but I didn’t flinch. Only watched as you cared for me.
‘Can I get a cab on the work account and pay it back? I can’t afford—’
‘Don’t be silly. I’m taking you.’
I went to thank you but couldn’t speak, because without warning, you were pushing my fringe away from my face and touching my cheek. I stopped breathing. Until I realized you were once again cleaning my skin. I wasn’t even aware I was hurt there. The antiseptic was cold. Your lips so close. They dropped open slightly. Urging me to cover them with mine.
The murky sky and rain meant I hadn’t noticed your car was metallic pale blue the first time, or, more importantly, that it was a convertible. The top was down, exposing the beautiful navy leather interior to the people who stared in awe as we crawled through the rush-hour traffic. Yet you were so blasé about it.
‘I’ve never really seen a car like this before. What is it?’
‘A 1966 Austin-Healey 3000.’
‘It must have cost a fortune.’
‘My father gave it to me.’
‘I love it.’ I mentally compared it to Blusha. The most precious gift my father gave to me.
‘So do I.’
After that interaction, you remained quiet for the entire journey. Appeared nervous. And I wondered why. In contrast, the novelty of riding in such a car calmed me, distracted me from the foot pain and the anxiety associated with our destination. I daydreamed we were heading to the seaside for a picnic. That in the boot was a huge hamper filled with champagne and posh titbits like strawberries, olives, fancy bread and my mum’s favourite Gouda. You’d lay before us a woollen checked blanket, which would bellow as it caught on the soft breeze. Then we’d eat and laugh, and tell each other our deepest secrets before we’d kiss.
Arriving at St Mary’s, the dream evaporated and my anxiety returned with force.
I hadn’t been inside a hospital since Manchester. And I’d vowed never to enter one again.
You pulled the car into a forbidden area and went to collect a wheelchair. After chivalrously seeing me into it, you instructed me to stay put while you parked up.
I tried to remember the list of negatives I’d conjured up about you, but I couldn’t. It was a pointless exercise, anyway. You can lie to other people easily, but it’s impossible to lie to yourself.
After lighting a much-needed fag, I took in the building’s vastness. Forced my mind to accept that inside, as babies were being born, people were also dying. Some already dead.
I took out my phone. Six missed calls. All from Dale. I called him back.
‘Hey. It’s me. Sorry.’
‘Where the hell are you?’
‘I had a fall . . . but don’t go crazy – I’m fine, but I may have broken my foot.’
‘Oh, you’re joking. Well, where are you? I’ll come now—’
‘No, no . . . I’m fine, honestly.’
‘But you can’t be on your own.’
‘I’m not . . . I’m not on my own. Dr Harris is with me. Look, I’ve . . . I’ve got to go – they’re calling me in.’ I pressed the red circle and blew the guilt into the air with my smoke.
An ambulance pulled up nearby. Paramedics opened its doors and wheeled some poor bastard out on a stretcher as they urgently babbled medical terms, most of which were foreign to me, except the word ‘stabbing’. I turned away, my heartbeat rapid. But, thank God, I saw you coming to rescue me.
Inside, I gave my details at reception. Citing Dale as my next of kin. They asked for my GP, but I hadn’t even signed up with one yet.
‘I’m her GP,’ you interjected, and gave them your full name. Dr Samuel Stevens.
Sam-u-el.
You’d gone to fetch us some tea. Alone, I scanned the waiting room. It was a typical line-up of London all-sorts. Bearded hipster with an ice pack on his arm. Farrow & Ball couple constantly checking the forehead of their little girl, who was clearly well enough to keep running around. I prayed she’d stay away, so I didn’t catch whatever it was she had. Then a man in a football kit sat in the row of chairs right opposite. The white towel he held against his head was gradually turning red. I tried to look away, but he was too near to avoid, and as the scarlet blot grew, I felt my own blood drain towards my feet.
‘Hey, are you OK?’ You were standing next to me holding two flimsy plastic cups. ‘Machine only, I’m afraid.’
I extended my tense hand out to retrieve mine, noticing you clock the bleeding man.
‘Are you cold? Let’s move away from the door,’ you said, and wheeled me to the other side of the waiting room.
With the man out of sight, I sipped on my tea to raise my blood sugar, as you advised.
‘You know, a fear of blood is common. It’s physiological.’
‘Yes . . . I’ve always been like this. Since a kid.’
But I hadn’t. I hadn’t at all.
I learnt a lot about you during that hour. Some of which I hadn’t already found out from the internet. The fact you’d moved into your flat a year ago. Another family heirloom. Your father wanted to sell it, but you convinced him to keep it because you loved the Georgian architecture and huge windows. It still looked like you’d just moved in – bare walls, no curtains (though you hated curtains). It still didn’t feel like home. Nowhere had felt like home for a long time. You missed your brother, who had emigrated to New Zealand, you believed to escape your father, whom you both hated.
‘Why would you hate your father?’
‘Oh . . . it’s complicated.’
You tried to read a classic novel every month. Currently Great Expectations. You watched too much TV and played poker every Tuesday night at your friend Paul’s house. It was the only time Tanya, his controlling wife, was out of the way, as she visited her parents Monday through to Wednesday because they were old and losing it, but you wished it happened on Fridays because you don’t get in until well gone eleven, which wasn’t ideal for school nights.
‘Every Tuesday? You must be a good player by now. Show me your poker face.’
You did and I laughed. Then employed my own to disguise how appealing I found it.
You loved to travel and detailed some places you’d been. Thailand was your favourite destination. Followed by Peru. I told you I hadn’t been anywhere apart from Benidorm and London. Unless you count Llandudno.