‘It doesn’t, actually.’ He pointed to himself. ‘Classic over-achiever reporting for duty.’
I smiled encouragingly. ‘I know you’ve got a million things to do, but I’d really appreciate it if you could get my laptop. If you ask Parveen in my department, she might go to my flat and get it, or perhaps . . .’
‘Have you got your keys? I’m happy to pick it up for you.’
‘That’s really kind. I would ask Mark—’ I began, but he cut across me.
‘One condition,’ he said. ‘You stop calling me Dr Adams.’
‘I’ll call you “God” if you get me my laptop.’ I blushed as soon as the words were out.
He was smiling in a slow, easy way that was completely inappropriate, and intensely attractive. ‘Stephen will do.’
‘Stephen,’ I said, glad when my voice didn’t waver.
After he’d gone I kept thinking of that smile and smiling myself.
Stephen Adams was as good as his word. He appeared the next afternoon with a laptop that I recognised as my own and a large paperback. ‘History of the hospital,’ he said, waving it. ‘I can’t believe someone actually spent a good chunk of their life researching and writing about this place, but their loss is your gain.’ He flipped to the front page of the book and frowned at it. ‘It’s self-published, mind, so that might actually be “their loss, your loss”.’
‘And the tree’s loss. Don’t forget the tree,’ I said, reaching for it. It was a thick book and I could see the telltale sign of photos included throughout – thick, grey-edged paper.
‘I was thinking about what you mentioned,’ he said. ‘I brought you some files from your office. Nothing you need to worry about, everything is being completely covered by your department, but I thought it might help you to look at familiar things.’
‘Thank you.’ I was touched.
He put the files on to my table, moving the plastic jug of blackcurrant squash to do so.
‘Thank you . . .’ His voice trailed off, leaving a significant gap, his eyebrows raised.
‘Thank you . . . very much?’
‘Stephen. Thank you, Stephen.’
‘I can’t be expected to remember every little thing,’ I said, pointing to my head. ‘Coma patient. I get a free pass.’
‘You’re not in a coma now,’ Stephen said, smiling a little. ‘You’re my miracle patient.’
‘That’s nice,’ I said. My fingers were itching to open the files, to look through my new book.
‘I’ve got to go,’ Stephen said. He ran a hand through his hair, sweeping his fringe away from an impossibly high forehead. ‘I can visit later, though, after my shift.’ He hesitated. ‘If you’d like.’
‘Great,’ I said, wondering how many photos there’d be, whether I’d open to a group shot of nurses and see my appearing/disappearing woman smiling back at me. Proof I wasn’t completely insane.
‘Later, then.’
As soon as Stephen had gone, I opened the book and began flipping through it. I was vibrating with excitement and hope. Black-and-white images of the hospital and grounds, nurses and doctors and men in old-fashioned suits, blurred together. I closed the book and my eyes, trying to calm myself enough to take things in properly. I wanted to giggle or clap my hands or something equally inane. Anything to release this sudden rush of energy.
Instead I hauled my laptop closer and opened that, savouring the rush of normality that switching it on gave me. I realised that I had more than a distraction here – I had the key to my past life. Perhaps I’d even kept a diary.
When Mark came in before dinner (swede boiled until soft and scooped into a perfect round, beef casserole which was surprisingly edible, and a low-fat strawberry yoghurt), he was chipper. In fact, he was verging on giddy. Rather than being happy for him, his good mood made my own disappear. I finished my dinner with grim determination, concentrating on chasing every last morsel around the plate and not looking at him.
‘I’ve got news,’ he said once I’d pushed my tray away.
‘Can you bring me something to eat tomorrow? I’m so sick of hospital food. I’d kill for a burger.’
Mark looked irritated at the interruption and I felt the devil rise up in me. I knew I wasn’t being very nice, but I was powerless to stop. ‘One of those gourmet ones from a gastro pub. A hundred and ten per cent pure steak, with cheese and relish, and loads of chips. Good crispy ones. Do you remember the skin-on ones we had from that place . . . what was it called?’ As I talked, the reason for the words changed. They weren’t just to annoy him any more, they were a delaying tactic. I was frightened of what he was going to say.
