Page 39 of The Day Shelley Woodhouse Woke Up
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she says, and there are tears in her eyes. ‘Please, Shell, just concentrate on getting better, okay?’
She’s gone by the time Matt returns with a fork in one hand and a small tray with two steaming plastic cups in the other.
‘She had to go,’ I say when he raises his eyebrows to ask what’s happened. ‘And… you don’t have to do all this for me, you know.’
‘Getting a fork?’
‘Not just getting a fork. The tea, and the food, and the magazines and all that. It’s so kind.’
I must be gesturing with my hands when I talk because he puts one of his hands on mine, and it’s warm and smooth.
‘It’s all right,’ he says. ‘I wanted to do it.’
He sits down, blows on his own drink to cool it. When he looks up again, I notice that he looks tired, and I want to ask whether things are all right. But I’m not sure what the rules of this relationship are. We’re not friends, are we? This is a job, for him. One he volunteers for, but still. It’s not a natural situation, like meeting someone in the pub and getting talking.
‘So,’ he says. ‘Brain Injury Unit. You’ll be swanning into the restaurant soon, buying your own curry.’
I picture it for a second. Being up and out of bed, able to go where I like. And the idea of me choosing to go to the hospital restaurant makes me laugh.
‘I feel better,’ I say.
‘You look better.’
I realise I haven’t looked in a mirror in all this time. Jamie said earlier that they’re going to take my catheter out, so I’ll need to start getting up to go to the toilet. What will I see, when I look at my reflection? I’m a bit scared to find out.
‘If we’re being honest,’ I say, ‘you look sort of tired.’
He runs a hand over his face, shakes his head a little. ‘I’m shattered.’
‘Not sleeping?’
‘Not really. Things are sort of strange for me, at the moment. At home.’
I don’t say anything for a moment, because we’ve never really gone into any detail about his life outside the hospital. I don’t know whether he’s married, or has children. I’ve looked for a ring, and there isn’t one, but that doesn’t mean anything.
‘Do you want to talk about it?’ I ask at last.
‘I’m not sure. It’s really complicated.’
‘Does it involve a woman?’
‘It does.’
‘Aha. I knew it.’
My tone is carefully light but there’s disappointment in my face and I just hope he doesn’t see it. It’s silly, these feelings I’ve developed for him. It’s like a schoolgirl crush. I think about school, about Annabelle, who I haven’t seen for years, about the boys who I felt so strongly for. I wonder where they ended up, all of them.
‘I’ll tell you all about it sometime,’ he says. ‘But not today.’
And I long for and simultaneously dread that day arriving. I try to think of something to say, but he beats me to it.
‘How’s your food?’
‘So good. I’ve remembered I have tastebuds.’
He laughs. ‘Well, I’m glad. I’ll be sure to tell Jonny.’
‘The chef?’
