Page 115 of The Secret Life of Beatrice Alright

‘Yeah. Yeah. Course. Come on. My break started ten minutes ago.’

In the canteen, Cora and I grab ham and cheese wraps that despite the fancy minimalist wrapper smell like feet and taste like cardboard. We eat them nonetheless as we lap the grounds, talking and talking. I spill everything. I start with Declan and his new girlfriend or girlfriends. She says a leopard doesn’t change its spots. Then I tell her about the closet and she cries and apologises as if it was somehow her fault. I tell her I’m staying with Shayne and Malcolm now, and finally, choking up and barely able to push words out, I say, ‘He’s dying.’

‘Shit. That sucks,’ she says.

I cry some more. I cry for Malcolm. I cry for myself and I cry for Ellie. Cora cries too. For the relationship she wanted, but never got, with Finton. Then she takes my phone and rings the landlord at Declan’s and my old flat.

‘Hello, I’m looking for Declan Stanley,’ she says.

There’s some mumbling on the other end.

‘Oh, I see. I see,’ Cora says, her voice a half-octave lower than usual and painfully posh-sounding. ‘It’s just, I’m a doctor at Clifford Hospital and we’ve been trying to reach MrStanley with some very sensitive medical results.’

More mumbling comes.

‘Ah yes, but unfortunately a mobile number really isn’t going to help. I will need to post the files. It’s very important that he takes them straight to his GP. I’m afraid I really can’t say more, but I cannot stress?—’

More mumbling.

‘Mm-hmm. Mm-hmm. Okay good. Great. Thank you.’

Cora lowers her phone and punches something into her notes. Then she looks at me with bright, giddy eyes and says, ‘We’ve got him. I’ve got his address in London. Let’s see the bastard get out of paying child support now.’

I grab her and I hold her longer and tighter than I ever have before.

‘We’ve got him,’ I whisper, getting lost in the moment.

Cora and I both jump when my phone vibrates in my pocket.

‘It’s Shayne,’ I say, instantly panicked that he’s calling during work hours.

I can’t get the phone to my ear fast enough. ‘Hello.’

‘Can you come home?’

‘I’m on my way.’

FORTY-SIX

Malcolm is waiting by the door. He’s still in his pyjamas. The same blue-and-white pinstripe ones he’s been wearing for the last couple of days. But over them he has his coat and a custard and maroon scarf I haven’t seen before. As usual, he’s hatless. But his bare head concerns me less today than usual. I am more worried about the slate grey of his face, or the purple hammocks under his eyes.

‘What are you doing?’ I say, sounding exactly as I do when I’m about to scold Ellie for bad behaviour.

‘Where are your wellies?’ he asks, glancing at my feet and then my face.

I’m wearing my work shoes. I left the hospital in such a hurry to get to Cora, I forgot to slip them off.

‘It’s not snowing any more,’ I say.

He tuts. ‘Who’s this?’

Cora edges out from behind me. ‘Hello,’ she says, meekly. Cora never sounds meek. She taps her chest. ‘I’m Cora. Bea’s friend.’

‘The one with the shitty boyfriend who wouldn’t share a couch?’ Malcolm says.

I wince and am about to say something to try to smooth it over, but Cora gets there first. ‘Yes, that’s me. He’s not my boyfriend any more.’

‘Good.’ Malcolm’s nod is firm. ‘Are you coming?’

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