Luckily, Mark was distracted by something. The edge of my purple laptop case poking out at an angle on the shelf of my bedside cabinet. ‘Who brought that?’
‘Stephen,’ I said. ‘Dr Adams.’
‘First-name terms now?’ Mark’s face was twisted. ‘What the fuck was he thinking? You need to be resting. Not working. I know what you’re like. Give you a computer and you’ll be logging on to your work account, answering emails, trying to keep up.’
‘I asked him about it,’ I said, my voice stuttering a little. ‘I thought maybe you’d forgotten.’
‘Of course I hadn’t forgotten. I was trying to protect you.’
I couldn’t understand why Mark was so angry about this, but my heart was racing. You’re okay. You’re in a hospital. I swallowed hard, and forced myself to speak. ‘What’s so terrible—’
‘Have you used it, yet?’
‘Not really. I can’t get into my email account or my private files.’ I tried to smile, to show how little any of this meant, how it wasn’t upsetting me or putting back my recovery or anything. ‘Can’t remember my password.’
Mark hesitated and he seemed to be deciding whether to find this funny or not. The moment stretched out. I had the feeling I was missing something important, but I didn’t know what and I was too scared to ask. Finally, Mark smiled. His expression was calm and his voice was warm and jokey, like he hadn’t been furious moments before. ‘Well, that’s a shame. You’ll have to wait to read all the exciting staff memos.’
I smiled, too, relieved that the argument seemed to be over. My heart was still thudding, though, and my head began to throb.
Mark straightened the laptop. Without the corner poking out I wouldn’t be able to catch hold of it, but I didn’t say anything. Without my passwords, it was pretty useless anyway.
‘Now,’ Mark said, sitting forward in his chair and clasping my hand in both of his. ‘My news. I’ve found us a house.’
His words didn’t make any sense. I thought: When I get out of here I’m going home. To my flat. With the purple sofa that I don’t remember and my white walls.
‘You’re going to love it.’ He was still speaking, his gaze not meeting mine. If I didn’t know better, I would’ve thought he was nervous. He let go of my hand in order to reach into the carrier bag I had assumed contained magazines and newspapers, and pulled out some stapled sheets of A4. Glossy paper, estate agent’s details.
The house on the front was beautiful. It was an end terrace and the street name was one I knew well. A road I’d walked down, peeking covetously at the tall town houses behind the neat black railings. Big windows with the original sash and casements, expensive front doors painted in Farrow & Ball green or confident red. The brickwork was creamy white, like so many of the properties in Brighton, and before I glanced down at the next image – a location shot – I knew that I’d see the sliver of blue sea.
It was beautiful. Perfect. And the numbers beneath the picture were laughable.
‘I can’t afford this,’ I said. I didn’t say ‘We can’t afford this’, because that seemed irrelevant. I wasn’t moving in with Mark, let alone buying a house with him. Especially since I’d need a never-ending supply of kidneys to keep up with the mortgage payments.
‘We can,’ Mark said, sitting forward. ‘Together we absolutely can.’
‘You can
, you mean.’ I kept my voice flat, trying to signal that the conversation was over.
‘It’s nice inside, look.’ Mark flipped open the brochure, which was lying on my lap like a dead seagull.
‘Really spacious. Four bedrooms.’
Despite myself, I looked down. A kitchen with cream-painted wooden units and a range cooker. There were big windows and glass doors leading out to the garden, like the Big Girl version of my flat. A long garden with a gazebo type thing at the back. A bedroom with the beautiful bay window seen in the street view. High ceilings, pale walls, pretty mouldings . . . even, I had to take a deep breath, original fucking fireplaces. Yes, I wanted it. Of course I did. If I won the lottery, I’d buy it in a heartbeat. I pushed the property details off my lap and on to the floor.
‘It really is doable, I promise,’ Mark was saying. ‘I’ve run the figures. I can’t wait for you to see the place, I just know you’re going to fall in love with it. We’re going to be so happy there.’
‘Wait a minute.’ And the penny dropped, with a resounding clang. ‘You’ve already bought it.’
