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IT WAS BECAUSE SHE’D woken up more shattered than usual on Monday morning, that Michelle had discovered the little kiosk nestled in the entrance to Cherry Dene Park, and the most amazing coffee.
She’d already had to have two mugs of strong coffee at home before the grit in her eyes dispersed and she dared get behind the steering wheel. As a precaution, she’d set off for work earlier than usual to get ahead of the rush hour traffic, but then arrived half an hour before she needed to. Just before the turn-off into St Mary’s hospital, she spotted the kiosk and decided to stop off.
Sitting on a park bench, sipping coffee and watching the dog walkers and joggers, Michelle felt alive. The park was like a pretty Oasis in the middle of town, with its grassy areas, flowers and cherry trees. She noticed two men walking along the path by the miniature lake. One was dressed for arctic weather in a hooded winter coat, complete with woolly hat, gloves, scarf and wellies, and the other was wearing a T-shirt, shorts and Flip Flops. As their dogs scampered past, followed by the men, the contrasting sounds of scrunching waterproofs and slapping flip-flops made her chuckle.
It was such a lovely place, she wondered why she’d never ventured over before. Feeling invigorated, she walked over to her car, inspired to go to bed a little earlier in future to make time for coffee before work.
Thankfully, the alerting effects of the caffeine were still working as she made her way from the hospital multi-story car park. Had she been as distracted as the driver of the black Jaguar that came racing around the bend, beeping the horn like a maniac, she would have been mowed down for sure. ‘Idiot,’ she shouted into the cloud of exhaust fumes he left in his wake.
Bea was busy sorting out notes for morning clinic. ‘The ones in fancy-pants cars are the worst,’ she said on hearing about Michelle’s near-miss. ‘Think they’re better than the rest of us.’
‘I was on the crossing. I bet he wouldn’t have beeped at me if I was in heels and carrying a briefcase.’ Michelle peered down at her jeans and trainers. ‘Still, dressing like a scruff is no reason for someone to run you over.’
‘There’s a summer pudding and a jug of custard in the fridge for lunchtime,’ said Bea. ‘We had a bit of crinkly fruit to use up at the weekend.’
‘Lovely, something nice to look forward to.’ Michelle trundled off to change into her uniform.
Despite her scary experience, the combination of terror and caffeine was having a rather positive effect. She was strangely wide awake. It felt good.
***
HER TO-DO LIST HAD started to look like a mad brainstorming session when a ‘high importance’ email alert flashed into the corner of Michelle’s computer screen. Someone named Victor Morgan from Service Strategy and Planning – whatever that was – clearly didn’t understand that clinical staff couldn’t pop out for an ad hoc meeting. He wanted to see senior members of the sleep department as a matter of priority, and he required a list of availability by midday. She decided to ignore it for now. With a bit of luck, the rest of the team would suggest times she couldn’t make, and she’d get out of going. After the earlier energy boost, she was starting to flag, she’d probably only embarrass herself by dozing off, anyway.
It was almost lunchtime when the last patient left. She flopped onto her desk chair and pulled out a cup of cold coffee from behind the computer screen. As she sipped it, she scanned through twenty-five new emails, most replying ‘to all’ in response to Victor Morgan’s request. None of the times coincided. The final message was a concise statement from him. The non-negotiable meeting would take place the following Monday at twelve-thirty. His secretary had booked the time and venue into everyone’s diary, in the space where lunchtime used to sit. Michelle sighed.
The staffroom was empty, barring an M&S carrier bag and the good bowl, guarding the comfy leather armchair. She sat down on one of the other, threadbare chairs.
Phil, her colleague, followed her in, straightening his tunic. ‘Michelle, are my epaulettes equal?’
‘Perfect.’ She noticed the way the navy shoulder epaulettes contrasted against his white uniform top. Much smarter than the female specialist nurses’ plain royal blue tunics – almost like a naval officer’s uniform. When she’d first been promoted to a senior post, she’d worn her uniform with pride, and a tear in her eye. But since the novelty of the status had worn off and the busyness of the role had kicked in, she hadn’t given her appearance much thought. And then Dan came back into her life, and she found herself admiring anything that looked remotely military.
