Violet
Sunday night
At the thought of complaints she felt a sudden surge of nauseous anxiety in her chest. She had received an email from Dr Corbishley earlier that day asking her to meet with him to discuss ‘concerns raised by members of staff’.
It certainly sounded ominous, and although it was unlikely she’d be fired from her post she knew it would significantly affect any reference he gave her, and therefore potentially scupper her chances of future career progression.
There was also the possibility that human resources would take these complaints as evidence of bullying or harassment.
While she didn’t think she’d ever behaved like a bully, it was possible that her language and direct manner had offended her colleagues as it had in the past, completely unintentionally.
She didn’t know what was written in these complaints after all, there could be all sorts of real or imagined slights she had inflicted without knowing it– bullies rarely recognised themselves for what they truly were, maybe she was one?
How would she know? It was all so confusing.
She never really understood how others perceived her– it just wasn’t her skillset.
And if she did end up with a count of workplace bullying on her record then there really was no hope of a career in healthcare.
Her bosses needed to demonstrate to all staff that whistle-blowers were protected and taken seriously, and this meant dishing out harsh penalties for those who were found to have broken those codes of practice.
Maybe she would end up working in a lab after all, relegated to a science bench and a Bunsen burner because she couldn’t be trusted with actual people.
But the past few days had shown this to be an unduly negative view and she was absolutely prepared to look at the evidence and alter her diagnosis of the human state– she was a scientist after all, and that’s what scientists did.
As if running through a spreadsheet she began to calculate a mental inventory of her recent positive experiences; there was Mr Zeller’s obvious enjoyment of his Christmas present (despite his protestations), Marvin’s speedy recovery, Cindy’s support and friendship at work, Mrs Jenson’s daughter-in-law’s lovely comments and accompanying hug (unnecessary invasion of space, but still nice), the interesting conversations she’d had with Mrs Chambers about the cancer treatment and the planned cruise, and her increasing strike rate with cannulations (she’d even managed to take blood gases last night without it looking like someone had slaughtered a pig on the ward).
And of course, there was Gus. Every single thing about him brought a smile to her face and she chose to think about him for the remainder of her journey.
Taking a short cut through the winding one-way streets she felt a light dusting of sleety snow begin to fall on her cheeks.
It fell softly, twinkling and filtering the warm light from the pubs and cafés she passed.
She felt invigorated by it (knowing she could dry off at Gus’s apartment helped) and perhaps invigorated by life in general.
She had slept soundly that day, whether it was her body now becoming used to the night shifts and the reversal of circadian rhythm, or the sheer amount of physical activity she’d undertaken in the previous forty-eight hours, she didn’t know.
She was still trying to calculate whether mind-blowing sex burned up as many calories as cold-water swimming, and whether, when you factored in the sense of glorious well-being that came from spending time in the company of someone you were starting to adore, the additional health benefits may also be equivalent, when she arrived at Gus’s flat.
She was earlier than planned– they’d said six o’clock and it was only a quarter to by the time she crossed the road to his apartment block but it was now lashing it down with freezing hail, the gentle misty sleet of ten minutes ago long gone.
She was soaked through and didn’t think he’d mind if she raced in and got straight into the shower.
He might even join her. The thought put an extra spring in her step as she bounded up the central staircase to the fourth floor.
She rang the doorbell and pulled a damp pot plant out of her rucksack.
It was a small cactus in a grainy clay pot, spindly and prickly, just like her.
She thought Gus might like having it about the place and it seemed appropriate to bring something, given that this was the third night in a row that he’d be cooking for her.
She knew that people would traditionally bring wine or chocolates but alcohol felt inappropriate pre-night shift, and boxes of chocolates were their special shared joke saved for the wards.
Besides, after helping Marvin work his way through the leftover selection boxes, she was done with chocolate for a few days at least.
Tiny fragments of ice still clung to her fringe although they were starting to melt with the central heating and as the door opened a trickle of warm water dripped into her eye.
Her nose was also starting to run but she was holding the plant so had to screw up her shoulder to wipe her face on the sleeve of her very damp coat, which didn’t really help.
It was in this pose, squinting through the meltwater, head cricked at an improbably angle, that she was greeted by the sight of a woman so beautiful that she wondered whether she might have walked into the apartment block of a Hollywood film star.
Backlit by a range of soft lamps and fragrant candles, the woman’s blonde hair shone like a halo.
