squealing across a blackboard. Reluctantly, she leaned over and switched on the telly. That was the trouble with flats. In her old cottage, every room, every floor, every inch was hers. No noisy neighbours, no crying babies. She could summon silence at will. Now it was cooking programmes or politics or the God slot, or some old Sunday film. It was the only way she knew to drown out the world.
*
Laura and Fiona were taking a break. They sat, as they often did, on the wall outside the hospital, watching the world go by, assorted pre-packed sandwiches in plastic triangles open beside them. Fiona was allowed to reduce prices as sell-by dates were reached, and then there was her usual staff discount on top, so it made sense to take advantage. Whatever flavour wasn’t selling so well … that’s what they’d eat. They weren’t too fussy. Variety is the spice of life, after all.
At least they were out in the fresh air. There were a few wilting pansies, the last of the season, in a basket by the main doors, a narrow patch of well-trodden grass at their feet, and they could just about hear the fountain above the noise from the car park, and the occasional wail of incoming ambulances. All in all, better than the canteen. And, anyway, they both agreed that it was so much easier to buy ready-made food than to be messing about with slicing cheese and cutting up salad at seven in the morning, when heating up the hair straighteners and finding a clean pair of knickers were much more important priorities. Not that either of them were likely to find a lot of salad just lying about in their fridges, if they were absolutely honest about it.
As nurses go, Laura was only too aware that she was not among the fittest and healthiest of specimens. Her changing shift patterns, early morning starts and late finishes, and day-off trips home to see her parents left little enough opportunity to have any kind of meaningful social life, let alone find the time for proper cooking or to go to the gym. Her uniform was starting to strain a bit around the hips and bum, and she already needed the fingers of a whole hand to count the number of times she’d eaten chips this week.
‘He was all right, I suppose,’ Fiona was saying. ‘If you like that sort of thing …’
‘What sort of thing?’ Laura took a bite out of the soggy white bread, now slightly pink from being saturated in over-ripe tomato. ‘I thought when you went on these dating sites, you could ask for exactly what you wanted. You know, list all his attributes, try before you buy!’
‘Well, yes, I’d seen his photo, obviously. And we’d chatted online, but it’s not the same, is it? There are things you’re never going to be able to tell until you meet in the flesh.’
Laura’s mind boggled. ‘Like?’
‘Well, like his breath for one thing. Onions, garlic, tobacco. You name it, he must have eaten it – and the big lips didn’t help. Yuk! Like rubber. I know now why he had his mouth shut so tightly in the picture.’
Laura laughed, almost choking on a chunk of cucumber. ‘Never again, then?’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that. You have to kiss a lot of frogs before your prince comes along, as they say. So, it’s onwards and upwards. Plenty more fish in the murky waters of the sea. And tonight it’s Harry.’
‘Harry?’
‘Yep. Same agency, ’cos I do have to try to get my moneys’ worth before I knock it on the head. But this one looks all right. Bit weedy, maybe. More sprat than shark, if you know what I mean. But he works in some city insurance place, so he’s bound to be minted. We’re meeting for cocktails, then dinner. No cut-price sarnies for me tonight. Well, if I play my cards right, anyhow. Little black dress, and condoms at the ready!’
‘Fiona, you are terrible. You will be careful though, won’t you?’
‘I told you. Condoms packed and ready to go. How much more careful do you want me to be?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Life’s shit sometimes. He’s a stranger. Things happen. Just look after yourself, that’s all I’m saying. But you go and have fun. And eat yourself silly. Why not, if he’s paying? Don’t take any notice of me. I’m probably just jealous, that’s all.’
They screwed up their wrappers and walked them over to the overflowing bin where a couple of drowsy wasps were diving in and out among the leftovers.
‘See you tomorrow? You can tell me all about it.’
‘Yeah, sure. I might even persuade you to have a go yourself. Wish me luck, anyway.’ And Fiona was off, her high heels clacking noisily across the concrete, hastily checking her phone one last time before the sliding glass doors pulled her back inside and quickly swallowed her up.
Laura stood for a moment. Luck. That’s what it all comes down to in the end. Who you meet, what you look like, what happens to you. Did she choose this job, this friend, these hips? Or did they just happen? Fate. Destiny. Luck. Who knows what’s waiting around the corner?
She glanced at her watch, its overlarge face hanging upside down from a silver chain above her breast. Was there time before she was due back? Yes, there was.
There was a queue for the lifts. Sunday visiting, straight after lunch. Always a busy time. When the first one came, she squeezed inside, along with at least a dozen others. There was a smell of pungent flowers, lukewarm burgers, lots of sweat. A small boy eased his way to the front, his hand outstretched, eager to be the one to push the buttons. ‘Six, please,’ Laura said, when it was her turn to tell him where she wanted to go, and the lift rumbled its way upwards, stopping at just about every floor to let people out and a few replacement people in, several of them grumbling that it was going up when they really wanted it to go down and sending the boy into a frenzy of excited button-pushing, until the woman with him grabbed him by the sleeve and hauled him out at level five.
Intensive Care was always quiet. There was a rather sad air, a mixture of fear and expectation that hit her as soon as the doors opened to Laura’s push of the intercom. She went inside, closing the doors as silently as she could behind her.
‘You back again?’ the sister called across to her. It was the same one from earlier, the jolly black one with curly grey hair pulled back into a straggly bun. Cora Jenkins, according to her badge. Laura couldn’t remember ever seeing a black person with such grey hair before. It was very distinctive. Striking. Cora pushed the file she was writing in aside and beckoned her over. ‘Anyone would think you were family!’
‘No, but until one appears, I’ll have to do.’ Laura dunked her hands under the anti-bac dispenser on the wall and rubbed them hastily together before moving to the nurses’ station. ‘Still nothing?’
‘Not a thing. We’re no nearer to knowing who she is. There were just the keys in her pocket and a cross around her neck. Ordinary high street clothes, no bag, no tattoos or anything like that. Nothing to help ID her at all. The police are on to it, but nobody’s been. Seems like, wherever she’s come from, our mystery girl hasn’t even been missed. Sad, isn’t it?’
‘And how is she? Has she opened her eyes? Tried to talk? Anything?’
‘Not yet, I’m afraid. The leg’s been sorted, as you know. They’ve done what they can in theatre to relieve the pressure on her brain and her blood pressure is more or less back on track. Look, lovey, she’s as stable as she can be under the circumstances.’ She shook her head. ‘They want to keep her under a while longer, give her a chance to recover before they try to wake her up, so she won’t be back with us and talking just yet. It’s still early days …’
‘Can I go in?’
‘Course you can, my love. You know where I am if you need me.’ And she turned her attention back to her paperwork as Laura made her way along the corridor of little side rooms, each patient encased in their own private bubble, until she reached the right door.
She eased it open quietly, nodding to a nurse who was just replacing the clipboard at the end of the bed and was about to leave. ‘No change,’ she whispered, touching Laura’s arm. ‘We’re still doing the breathing for her, just for now anyway. To help her