Chapter Eighteen
Sharon
Heart of Glass by Blondie
It hasn’t stopped raining for two whole days.
My shoes were soaked when I walked home from the Tube station on Friday after work and they’re soaked all over again as I tread carefully up the pavement that is also covered in fallen leaves in various shades of brown, orange and yellow.
I used to say that autumn was my favourite season with its beautiful foliage, golden-hour evening sunshine and not-too-cold temperatures that call for hats and scarves more for style than necessity.
But I take it all back. I’m drenched to the bone, shivering in the whipping wind, and convinced I’m going to slip on one of these sodden leaves and go arse over tit, if I’m not careful.
When I make it inside the hospital with my body unbruised and the contents of my bag still where they’re supposed to be, I feel relieved.
I also feel dripping wet. My umbrella broke on my walk to the bus stop back in Shepherd’s Bush and it turns out my raincoat isn’t as waterproof as the description and price tag had me believe.
At least it’s warm on the ward, a fact that I normally hate as it often feels clammy and I suspect it allows the worst smells to linger.
Also, it’s Sunday. Florence Fucking Nightingale will almost certainly have a day off as she’s been working all week and last Saturday was her last day off so she’s more than due time-off. That makes sense, doesn’t it?
I shouldn’t be thinking about Kate. Again.
I have successfully avoided her all week, and she certainly hasn’t sought me out.
It will do me no good to keep thinking about the force of Nightingale’s lips on mine, of how hungry she seemed for me, of how fucking perfect she felt in my arms.
So I won’t think about her. I will get in this lift, I will go spend visiting hours with Danny.
I will serve him the soup I made him. We will do the Sunday Times crossword together.
And then I will go home and do a week’s worth of washing and ironing so I can keep my silly little brain busy and not think at all about…
Ping.
Florence Fucking Nightingale.
The doors open and there she is, immediately in front of me.
Dressed immaculately in her uniform and with an unreadable expression on her face, she studies me with unblinking eyes.
There’s nobody else in the lift with me and nor is there anybody else waiting next to her.
We stand and look at each other for long seconds.
So long that the lift’s doors start to close again.
I jump forward and stick my hand out to stop them from closing.
Then I clumsily step forward onto the floor.
I expect Kate to move, to get in the lift or to at least give me space to pass her, but she doesn’t. Of course she doesn’t.
“Excuse me,” I say eventually.
Still she doesn’t move.
“Seriously?” I drop my bag because it’s fucking heavy and it doesn’t look like I’m going anywhere.
“Hi, Sharon,” she says simply.
“Hi,” I reply, my shoulders sinking.
“How have you been?”
Oh. We’re going to be normal, are we? Civil, perhaps?
“I’m,” I inhale, “fine.”
“Good. You haven’t been avoiding me, have you?”
“No,” I lie and by the wry smile that curls one corner of Kate’s lips, she knows it. “Well, you’ve been avoiding me too!”
“A little bit,” she admits.
“Why?” I ask, surprising both of us.
“Because…” She finally looks away from me and seems to remember where we’re standing. “Come this way.”
She walks down the corridor, away from the ward. I pick my bag up and rush after her. “What? Is it Danny?”
Kate pauses and lets me catch up with her. “No, Danny is… he’s okay. I just want to talk with you in private.”
I follow her into a room that I suspect is reserved for the grimmest of moments.
Informing loved ones that their son, boyfriend, brother, friend has passed.
Revealing a patient’s condition has worsened.
Comforting those who were too late to say goodbye.
With a sofa and two armchairs arranged around a small coffee table, I can almost imagine how these scenes would play out in here.
I stare at the ominous box of tissues on the coffee table as I hear the door click closed behind me.
“Sit down, if you like,” Kate suggests.
“I don’t want to,” I say bluntly. I suddenly don’t want to be in this room. And I definitely don’t want to be in a private space with Florence Fucking Nightingale.
All our interactions to date have happened in public.
Even when she kissed me, it was out in the open, at a public bus stop, albeit somewhat hidden thanks to the dark of night and the busyness of Central London surrounding us.
I don’t want to think about what could possibly happen in private between us.
Indeed, I’ve spent all week trying not to think about that.
Which is to say, I’ve spent all week thinking about little else.
