Page 42 of The Day Shelley Woodhouse Woke Up
‘Oh shit,’ he says. ‘Have I done the wrong thing? Does this just remind you of everything you can’t have at the moment?’
‘No, no, it’s not that, it’s just…’
It’s just so thoughtful. Why didn’t I choose a man who brings me holiday brochures to plan a future trip when I’m recovering in hospital, instead of one who puts me there in the first place? That’s really the question, when I get to it.
‘Do you want me to go? Or start again, without the brochures? It was just supposed to be a bit of fun, but I can make them disappear. Or I can get tea? I know how you like it now.’
I find that I’m laughing, and I brush away the tears. ‘It’s fine. I just wasn’t expecting this, that’s all. You’ve already done so much, and you can’t possibly do this for all the people you visit here.’
‘Well, I’ll let you in to a little secret,’ he says. He lowers his voice, leans in. ‘You’re my favourite.’
‘Oh yes, and who is my competition?’
‘There’s Fred on Ward Seven,’ he says, ‘who likes talking about the different breeds of dog he’s owned over the years, and Marjorie on Ward Fourteen, who seems to think I’m her grandson and is always trying to give me Fruit Pastilles.’
‘And I’m your favourite, even though I don’t have Fruit Pastilles?’
‘You are,’ he says solemnly.
It feels like flirting, and I’m like a bottle of pop that’s been shaken up. I feel like a teenager, all giddy and light. And that’s what makes me think of Annabelle.
‘Do you think it’s normal to lose touch with your best friend?’ I ask.
He shakes his head slightly, as if adjusting to the topic swerve.
‘Dee?’ he asks, looking confused.
‘No, not Dee. Dee’s my grown-up best friend. But my childhood and teenage best friend, Annabelle, we don’t talk now. There was no argument or anything, just a gradual decline.’
Matt considers this. ‘To be honest, I think it’s more strange when childhood friendships last into adulthood. Most of them are based on things like whether you preferred Spiderman to Superman or what your favourite colour was. If you get to be adults and you still like each other and have things in common, that seems like a bonus to me. But I don’t think you can expect it.’
He’s right, I think. Annabelle and I made friends because we had the same lunchbox. Care Bears. And that was it; we were by each other’s sides for the next decade. More.
‘Are you still friends with anyone from your childhood?’ I ask.
‘Just my brother and sister.’
I laugh again. ‘What are they like?’
‘She’s great. She’s a social worker, really cares about people. He’s a bit of a dick, if I’m honest. Really tall, handsome. That guy who women think is sweet and sincere, because he is. Clever, too. It was pretty hard to follow him through school, I have to say. Teachers would say ‘Oh, you’re Michael’s brother, are you?’ like they couldn’t quite believe it was true. He went to Oxford and he’s a management accountant for some big City firm and he has an incredible wife and twin baby daughters.’
‘Wow,’ I say. ‘That’s… a lot.’
And then something occurs to me, and I’m not sure I want to know the answer, but I can’t stop myself from asking.
‘Do you have any?’
‘Any?’
‘Kids?’
‘Oh, kids. No.’
He looks at me for a long moment, and there’s a tinge of something that might be sadness and might be wistfulness, but I don’t know him well enough to know the difference.
‘Do you?’ he asks, and his voice is a bit thick, as if he needs to swallow.
‘No.’
