Chapter 12
Exhaustion washes over me. As I walk home from the station, my legs feel like lead. It has been quite a day.
Aunt Polly drove us both to the hospital in Nigella, who, I might add, was like the world’s most angelic car. There was no stalling, no seatbelt strangulation, and we even listened to a classical music CD to calm Aunt Polly down.
Watching her go through her first cycle of chemo was stressful, emotional, and thankfully event-free. The nurses were excellent, and we felt special and supported.
After the chemo, I drove us back, and Nigella reverted to her old mischievous ways. She stalled as I was trying to negotiate a busy roundabout, nearly cut off my blood supply with the seatbelt, and spat out Aunt Polly’s Classic FM CD.
‘Ignore her,’ Aunt Polly said, tapping the dashboard. ‘She’s worked up about my chemo.’
I looked away and muttered to myself about Nigella needing to be on the scrapheap.
On the way home, I asked Aunt Polly about hair loss. She gave me one of her optimistic smiles and said she would embrace a new, shorter look, including wigs and hair scarves. I looked out of the window and hoped she would maintain her optimistic outlook about her hair.
Aunt Polly didn’t fancy tea and biscuits, so she sat on the sofa while we watched an interview with a woman who had swum the Channel.
I tried to concentrate, but Henry’s face kept intruding on my thoughts.
My mind replayed our encounter in the bookshop, and I felt a little twang of guilt for my abruptness and turning my back on him.
He triggered me with his talk about Mum and my curse.
Back when we swam together, we were good friends.
I remember how he made the Saturday morning training sessions bearable.
The book he wanted me to put aside for him comes to mind.
I will make sure Miranda doesn’t put it back on the shelf.
I glanced over at Aunt Polly. I’m glad the first session is over, and I hope the side effects aren’t too severe.
There was one low point. I asked again about Hilary and whether we should re-establish contact with her.
In my defence, I grew up with Hilary being our fourth emergency service.
When I see my aunt suffering, I want to call Hilary.
She had a knack for making my aunt smile even in the darkest moments.
I remember when Aunt Polly lost her job at the factory office and came home in tears.
It was me who called Hilary. Six minutes later, we heard the familiar screech of tyres, the slam of a car door, and heels clattering up the path.
Hilary burst into Aunt Polly’s, clutching a bottle of red wine in a bandaged hand and an overnight bag slung over her shoulder.
‘Polly,’ she cried from the hallway, ‘I am here for the night. Let’s get pissed.
Sod your job. I never liked your pervy boss.
Oh, and before you ask…’ She put the wine down and held her bandaged hand aloft.
‘Lilly slammed the car door and didn’t realise I’d not taken my hand away. ’ Lilly is one of her daughters.
‘You still came over?’ gasped Aunt Polly.
Hilary grinned. ‘Polly, my arm would have to be hanging off for me not to come over.’
‘Let’s not talk about Hilary, Nelly,’ muttered Aunt Polly, and shook her head with disapproval, as if I had said the wrong thing.
When I said goodbye, she became tearful at the door.
I hugged her and told her I would visit on Sunday.
Hilary was still on my mind, and as Aunt Polly wished me a safe journey back, I looked at the photos of the two of them still on the wall.
If I wasn’t allowed to talk about Hilary, why did my aunt have an entire wall covered with photos of her?
I’m a few streets away from my flat. My nerves are jangling at the prospect of entering and seeing Oliver.
He’s a stranger, and I only have Miranda and Frank’s word to rely on.
For all I know, he could have spent the day rummaging through my underwear drawer.
Panic blooms inside me. If he’s sitting in my chair or if there are any signs he has been in it, I will be so cross.
I also need to avoid all physical contact with him for as long as possible. He claims he’s single, so there’s a good chance I will see him spending his days sitting at a desk staring at a blank sheet of paper and trying to work through his writer’s block.
In his interview, he claimed he was single, but for all I know, he could secretly have his eye on someone.
If I touched him, I could see how that ends.
Considering how good-looking he is, I might see anything – from a vision of a furious woman spilling a drink on him in a pub, shouting about his wandering hands and broken promises, to something tragic that happens to Oliver after he leaves a book signing.
I would then have to watch him tuck into what would be his last meal and silently groan at the thought of having to find another flatmate.
An elderly man is sitting on the bench near the corner of my street.
His crop of white hair reminds me of Mr Ellis and his quest to track down Barbara Plum’s Family Cookbook.
I think about the way he held my gaze. ‘It was just a cookbook,’ I say to myself.
The look on Mr Ellis’s face comes to the forefront of my mind.
There was something about it, and it wasn’t about the chicken casserole.
I pause and wait for my brain to unscramble my thoughts. ‘He was holding on to something.’
An uncomfortable feeling takes hold of me. I dismiss it.