She was wearing a patterned silk kimono robe over what looked like extremely expensive loungewear in soft teal with a lace trim and her face was radiant, peachy-toned skin, full glossy lips drawn into a wide smile that dimpled her cheeks and revealed immaculate white teeth.
Violet was so dazzled that she couldn’t think of anything to say and merely stood there mutely for a second while her fringe dripped forlornly into her face.
‘Hello there,’ said the angel, looking Violet up and down with a quizzical expression. ‘Can I help you?’ Her eyes alighted on the cactus and narrowed a fraction.
Violet glanced at the number on the door– had she come to the right flat?
And then she looked beyond the beautiful woman and into the corridor behind her, yes this was Gus’s apartment, there was the sofa where they’d…
And she could see a glimpse of the kitchen units where they’d…
And the door to the master bedroom was ajar, a warm light emanating from its interior.
This was definitely the right place. Which meant that this woman must be…
She looked at her face more closely, compared it to the photo she’d found in Gus’s drawer.
‘You’re Amelia,’ she said, without thinking.
The woman smiled but her lips were thinner now. ‘I am,’ she said.
Violet’s thoughts were jumbled and she tried to order them, gather them up like so many errant sheep. She remembered Gus’s comment about the photo frame, the other items in the drawer. ‘Have you come to collect your– your stuff?’ she said.
Amelia smiled again, more confidently. ‘In a way. Yes.’
Violet nodded. She could tell that there was a hidden message in those words, could see it from Amelia’s expression, but she didn’t know what it was– did Amelia mean that Gus was ‘her stuff’ and that she’d come back to ‘collect’ him?
God, why was she so bad at this? And why didn’t people just say what they meant?
‘So you’re not…’ She’d been about to say, ‘staying’ but a noise further inside the flat stopped her. Movement in the bathroom, a shower door closing.
‘Are you after Gus?’ Amelia asked. She glanced over her shoulder in the direction of the bathroom, a secretive smile on her face. ‘He’s just in the shower. He won’t be a moment.’ She went to move away from the front door but Violet stopped her.
‘No– no. you’re okay,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to– uhm– interrupt.
I was just going to– uhm…’ She looked down at the cactus, still in her hands, It suddenly seemed completely ridiculous and she was almost overwhelmed by an urge to throw it against the wall, watch the clay pot smash into tiny pieces and scatter earth across the pristine interior of the doorway.
‘Is that– for him?’ Amelia was looking at the cactus too, an expression of polite amusement on her face.
Violet wanted to lie, of course she did.
She wanted to say, ‘God, no, what a strange thing to bring to someone’s flat.
No, I’m on my way to visit my grandmother, it’s for her.
’ But she couldn’t fabricate a lie at short notice and even if she’d had years to plan one she wouldn’t have been able to deliver it with any conviction.
‘Yes,’ she said, feeling like an absolute dick. ‘Yes, it’s a cactus. For Gus.’
Amelia raised her eyebrows a fraction and moved aside. ‘You’d better come in,’ she said, opening her arm out to the corridor, gesturing Violet inside. ‘Pop it down on the side table?’
Violet took two steps into the hallway but suddenly found that she could go no further.
The whole flat smelled different. Floral, sweet, slightly cloying.
She could see through the door of the master bedroom a suitcase was open on the bed, almost empty, dresses draped on hangers ready to be returned to the wardrobe rather than packed and taken away.
A drying rack was positioned in the central living space, near the window– sheets and pillowcases hanging neatly from its stainless steel rungs.
Scented candles flickered on the windowsill, the table, the kitchen island– the smooth pillars of wax imbued with various warm pastel colours.
The thought of Dev’s beeswax wrappers popped into Violet’s head and she wished for a moment that she was back at home, still talking to her housemate, still laughing, blissfully unaware of the contents of Amelia’s suitcase, her floral smell and the peachiness of her skin.
Amelia followed Violet’s line of sight to the drying rack.
‘Place needed a good clean,’ she said lightly. ‘The bedding was absolutely filthy, but you know what men are like!’
Violet nodded sadly, knowing she was beaten.
‘I don’t really,’ she said. ‘Sorry to have bothered you. I’ll just leave this here.
’ She placed the clay pot gently on the side table near the place where she’d left her own keys and purse the night before, and backed out of the door, blinking back the tears that were now mingling with the melting hail and threatening to spill out of her eyes.
She would have blamed her blurred vision for the fact that she bumped into the doorframe, but she knew it was simply that she was clumsy.
Clumsy, awkward and a poor judge of her physical surroundings.
A poor judge of character as well, as it turned out.