Page 32 of The Moment I Met You
As he puts that thought into words I feel a flutter of panic unfurl in my chest. I have a lot of love left for Harry – but is that my future now? Giving up my career, my own needs, to look after his? I refuse to engage with that thought. It is too much.
‘So we have to think about the financials,’ he continues, matter-of-factly, ‘and this could be quite lucrative. There is rehab to pay for, he might need somewhere new to live … there will be expenses. We can help, of course, but this is one way he can help himself, which I think would be good for him.’
‘Have you asked Harry about it?’ I say, hopeful that he will feel the same as I do – horrified.
‘Briefly, this morning. He thought it was a good idea and we were going to discuss it with you this afternoon, but … well, events overtook us. Anyway. You look exhausted. Why don’t you go and have a rest, a nap maybe?’
I nod, and force a smile onto my face as we say our goodbyes.
I don’t go for a nap, or a rest. I go to the canteen. I know he will be there, and I know that I will feel better for talking to him. Or being silent with him. Just being with him, really.
I scan the room, the tables full of staff and visitors and even a few patients, until I see him. He is sitting with a coffee, looking at his new phone. Even seeing him there, his blonde head bent, unties knots I didn’t notice developing.
We have a ritual, Alex and I. Every day, we meet here, and we go up to the balcony to watch the sunset together. Part of me feels guilty for it – for having this escape, this refuge. For having a friend. For having a world outside Harry’s hospital room, if only for an hour a day.
But I need it – and I know it can’t last forever. I know that eventually, Alex will leave. He will go back to his real life, and I will go back to mine, whatever that might look like. I will miss him, too much.
He is stirring his coffee into submission as I walk over to him. I lay a hand on his shoulder, and apologise for being late.
‘You’re not late,’ he replies, smiling as I sink into the seat opposite him. ‘We don’t have an appointment.’
‘Well, we kind of do, don’t we? An unofficial one. You looked serious then. Penny for them?’
He frowns. ‘Individually, I understand all of those words. Together they don’t make much sense.’
‘I mean, if I give you a penny, will you tell me what your thoughts were? It’s just an English saying. You probably have an equivalent.’
He ponders for a moment. ‘We’d probably just sayvad tänker du på? Just what it should be – what are you thinking? There would be no financial incentives offered.’
‘Right,’ I say, fishing around in the pocket of my jeans and placing a shiny coin on the table top. ‘Well, it’s this kind of mercenary attitude that made us an empire … maybe. Anyway. Here you go. Now I own them. Your thoughts.’
He stares at it seriously, then looks into my eyes. It feels suddenly intense, suddenly a little too warm, suddenly intimate. I wonder if I really do want to know his thoughts, or if they’d just add to the chaos that is my life right now.
‘Sorry, I’m not that cheap,’ he says eventually.
‘That’s not what I’ve read on the bathroom wall …’
It takes him a minute to figure that one out as well, but it’s easier. He grins, and raises his eyebrows.
I’m tapping my fingernails on the table top, loosely in time to the song of the moment – a Spanish language production of Britney Spears’s ‘Toxic’. I feel weirdly wired, like a zoo animal staring through my bars, planning an escape.
‘What are you looking at?’ I ask, pointing to his phone.
‘Just catching up with news from home.’
‘From Stockholm?’
‘Yes. It’s practicing for Christmas right now. Dressing up.’
‘Oh, I bet it’s lovely at Christmas! Tell me about it!’
He smiles, and nods, and tells me. I’m not sure if I’ll ever get to travel now, or even if I am brave enough any more, and I enjoy listening to his tales almost as much as being there myself.
‘It is magical, Elena. There’s a market at the Kungliga Hovstallet, the royal stables. The streets of the old town in Gamla Stan come alive, and everything smells of gingerbread and mulled wine and candied almonds.
‘There’s usually snow, and in the middle of December there is this thing called the Lucia Procession. Little girls and boys dressed in white, with their stars and lanterns, singing to St Lucy and banishing darkness with candle-light and song. The decorations go up, and there’s ice skating at Kungsträdgården. People wrap up warm and sit outside to eat and drink, and there’s dancing, and music, and … well. Yes. It is lovely.’
I sigh, and picture it all.