‘I had to,’ he said. ‘It was a steal. There were loads of people interested and I only got a first viewing as a favour. I know John, that’s the agent, from way back. School, actually. I’ve had him keeping a lookout for me for a while, now, and then this came up. You were in here.’ He spread his hands. ‘What else was I supposed to do?’
‘You’ve been house hunting while I’ve been here. In hospital.’ I was trying to process the conversation, but the words refused to make sense. He was talking about being a cash-buyer, money from a flat he’d sold in London last year and how he’d been waiting for the right thing to put his cash into, but how the sums didn’t mean anything, that it was ours.
‘I wanted to surprise you.’
I wanted to slap him. ‘Congratulations,’ I said, in lieu of violence.
‘I didn’t want to bother you with the details or any of the stress. And I wanted to make you happy,’ Mark said. ‘This’ll be a new start for us.’
‘Did we need a new start?’ I had realised something over the last few days: before the accident, maybe for a long time, I had been desperately unhappy. I wasn’t sure if that was despite or because of my relationship with Mark. All I felt when I looked at him was a kind of exasperated confusion. The knee-jerk relief of recognising someone had eased off and what was left didn’t feel anything like love. Although, I would be the first to admit, I was no expert.
‘Perhaps.’ Mark looked guarded again. He took my hand and began stroking my palm with his thumb. Parts of my hand appeared to be linked to nerves elsewhere in my body and I felt my libido unfurling, my senses waking up. Suddenly, I wanted Mark’s mouth on mine, I wanted to feel the lust building, his man smell to obliterate the antiseptic of the hospital and my own stale, sick odour. Like I said, I was no expert. I leaned forwards and, mirroring my movement, Mark moved inwards. I tilted my head and his lips met mine.
I kissed him and kissed him. I wanted to hold on to the spark of sensation I’d felt, the prickle of feeling in places other than my spine and neck and head. I mashed my lips against his and willed myself to feel like a whole person. It didn’t take long before my back was hurting too badly and I had to lean into my pillows again. I opened my eyes as I did so and caught sight of a movement behind Mark. It was a sign of my years of seeing things that I didn’t shout in surprise. The woman in the white apron was standing a few paces behind him, staring at the back of his head with an expression of extreme antipathy.
‘Is that a yes?’ Mark said, looking delighted with developments.
‘I don’t know,’ I said, turning my gaze resolutely away from the apparition. ‘I will come and see it, though.’
He smiled as if I was putting on a show of being stubborn, as if he’d already won. ‘Fair enough.’
‘Tell me about our problems,’ I said. I didn’t want to wander into argument territory again, not so soon after the laptop skirmish, but I had to ask. ‘Why do we need a new start?’
Mark took my hand, gazed into my eyes. It was difficult not to glance over his shoulder to check if the woman was still there, but I managed it. ‘You’ve always been very independent.’
That sounded right.
‘And it took a long time for you to trust me, to let me into your life. I stayed the course because I knew we had something special.’
I sucked my tongue to the roof of my mouth to stop myself from smirking. The phrase ‘something special’ made me want to laugh. Or shudder.
‘I think I’d started to hold back, too, to protect myself.’ Mark hesitated, glancing down as if this was all too painful.
I nodded to show I understood and wished I felt something other than cool detachment. What was wrong with me? Had I always been this much of a cold bitch or was it the head injury?
‘You wanted us to move in together but I didn’t feel able to make the full commitment. That’s why I kept my own place. It’s been more like I’ve been bunking with you and you weren’t happy about that, said it showed I had one foot out of the door.’ He reached down and opened the flap of his leather bag, pulled out a sheaf of paper. ‘You were flat hunting for us, but I wouldn’t talk about it. I’m sorry. I think I was punishing you.’
The details were of flats to buy in Brighton. Two-bedroomed places of the kind I thought were completely out of my price range. I stared at the photographs, the lists of phrases ‘gas central heating’, ‘double glazing’, ‘single entrance’, and tried to remember them. I must’ve picked them up from estate agents or, more likely, registered online and had them delivered.
