Hollow-cheeked, tired-eyed Holly looks up at me from bed. Seems littler. In all dimensions, too – wrists, tufty growing-back hair . . . everything but the eyes.
She grins at me weakly.
Holly: You were here last weekend.
Me: In and out. They needed my help. Short-staffed.
Holly: Is it because I asked for you?
Me: Absolutely not. You know you’re my least favourite patient.
Bigger grin.
Holly: Were you having a nice weekend with your girlfriend with the short hair?
Me: Yes, actually.
Looks decidedly mischievous. Don’t want to get hopes up but she is visibly better – that smile was nowhere to be seen last weekend.
Holly: And you had to leave her behind because of me!
Me: Short-staffing, Holly. Had to leave h— come in to work because of short-staffing.
Holly: I bet she was annoyed that you like me better than her.
Socha, the junior doctor, leans in past the curtain to get my attention.
Socha: Leon.
Me, to Holly: Back in a sec, homewrecker.
Me, to Socha: And?
She breaks into a big, tired smile.
Socha: Bloods just in. The antibiotics are finally having an effect. Just got off the phone with the GOSH med reg, he said as she’s improving she doesn’t need to go back into hospital. Social services are on board with that as well.
Me: Antibiotics are working?
Socha: Yep. CRP and white cell count both falling, no more fevers, lactate normal. Obs all stable.
The relief is instant. Nothing quite like that feeling of someone getting better.
Good-mood glow resulting from Holly’s bloods buoys me all the way home. Teens smoking joint on street corner seem positively cherubic. Smelly man on bus removing socks to scratch his feet evokes only genuine sympathy. Even a Londoner’s true enemy, the slow-moving tourist, just makes me smile indulgently.
Already planning excellent 9 a.m. dinner as I let myself into the flat. The first thing I notice is the smell. It smells . . . womanly. Like spicy incense and flower stalls.
The next thing I notice is the sheer quantity of crap in my living room. Enormous heap of books up against breakfast bar. Cow-shaped cushion on sofa. Lava lamp – lava lamp! – on coffee table. What is this? Is Essex woman holding a jumble sale in our flat?
In a slight daze, I go to drop my keys in their usual spot (when not opting for bottom of laundry basket) and find it has been occupied by a moneybox shaped like Spot the Dog. This is unbelievable. It’s like a terrible episode of Changing Rooms. Flat has been redecorated to look immeasurably worse. Can only conclude that she was doing it on purpose – nobody could be this tasteless accidentally.
Wrack brains to remember what Kay actually told me about this woman. She’s a . . . book editor? Sounds like profession of reasonable person with taste? Feel fairly certain that Kay made no mention of Essex woman being a bizarre-object collector. And yet.
I sink into a nearby beanbag and sit for a while. Think of the three hundred and fifty pounds I would otherwise not have been able to give to Sal this month. Decide this is not so bad – beanbag is excellent, for instance: it’s patterned with paisley and remarkably comfortable. And lava lamp has comedic value. Who has a lava lamp these days?
Notice my sheets hanging off the clothes horse in the corner of the room – she’s washed them. Irritating, as I went to great lengths to wash those and was late for shift as a result. But must remember that annoying Essex woman does not actually know me. Would not know that I would obviously clean sheets before inviting stranger to sleep in them.
Eh. What’s the bedroom going to look like?
Venture in, intrepid. Let out a strangled wail. It looks like someone vomited rainbows and calico in here, covering every surface in colours that do not belong together in nature. Horrific, moth-eaten blanket over bed. Enormous beige sewing machine taking up most of desk. And clothes . . . clothes everywhere.
This woman owns more clothes than a respectably sized shop would stock. Has clearly not been able to manage with the half of wardrobe I freed up for her, so has hung up dresses on back of door, all along wall – from old picture rail, actually quite resourceful – and over back of now-almost-invisible chair under window.
Consider ringing her and Putting Foot Down for approximately three seconds before reaching inevitable conclusion that that would be awkward, and, in a few days, I will have stopped caring. Probably stopped noticing, actually. Still. Right now, opinion of Essex woman has reached new low. I’m about to head back to spot on very inviting beanbag when I notice the bin bag of the scarves Mr Prior knitted me, poking out from under bed.
Forgot about those. Essex woman may think I’m odd if she finds bag of fourteen hand-knitted scarves stashed under bed. Have been meaning to take them to the charity shop for ever, but of course Essex woman won’t know that. Haven’t actually met her; don’t want her to think I’m, you know. A scarf collector or something.
Grab pen and paper and scrawl FOR CHARITY SHOP on a Post-it, then stick it to bag. There. Just to remind myself, in case I forget.
Now to the beanbag for dinner, and bed. So tired that even the horrible tie-dyed bed blanket is beginning to look attractive.