Phil scooped a generous helping of summer pudding into the only decent bowl. ‘What did you make of that email from Victor Morgan?’
Michelle fished out the cracked dish from the cupboard. ‘I wish these people would take into consideration the fact that we only get a thirty-minute, unpaid lunch break.’
She picked a filthy sponge out of the sink and dropped it into the bin, then set about scrubbing her bowl with cheap hospital washing up liquid and a handful of paper towels. She scrutinized the dirt-ingrained crevices and dumped that into the bin too.
Phil licked his spoon and straightened his glasses. ‘Well, I think it might actually be to our advantage to participate in this meeting. It could be an opportunity to highlight our equipment and staff shortages.’ His pudding span around inside the microwave in its perfect bowl.
‘I wonder if Doctor Marshal’s business plan will be on the agenda?’ Michelle rattled around in the cutlery drawer. ‘Where the hell are the spoons?’ She resorted to using a fork to transfer her pudding into an oversized mug. ‘He told me the other day he’d submitted an eleventh one as a matter of urgency.’
The microwave pinged. ‘He’d be ecstatic if this one got through,’ said Phil. Tarquin Marshal had had ten rejected so far. Phil sat down and set about devouring Bea’s summer pudding and custard. ‘This is rather nice.’
Another ping. Michelle retrieved her mug of dessert – lava-hot custard bubbled around the edges of lukewarm sponge.
‘Did you see Matron’s email about freeing up time to help out on the wards? What about asking if anywhere is short-staffed on Thursday afternoon, seeing as the dementia training session has been cancelled?’
‘Hmm...Well,’ Phil said, punctuating his words with an air-tap of his spoon, ‘I think it’s sometimes more prudent not to raise your head above the parapet.’ He gave a knowing nod. ‘That way, Sister, you can’t get shot.’
‘But don’t you think Matron expects us to volunteer?’ Michelle’s stomach churned at the prospect of not complying with a request from further up the nursing hierarchy.
‘Yes, but we need to ensure we don’t give the impression that our service can easily accommodate our absence. Otherwise we could simply be setting a precedent for us to be used as a flexible resource for staffing the wards.’
Michelle watched Phil, as he scraped remnants from his bowl. She wished she could organise her thoughts with the same clarity he did. Life might be simpler.
‘M&S have a two-dine-for-ten-pounds offer on this week,’ he said. ‘And if you go to their website, you can get a voucher for an extra five percent off. But you have to get to the store when it opens to bag the biggest steaks and chickens.’ He pulled his mobile phone from his tunic pocket. ‘I’ll send you the link.’
***
WAITING FOR DAN TO arrive on Thursday was like counting down to Christmas. Michelle had wanted to give the house a good tidy before he arrived, but she’d been shattered every night after work.
The only productive thing she’d achieved all week, was to order two pairs of shoes. Work shoes for Sara and sexy heels for herself. Sara had realised that, for a trainee physiotherapist pounding the wards, good quality footwear was essential. She’d craftily used Michelle’s own words to acquire a new pair of shoes. ‘Like you said, Mam, we only get one pair of feet to last a lifetime. I’m going to save up for some...’ Before Michelle knew it, she was surfing the net.
She’d been seduced by her own sandals along the way. They’d look fantastic with a tan, she’d thought, admiring the four-inch red heels with the delicate diamante straps. She wouldn’t be able to walk or drive, but as they were going-out shoes, she’d either be in a taxi, or sitting down in a restaurant or bar, so it didn’t matter. All she needed now was a new dress and handbag – and somewhere to go.
When Thursday finally arrived, a couple of patients very helpfully cancelled their appointments, so Michelle had been able to take annual leave after lunch. Apart from tidying the house, she wanted to fit in a jog to calm her nerves before Dan arrived. The thought of her drunken ramblings in her email still made her blush with embarrassment.
She wouldn’t normally attempt to squeeze so much into such a short time frame because it tended to leave her weak and washed out for days. Roger, her fatigue management counsellor, had advised scheduling rest periods before and after any activity. He’d also prescribed skiving at work whenever the opportunity arose, which it rarely did these days, but which she couldn’t bring herself to do – it would have felt like playing truant from school.