As I approach the corner of my street, I hear a man shouting, ‘LENNY.’
My heart comes to a shuddering halt. Oh, God, Oliver has let my cat escape.
Panic takes hold of me as I break into a sprint. Tears prick my eyes as I pump my arms and beg my legs to go faster, even though I haven’t done any cardio for years.
I can’t lose Lenny.
Looking up, I see Oliver with his hands in his hair, standing outside my flat.
The entrance to my flat is at the back of the house, which is away from the hustle and bustle of the cobbled street.
It’s quiet and backs onto a private communal garden, which is scattered with mature trees and shrub beds, has a centre patch of grass and is hemmed in by a black ornate railing fence.
The garden is kept locked to stop unwanted visitors.
Oliver catches sight of me, and a look of terror takes hold of his face. I’m not sure whether that’s because he’s lost my cat or it’s the sight of me half running, half staggering with a red face, breathless and close to tears.
‘Nelly, I am so sorry—’
I don’t let him finish. ‘You promised me you wouldn’t let him escape.’
He looks crestfallen. ‘I was cooking us both dinner, and someone knocked on the door. I thought it was you, and it was Gary, the landlord. He’d left the downstairs open, so your cat raced out—’
I let out an angry yelp. ‘LENNY.’
‘Nelly…’
‘Oliver, please find him.’ My voice crackles.
‘Let’s both calm down.’
My anger spikes. ‘Don’t tell me to calm down when you were the one who lost—’ My words fade as I spot a flash of grey inside the fence. I run to the railings and see Lenny’s silver-striped feline face staring up at me.
‘Lenny,’ I gasp as a wave of emotion crashes over me. ‘Come out of there.’
Oliver rushes to the railings. ‘Oh, thank God.’
To my horror, my little cat sits down and begins to clean himself casually, like he has all the time in the world.
‘Lenny, we don’t have all night. Come here.’ But he turns away and looks at a bird hopping about on a branch above his head.
‘He’s enjoying himself,’ gushes Oliver.
I glare at Oliver, and he turns back to my cat. ‘Lenny, mate, you need to come back as I am in a lot of trouble with your—’
‘Mummy.’ The word flies out of my mouth, and I instantly regret saying it.
Oliver arches an eyebrow at me. ‘Mummy wants you to come home.’
The smile on his face is annoying me. ‘What were you to Figgy? I can’t believe you were just Oliver to her.’
He’s touching his nose. ‘Just Oliver.’
I think he’s lying. ‘I don’t believe you.’
‘No one has ever asked me,’ he says, flicking his eyes to the pavement.
I feel victorious. ‘Well? You can’t mock me for calling myself “Mummy” and keep your own name to yourself.’
He’s shaking his head. ‘This is a bit too much for the first day of a flat share.’
‘You let my cat escape. I call it a suitable punishment.’
‘Will you promise not to laugh?’
I roll my eyes. ‘Oliver, right now I am incapable of laughter.’
‘To Figgy, I was Papa Tiger. Figgy was the little cat, and I was her… big papa cat protector.’
There’s an awkward silence. I am trying my hardest not to laugh. Papa Tiger – what the hell? We can’t look each other in the eye, so we turn back to look at Lenny.
‘Were you in the bookshop today?’ Oliver asks.
I keep my eyes fixed on Lenny. ‘No, I went to visit my aunt.’
‘The one who lives by the sea – right?’
‘Yes.’ I don’t say more as I’m busy trying to tell Lenny to come home telepathically.
‘Did you spend the day lazing around on the beach? The weather was amazing today. I bet you and your aunt were sipping cocktails and—’
The words shoot out of my mouth before I can stop them. ‘No, I took my aunt to have chemo.’
‘Oh.’ Oliver goes back to staring at Lenny. The silence between us is uncomfortable, punctuated by the distant sound of a car alarm and the evening breeze rustling the leaves.
Why did I say that Aunt Polly had chemo? Did he need to know that about me?
‘Do you have a key for this garden?’ Oliver asks.
‘Gary has my key.’
‘Why does Gary have your key?’
‘I don’t come in here.’
Oliver is looking at me as though I’ve just told him the sky isn’t blue. ‘You don’t come and sit in this beautiful place?’
I shake my head. ‘I’m an inside sort of person.’
Oliver’s eyes are studying my face. He turns back to Lenny. ‘Come on, mate, I’m going out soon.’
To my annoyance, Lenny comes trotting over to us on Oliver’s command and squeezes himself through the railings. Without hesitation, Oliver and I instinctively bend to grab Lenny at the same time, and the unthinkable happens. We bang heads.
He lets out an ‘OUCH’, and I yelp, waiting for the flash of white light. My chest tightens, my breath catches, and I wait.
There is nothing – no white light. No vision.