“Fine,” Kate sucks in a jagged breath and then levels one of her classic cold looks on me. When I think about her now in that purple Lycra jumpsuit, it feels like a complete dream. Like it didn’t really happen, and that makes me feel inexplicably sad.
“Why are we—” I begin to tell her this is wasting my time. I came here to see Danny and visiting hours have already started. But Kate interrupts.
“I wanted to apologise.”
My head pulls back in shock. “Apologise?”
“For kissing you,” she says. “I didn’t give you much warning. For that, I’m sorry.”
My stomach sinks, as heavy as an anchor. “You regret the kiss?”
It’s no small relief when her expression changes, lighting up like I’ve just said something amusing. “I didn’t say that.”
“You don’t regret our kiss?”
Her eyes roll up and down my body and I feel the flames of self-consciousness heat my cheeks. I’m dripping wet, my hair no doubt flattened and my clothes clinging to every one of my full curves.
“I don’t regret our kiss,” she says slowly.
“Neither do I,” I say with all the sulkiness of a hormonal teenager. It only irritates me more when my tone makes her smile again.
“So I don’t need to apologise?”
“No, you don’t. At least, not for that.”
This prompts a ripple of laughter from her.
It’s so high and melodic it sounds like birdsong.
A vague but real recollection pops into my mind, about how nightingale birds are renowned for their beautiful chirping.
I’m so taken aback by this and her trilling laughter that I find myself laughing with her.
“Well, let me know what I need to apologise for,” she says as our chuckles start to dwindle.
“I’ll write you a list,” I say with a smile so she knows I’m only joking.
She nods as if to punctuate the end of our shared laughter, which is why I’m not completely surprised when her tone changes.
“Danny is tired today,” she says. “And he hasn’t eaten much in the last twenty-four hours. The drugs are making him throw up a lot too.”
“Oh, okay.” I am aware of the bone broth soup in the Thermos flask in my bag. I feel stupid for spending all morning cooking it and bringing it here today.
“Some days will be harder than others,” Kate tells me and it feels… patronising.
“I know,” I snap.
“Jesus,” she mutters and turns to the side, as if to leave.
“Wait, I’m sorry,” I call her back. “I just… I spent all morning making him soup. Using what I got in Chinatown yesterday and I guess that was really idiotic of me. To think that a bunch of herbs, a bottle of broth and a couple of specific dried mushrooms would make any kind of difference.” I collapse into the nearest armchair.
Kate studies me for a moment before moving to sit on the coffee table opposite me.
“It does make a difference,” she says. “In this scenario, any kind of care makes a difference. Although I don’t know why you’re cooking Chinese food for him. Maybe you should focus on the things he likes most. His favourite foods, or yours. Maybe meals you both ate as children. Comfort foods.”
Her words soothe me more than I expect and I feel both uneasy and honoured to have her looking at me like this.
I also feel a wave of awareness wash over me.
She’s right. I should be cooking Danny’s favourite food.
Or the things Bubbe used to make me. Things I can really pour my love into rather than following recipes I got from the library.
I stare at her for a moment. Her dark eyes are wide and dark and liquid, her chin tilted up and her lips poised in the smallest of smiles.
“I’m not ready to lose him,” I find myself admitting and with those words a huge weight unexpectedly lifts off my shoulders.
There. I’ve said it. I’ve finally admitted what I’m most scared of in the world. Tears pool in my eyes and I let them gather.
“I know,” Kate tells me, and her hand lands on my leg, a patch of warmth on my soaked jeans. But it doesn’t last long; she pulls her hand up almost immediately. “Jesus, you’re soaking wet!”
“Yeah, my umbrella broke.”
“Let me get you a towel.” She stands up.
“Wait, no, please… don’t,” I reach for her hand and she sits back down. Tears slide down both cheeks and for once, I don’t want to wipe them away or make them stop. “If you’re busy, then sure, of course, go. But if not… I wonder if you wouldn’t mind just staying with me until I stop crying.”
Kate gathers my hand in both of hers. “Of course. Take your time.”
So I do.
*****
Kate wasn’t wrong. Danny is exhausted and drifts in and out of what seems to be an uncomfortable, restless sleep for the two hours I’m sitting by his side.
When he is awake, we talk briefly and I try, but fail, to give him some soup.
In the end, I let him fall back to sleep and sit by his side doing the crossword on my own.
When I get stuck with that, I go for a walk down the ward and see whose curtains are open and who doesn’t have any visitors.