The run was strangely effortless, and she even extended her usual route to take advantage of the extra oomph. By the time she arrived back home, she was buzzing. Just enough time to dive into the shower, have a quick tidy around and be looking relaxed but pretty when Dan arrived.
Michelle was shocked to find herself wanting him to find her attractive. She tried to rationalise it as a reaction to his comments about her teeth and head. He’d promised he wanted friendship, she abhorred adultery. Even if he’d been single, he wouldn’t be her type. She like dark-haired men with sultry eyes and skin that tanned.
She dashed through to the lounge to grab a clean towel from the ironing pile on the sofa and noticed the answerphone light flashing. Her father. She’d completely forgotten to call him back.
The familiar jingle of coins sounded before his voice. ‘Hello. It’s your dad.’ Deflated tone. ‘I’m up to see a friend on Sunday. Can I call in? Sylvia and I are sorting out our will. I wanted to ask if you would be an executor.’ Loud exhale. ‘I’ll assume that’s all right unless you let me know you aren’t going to be at home.’ Sigh.
Her stomach tensed. For years after he’d walked out, without apology or attempt to reassure her he cared, she’d been convinced he’d wiped her from his life, as if her existence meant nothing. It felt good that he wanted her to not only be in his life, but to be an executor of his will. But she knew he didn’t need her. If she were to let herself care, she might say or do something he didn’t like, and he’d walk away, again. Sometimes Michelle thought life was easier when she was sure he didn’t want anything to do with her.
She’d just lathered her hair when the landline telephone rang. She ignored it, and the ringing stopped, then started again. What if someone had tried to urgently contact her on her mobile – at the bottom of her work bag – and was now desperately trying to get through to her on the landline? Worst-case scenarios flashed through her mind. She could also hear Judy’s voice, telling her to stop the zero-to-sixty freak-outs. The phone went silent, then started. Damn it.
Her mother. Michelle stood in a bath towel, dripping soapy water onto the lounge carpet. She did have Michelle’s mobile number but couldn’t differentiate between it and the landline. She was forever sending texts to the landline, then taking offence at the lack of a reply.
‘Where were you? I’ve been ringing and ringing.’
‘At work, travelling, jogging, and then in the shower for the last five minutes.’ Her eyes smarted as shampoo trickled into them. ‘Before you ask, I don’t have time to go for potatoes.’
‘No need to be facetious. I’ve been on the go all day.’
‘Is everything all right?’
‘No, it isn’t.’
‘Oh God, I knew it. What’s happened?’ Michelle could feel the blood bounding around her body.
This is how it started, no warning and then some awful, earth-shattering news. Like the time that, aged thirteen, she’d walked into the kitchen to put an empty cup in the sink after finishing her homework. ‘Did I tell you your dad’s leaving?’ her mother had said. Nothing was ever done with malicious intent, but the effect was always the same: devastating. It had become normal to expect the worst.
‘Ooh, don’t take the Lord’s name in vain,’ said Audrey. ‘I can’t get into my iPad. It’s mine, how can they lock me out?’
‘Mam,’ Michelle said, attempting to wipe her eyes with wet hands, ‘I thought it must be an emergency the way the phone was ringing off its hook. You got me out of the shower.’ Despite the lack of a disaster, she was shaking.
Audrey responded in a slow, terse tone. ‘It is an emergency. I’ll lose my position on the Scrabble leader board. He wanted the passcode number.’
‘He, who? Oh, blooming heck, have you given your details to someone over the phone again?’
‘No, don’t be silly. It was the iPad man. He sent me the message when I switched it on.’
Michelle closed her eyes and exhaled slowly. ‘There’s no man. It’s computerised. Our Gary sent you an email with all your passwords last time. He gave you a paper list too, and you put it somewhere safe, remember?’
‘I can’t get into my emails...’
‘Just use Tom’s iPad.’
‘Tom –’ shouted Audrey. A muffled voice sounded in the background. ‘What? Oh no. Yours as well?’
