Late for work. Talked to Richie for twenty minutes he couldn’t really afford about PTSD. It’s the first time in a long time that I’ve talked to Richie about something other than the case, which is strange as appeal is in three days’ time. Think Gerty has spoken to him so often he actually wanted a change of topic.
Asked him about restraining orders too. He was clear on the subject: it’s for Tiffy to decide. Would be bad idea for me to seem to be imposing decisions on her – I must let her come to that conclusion on her own. Still hate that the ex knows where she lives, but must remember it is not my place to say.
Late late now. Button up shirt on way out of building. I’m an expert at efficient flat departure. It’s all in the shaved-off seconds and the foregoing of brinner, which will come to haunt me at 11 p.m. when day nurses have eaten all the biscuits.
Strange man from Flat 5: Leon!
Look up as building door slams shut behind me. It’s strange man from Flat 5, the one who (according to Tiffy) does energetic aerobics at 7 a.m. sharp, and accumulates banana crates in his parking space. Surprised to discover he knows my name.
Me: Hi?
Strange man from Flat 5: I never believed you were a nurse!
Me: Right. I’m running late for work, so—
Strange man from Flat 5 waves his mobile phone at me, like I should be able to discern what is on screen.
Strange man, triumphantly: You’re a famous person!
Me: Pardon?
Strange man: You’re in the Daily Mail! Wearing a poncey famous-person jumper!
Me: Poncey is no longer a politically correct term, strange man from Flat 5. Got to go. Enjoy the rest of Femail!
Scarper as quickly as possible. Decide, on reflection, not to pursue life of celebrity.
*
Mr Prior is awake for long enough to see the photos. He’ll drop off again soon, but I know this will amuse him, so make sure to take the opportunity and get pictures up on phone screen.
Hmm. Fourteen-thousand likes on a photo of me staring into distance in a black T-shirt and enormous crocheted scarf. Odd.
Mr Prior: Very dashing, Leon!
Me: Why, thank you.
Mr Prior: Now, am I right that a certain fine young lady persuaded you to humiliate yourself in this fashion?
Me: Eh. Umm. It was Tiffy’s idea.
Mr Prior: Ah, the flatmate. And . . . the girlfriend?
Me: No, no, not ‘girlfriend’. Not yet.
Mr Prior: No? Last we spoke I got the impression you were rather smitten with each other.
Check Mr Prior’s chart, keeping face carefully blank. Deranged liver function tests. Not good. To be expected, but still, not good.
Me: I’m . . . yes. I’m that. Just don’t want to rush things. I don’t think she does either.
Mr Prior frowns. His little beady eyes almost disappear under the folds of his eyebrows.
Mr Prior: May I offer you some advice, Leon?
I nod.
Mr Prior: Don’t let your natural . . . reticence hold you back. Make it clear how you feel about her. After all, you’re something of a closed book, Leon.
Me: Closed book?
Notice that Mr Prior’s hands tremble as he smooths down the bedspread, and try not to think about prognostics.
Mr Prior: Quiet. Brooding. I’m sure she finds it very attractive, but don’t let it be a barrier between you. I left it too long to tell my— I left things too late, and now I wish I’d just said what I wanted when I still could. Think what my life could have been. Not that I’m not happy with my lot, but . . . you do waste an awful lot of time when you’re young.
Can’t do anything around here without someone imparting wisdom in your direction. But Mr Prior has made me a little nervous. Felt after Wales I shouldn’t rush things with Tiffy. But maybe I’m holding back too much. I tend to, apparently. Wish I’d mentioned about changing to day shifts now. Still, I did go to a Welsh castle for her, and pose against windswept tree in large cardigan. Surely that makes my feelings clear?
*
Richie: You’re not a naturally open person.
Me: I am! I am . . . I’m forthcoming. Expressive. An open book.
Richie: You’re not bad at the old talking-about-feelings with me, but that doesn’t count, and it’s usually because I do it first. You should take a leaf from my book, bro. I’ve never had any time for the whole hard-to-get thing. Easy-to-get and put-it-on-the-line has always worked for me.
Feel a bit wrong-footed. Was feeling good about everything with Tiffy, and am anxious now. Shouldn’t have told Richie what Mr Prior said – should’ve known what his opinion would be. Richie was writing love songs to serenade girls in school corridors when he was ten years old.
Me: What am I meant to do, then?
Richie: Fucking hell, man, just tell her you like her and you want to make things official. You clearly do, so it can’t be that hard. I have to go. Gerty’s got me talking her through the ten minutes after leaving the club again, seriously, I’m not sure that woman is human.
Me: That woman is—
Richie: Don’t worry, don’t worry. I won’t hear a word against her. I was going to say superhuman.
Me: Good.
Richie: Hot, too.
Me: Don’t you even—
Richie belly-laughs. I find myself grinning; I can never resist smiling with him when he laughs like that.
Richie: I’ll be good, I’ll be good. But if she gets me out of here, I’m buying her dinner. Or asking for her hand in marriage, maybe.
Smile fades a little. I feel a twinge of worry. The appeal is really happening. Two days to go. Haven’t even let myself imagine scenario where Richie is found not guilty, but my brain keeps going there against my will, playing out the scene. Bringing him home to sit on Tiffy’s paisley beanbag, drink beers, be my little brother again.
Can’t find the words for what I want to tell him. Don’t get your hopes up? But of course he will – I have too. That’s the whole point. So . . . don’t let it get to you if it doesn’t work? Also ridiculous. No good words for the magnitude of the problem.
Me: See you Friday.
Richie: That’s the open book I know and love. See you Friday, bro.