His immediate neighbour is a Colombian man called Fernando and he accepts some soup happily, but he needs help eating it as a stroke has reduced his mobility on his right side.
In slightly slurred sentences, he tells me about the year he lived in Shanghai, working for Midland Bank, which is also where he worked in London.
We compare stories about the City and about Canary Wharf and we both agree that they’re as good and bad as each other.
When he tells me it’s his birthday next week, I ask how old he will be.
When he says thirty-seven, I’m so shocked I nearly drop the Thermos. He looks at least fifty.
The young nurse, Orla, comes in to take his blood and so I move on, finding the curtains open a few cubicles down.
The man in the bed introduces himself as Jonathan and I find his broad Yorkshire accent instantly welcoming.
He asks me to read the newspaper to him because he forgot his glasses, which I suspect is a lie because when I offer to look for them he bats a limp hand in my direction, telling me not to bother.
So I sit and read the headlines in the Sunday Times and he nods when he wants me to read more of a certain article.
I stay seated, reading about Thatcher’s failing popularity, long after he's fallen asleep.
I end up sitting and talking with three other men, one of which is convinced my name is Shelley and I don’t have the gumption to correct him. I ask them all what their favourite cakes and biscuits are and two of them mention shortbread, so I know what I’ll be making tomorrow for everyone.
When visiting hours are over, I return to Danny and find him still asleep.
I leave a stack of new tapes next to his Walkman – playlists I made from the radio this week – and I leave the Thermos on his bedside table.
Bending down to give him a kiss on his forehead, I hate how sweaty and hot his skin feels.
“Goodbye, Danny. I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say and then I leave.
I keep one eye open for Kate as I walk past the nurses’ station, through the double doors, and wait for the lift, but she’s nowhere to be seen.
I wanted to thank her again for sitting with me as I cried earlier.
We hadn’t spoken much during that time, or when we parted afterwards, but she’d squeezed my hand over and over again as the tears had fallen.
And when I’d finally gathered myself and told her I was ready to go see Danny, she helped me stand and kept one of my hands in hers until we’d left the room.
I keep clenching that hand into a fist, telling myself I didn’t imagine how small and elegant her fingers felt in my palm.
Outside, it’s still raining, but I care a lot less about it now.
My bag isn’t as heavy and I didn’t dry off completely inside, so I don’t hurry towards the bus stop.
I’ll run myself a hot bath when I get home.
I’ll make it so scalding hot, my skin will turn pink and maybe that will help ease some of the ache in my heart.
If my pain receptors are busy elsewhere, maybe they’ll ease up with the persistent dull throbbing deep in my chest.
When I get to the bus stop, I’m only partially surprised to see Kate there. What does shock me is how she gestures with her head to the spot next to her on the bench, under the bus shelter.
I accept the invitation and huddle next to her, our arms pressed together. She’s holding a partially closed, dripping wet umbrella between her legs and she has a very practical and enviably functional raincoat on, covering up her uniform.
“Thank you for earlier,” I say after maybe a minute of silence.
“You’re welcome,” she says gently.
“It must get exhausting, comforting people like that day in and day out. As well as, you know, actually looking after the sick people.”
“Not everyone allows themselves to be comforted,” she says and I can feel her stare on me but I refuse to look at it. She’s made her point.
“Well, I needed it today,” I offer. It’s the only admission I’ll make.
“And I’m happy I was able to offer it. Because you’re right. Some days are harder than others to be that emotional buffer that people need.”
I turn to look at her then. Did Florence Fucking Nightingale just admit a weakness? A vulnerability? A fault?
“What?” she asks. “Have I got something on my face?”
“No, I…” My gaze drops to her lips and I swear it’s not intentional. I swear I don’t want to be looking at her mouth. I just do. I can’t stop myself.
“Sharon?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you want to kiss me again?”
That snaps my eyes back up to hers. “Technically, you kissed me last time.”
“True,” she concedes. “Let me rephrase the question. Would you like me to kiss you again?”
I lick my lips. “I think so,” I confess and with those three quiet words it feels like I’ve just thrown myself off a cliff’s edge. And yet, I don’t crash or burn or evaporate.
In fact, when Kate leans closer to me and positions her mouth just an inch from mine, I feel like I find my wings. And when I close the remaining distance and touch my lips to hers, I start to fly.