‘Look, can I call you lat–’
‘He’s locked out too. Tom, where will the list be? Tom –’
‘Don’t shout, you’re hurting my ears. I don’t have time for –’
‘I’ve tried all of the numbers I can think of, and words – Trevor19.’
‘If it’s asking for a number, that won’t work.’ Michelle was surprised Trevor19 wasn’t the original passcode. Trevor19 had been the magic key to everything since they got their Miniature Poodle – a distant relative of his predecessor, Henry. A thief could have a field day if he cracked that one.
‘Isn’t that strange, that they should both be locked at the same time?’
‘They’re linked to the same account,’ Michelle said, her tone rising. ‘And the whole thing will be locked, because it looks like a damned burglar has done off with your stuff.’
‘He asked for a number. I had to try,’ said Audrey through gritted teeth. ‘And don’t swear.’
Michelle felt panicky. Dan was due soon. Not only was the house untidy, she looked an absolute mess. If she didn’t have time to dry her hair, her head would look even bigger than normal. ‘Mam, you must have had an update or downloaded a bloody virus. You have a son who’s an IT manager for goodness sake. Why haven’t you asked him? I have to –’
‘Gary told me to go to the shop to get them unlocked. Cynthia’s son wouldn’t say that. He does all sorts for her and Maurice. You know, Cynthia and Maurice from the caravan...’
Michele’s heart sank at the mention of the caravan. She hated caravanning. Trapped in a tin box with her mother and her cronies.
‘And now you won’t help either.’
‘I’m not blinking psychic.’ At least her mother had moved away from caravan talk.
‘And, you never come up to the caravan, Cynthia will be thinking I’ve lied about having two children. Other people’s children come up to their caravans. Your brother comes up to the caravan.’
‘Gary only uses it when he’s going fishing, and when you’re not there.’
‘He’s a good son.’
Michelle, now hopelessly trapped in the phone call, ran upstairs and stuck her head under the cold tap to rinse off the shampoo, while her mother babbled away on the bathroom floor. She darted into the bedroom to rummage through the wardrobe for her good jeans, shouting the odd placatory word over at the handset, now on loudspeaker on the dressing table. Damn, they needed ironing. She tried to flatten them into shape with her hands.
‘I have to go, Mam,’ she shouted over at the phone. ‘I’ll text Gary for you. And you know I hate caravans. Sorry, I have to –’
‘It’s a lovely caravan. We have a big veranda. Trevor adores it up there. You’d like it.’
‘No, I wouldn’t.’ What she’d really like to do, was lob the handset through the window. Where the heck was her red thong? She emptied the contents of the drawer onto the floor, frantically digging through the mound of tangled underwear she’d been meaning to sort out for months. Then she stood back, appalled she’d been searching for a thong. She selected a pair of cotton briefs and a plain, non-matching bra. After all, no one was going to see them.
‘How rude. What about the pass–’
Michele grabbed the phone. ‘You’re breaking up... Bye.’
Bloody, bloody hell. She hammered out a misspelt text to Gary. She felt like she was in one of her stress-induced recurring nightmares – the one where the murderer was chasing her with a pack of rabid dogs, and as she ran away – on the spot – she tried to call the police on her mobile phone, which had turned into a cucumber.
Gary wasn’t very helpful. Apparently, ‘Enough was damned well enough, what with the bloody passwords and sorting things out until midnight, with people who didn’t understand what he was saying in foreign call centres, not that he was racist or anything.’
By the time Michelle was dressed, she had managed to bully Gary into phoning their mother and sprayed Aqua di Goa into her eyes.
***
A LOUD HAMMERING SOUND vibrated around the unusually dark hallway. Dan was the only person she knew, tall enough to block out the daylight, and with a knock to shake the door. Michelle’s heart was certainly not doing its usual sub-fifty beats a minute. Breathing in for a count of four and out for six, she composed herself and opened the door.
Dan stood on the step, grinning. Their eyes locked and her tummy flipped. He dipped his head to step inside and scooped her up in a giant hug.
Oh God, please, no, it can’t be.
‘Hello, you,’ he said.
Michelle felt the foundations of everything she knew to be right and proper crumble. A painful, complicated future loomed ahead.