‘It was causing problems but I was too proud to admit that I felt the same way.’ Mark was leaning forwards. He was the picture of an earnest lover. The lowered brow, the shining emotion in his eyes, the quiet tone of his voice. I computed all of the signs and understood the effect, but couldn’t shake the feeling that he was playing a part. Nothing seemed real to me any more. Not the other women in the neighbouring beds, not the nurse who came at regular intervals to torture me with the blood pressure cuff, not the man I had apparently been plotting to buy a flat with.
‘I got over it,’ Mark was saying. He gave a small smile. ‘Apparently almost losing the love of your life in a car accident makes things very clear. I knew I didn’t want to waste any more time being scared or resentful and I thought this house was the perfect way to show you that I’d changed.’
It all made sense. The mixed feelings I’d been having were explained by the fact that we’d been arguing. I’d been trying to get him to commit and now he had. Everything was solved. I was going to get out of hospital and move into my dream home with Mark. I knew I should be happy and I tried to arrange my face into an appropriate expression. If it hadn’t been for the nurse hovering behind Mark and shaking her head, I think I might’ve managed it.
‘I wish you’d say something,’ he said.
I wished I had something to say. I tried to form a sentence in my mind, something appropriate and conciliatory, but not too definite. I needed time to think.
‘Say you’ll come home with me,’ Mark pressed. ‘To our house.’
I wanted to go home very badly. I wanted to have a home and a place in the world that wasn’t this ward. I wanted to make Mark smile a real smile, to make somebody happy for a change. ‘Okay,’ I said, and pushed down the urge to throw up. Hard. The nurse shook her head and disappeared.
GRACE
When Grace had woken up the day after she had lost her baby, there had been a moment before she’d remembered. It lasted for a fraction of a second, just one tiny moment in time, and it had been blissful. Then everything had come back and she knew the flickering life was gone. She knew she ought to be glad. Mother was glad. ‘It’s for the best,’ she’d said over and over while she mopped up blood. Grace hadn’t expected to go into hospital, but she had thought Mother might call the doctor. She had refused, though. Shaking her head as if Grace was asking for the
impossible. ‘Can’t afford that,’ she’d said, but Grace didn’t think she’d meant it in the financial sense. ‘Mrs Lewis is coming. Hush now.’
When Mrs Lewis had arrived and taken in the scene her lips had gone very thin and white but she’d rolled up her sleeves and got to work. After she’d checked Grace ‘down below’, she’d inspected her stomach. She couldn’t have missed the livid bruising or the place where his boot had split the skin along her ribs, but she didn’t say anything.
Grace closed her eyes and felt the tears leaking out, running over her cheeks. She knew that her condition had been what made Father so angry, caused him to lose control like that. She knew she was no longer a good girl, and that she had come within a hair’s breadth of bringing almost unimaginable shame on their family. She knew that, barring her doing anything so stupid again, he would never touch her. He never had before; it had always been Mother who’d administered discipline. Smacks and slaps and harsh words. Grace also knew that if there ever were a next time, he’d kill her.
This was a lucky escape. The baby that was going to ruin her life was no longer inside her. It had been cleared away by a grim-faced Mrs Lewis. It hadn’t even been a baby, not yet. Mrs Lewis had whispered that it was just a beginning, just the idea of a baby, not a real child at all. Nothing to be sad about. ‘Lucky escape, my girl,’ she said, wrapping the thing in a bundle with an old towel and some newspaper. ‘If my girl had come home like this, she’d have ended up in the workhouse.’
Grace knew that the workhouse was worse than death, but she knew that would not have been her fate. Not in her family. Not when appearances were so important. She didn’t believe Mrs Lewis. Not that she was better off; there was nothing lucky about this. No matter that she hadn’t asked to have life started inside her, she’d felt it. She’d never resented the little thing, she’d imagined it swimming and flipping like a little fish.
And, staring at the blank white ceiling, Grace had known: her life was already ruined. The damage had been done. Her father had gone to work already, she’d heard the front door close. She knew he’d come home and they’d eat dinner around the table as normal. She might be excused to stay in bed upstairs tonight, but certainly not tomorrow. No malingering in this house.
In the Light of What We See Page 12
