Page 28 of The Day Shelley Woodhouse Woke Up
‘Ah, no. Not after you shot me down.’ He clutches his heart as if it’s been pierced with an arrow.
I can’t help smiling. But then Derek leans across and asks me for a packet of peanuts, and as soon as I’ve given it to him and he’s paid, someone else is asking for a bottle of Merlot, and I don’t get to speak to David again until he orders another drink.
‘What’s your name?’ he asks.
‘Shelley.’ Sometimes, when men are trying it on, I give them a false name. But it gets confusing, trying to remember who you’ve told what. And everyone in here knows I’m Shelley. All he would have to do, if I didn’t tell him myself, is ask around.
‘I’m David,’ he says.
All the Davids I have ever known have called themselves Dave. There’s something appealing about him using his full name. It seems to fit with the idea I’m building of him. Smart and clean and confident.
‘Can I get you another drink, David?’
‘Yes please. And I’d like your phone number, too, if that’s all right.’
I’m not quite ready to give that up. Not so soon.
‘Nice try,’ I say.
He shrugs, as if it doesn’t matter to him one way or the other. But then, when he’s drained that second drink and is leaving, he leans across the bar.
‘I’ll change your mind,’ he says.
It makes my heart pound. I am young, and I want this. Want someone to fight for me, to persuade me. And so, though I don’t give my number to him for another week or so, my mind has already changed. In some small but oh-so important way, I am already his.
17
NOW
Things move slowly in this place. Sometimes you ask for water and you’re still thirsty an hour later, so I don’t know when Angela will take Mum’s number from me, but at least I’ve set something in motion. I want to get this done before I can change my mind.
I’m surprised when Angela brings me a notepad and pencil on her next visit to check my obs.
‘Want me to write it?’ she asks.
‘No, I want to try.’
She puts the paper and pencil down on my tray table and pushes it so it’s in the right position over the bed, then uses the remote control to move me into a sitting up position. I pick up the pencil and my hand feels clumsy, like I’ve got pins and needles or I’m wearing a massive glove. It takes me longer than it should but I write the number down, the digits big and uneven on the page. It’s one of the only phone numbers I know off by heart – the landline at my childhood home.
Angela takes it from me and then surprises me again by pulling up a chair and sitting down by my bed. I’ve only ever seen her standing or walking around.
‘You know, we see a lot of mothers in here. When people are very ill, it’s the mothers who come, first and foremost. We thought perhaps you didn’t have one.’
‘Everyone has a mother.’
‘You know what I mean, though.’
I do. She assumed my mother was dead, because what other reason could there possibly be for a mother to stay away, when their child is close to death?
‘We’re not close. We haven’t always got on.’
Angela nods. ‘I’ve got a daughter. Fifteen. First ten years of her life, she would hardly let me go to the toilet in peace. Would have come to work with me and slept in my bed if I’d let her. And now, she barely speaks. Just asks me for money and to take her places. We don’t argue, so much. It’s more that she treats me like I’m a stranger.’
‘It wasn’t like that,’ I say.
‘Oh gosh, I wasn’t suggesting that. Just chatting.’
‘Oh.’ I feel wrong-footed, like I’ve jumped to the wrong conclusion and run. Still, she doesn’t get up to go. And I find myself wanting to talk, wanting to tell her. ‘I never had a dad, so it was always me and her, plus her mum. I thought that was what family was.’
