After the End(23)

“I told them to take a few days to think about it, to ask me as many questions as they want, and to consider what’s best for their son.”

A man emerges from Maternity with a laden car seat in each hand, biceps flexed as he tries to stop them banging against his legs. Behind him a petite blond woman walks with the careful gait of the recent mother. Leila smiles at the new parents, and they beam back. They have a mix of pride and fear on their faces; the responsibility of solo parenthood settling further onto their shoulders with each step away from the midwives. He’ll drive slower home, now, than he’s ever driven. She’ll sit in the back, between her babies, because if she can’t see their faces, something terrible might happen and she won’t know.

Leila and Nick duck between Maternity and Research, toward the narrow gap in the hedge that acts as an unofficial entrance to the hospital, saving the five-minute walk around to the main road. They go to the King’s Arms, close to the hospital, and consequently always occupied by medics grabbing a pint after work, or an exhausted on-call coffee. Leila should be somewhere else—she is late, very late, for her friend Ruby’s birthday dinner—but she needs to decompress before she surfaces into the real world.

Neither of them is drinking alcohol. Leila doesn’t, and Nick is on call, and so they order two coffees and carry them to a free table, where Nick looks at Leila thoughtfully. “What do you want them to decide?”

Leila’s heart is heavy. Want is the wrong word. She does not want to put Dylan’s parents in this predicament at all. But Leila’s job is full of difficult conversations.

“I think they should let him go,” she says eventually.

A gaggle of women burst through the door, talking all at once. Perianal abscess . . . wouldn’t bloody lie still . . . Both of us, covered in pus! They order wine—Large or small, ladies? Oh, large, definitely!—and stand at the bar until they’ve all been served.

“And if they don’t think that?” Nick pauses, giving weight to what follows. “Have you thought about your next steps?”

Leila’s mother struggles to understand Nick’s role in Leila’s working life. “He’s a teacher?” Habibeh said. “You’re studying again?”

“I’m always studying, Maman, but no, he’s not a teacher. He’s a mentor.”

Have you thought about your next steps?

In all the times Leila has known Nick, he has never once given her the answer. Instead, he has asked questions. Asked for her thoughts, then reassured her. See, you know what to do. You know what you’re doing. In all the years Leila has gone to Nick for advice, she has always already known the answer.

Until now.

Her silence speaks for her, and she looks down at her coffee. When Nick speaks, it’s gentle but insistent.

“Maybe you should.”

Leila thinks that perhaps she won’t go to Ruby’s birthday dinner. She is, after all, embarrassingly late anyway, and she would not be good company. “Are you hungry?” she asks, before she can decide not to. “We could get something to eat?”

There is an awkward silence, then Nick smiles kindly, which is worse than the silence because it is clear that Nick doesn’t want to upset or offend, and now Leila wants to crawl under the table and disappear. “I need to get back,” he says. “Family stuff.”

Family stuff. His wife.

“Sure.” Leila’s cheeks are on fire. She hadn’t meant . . .

Or had she?

“Another time.”

“Sure.” She stands up, knocking against the table in her rush to be gone. “I’m supposed to be at a party anyway—I guess I should show my face, at least.” She’s glad of the text message that pings her phone as she walks away, giving her something to do with her hands. The number isn’t saved in her phone.

Lime and soda! reads the text. Jim the paramedic has finally worked out Leila’s drink of choice. He would like to take her for a drink. Next week?

Sure, she texts. Why not?



* * *





    The restaurant is busy, and Leila scours the tables for her friend. “I’m so sorry, Ruby. Work.”

“No worries,” Ruby says, but this has happened too often for the smile she gives to reach her eyes. There is a reason why doctors and nurses socialize together, why they date, why they marry. There are fewer explanations needed, fewer apologies.

Ruby moves up so Leila can squeeze onto the bench seat next to her. Leila leans across to kiss Ruby’s husband, waves to Scott and Danni, who are midconversation on the other side of the table, and looks around to see who else she knows. There are a dozen of them, here for a belated fortieth-birthday dinner for Ruby, the first person Leila met when she moved to the UK to do her MA. Ruby was embarking on a PGCE, following what she called a midlife-crisis decision to leave her nice safe accountancy job and become a science teacher. Eight years on, she’s the deputy head of a school the local paper refers to as “challenging,” with a social life restricted to half-terms and holidays.

“We’re on dessert,” Ruby says. Everyone has finished their main courses, the tables cleared away and the once-white tablecloth marked by half-moon wine stains and oil-slicked olive dishes. Leila orders a virgin mojito, and dips a piece of leftover bread in balsamic vinegar. The air is filled with the clink of cutlery; the chatter of conversation punctuated with laughter. So much laughter. She looks around the room. On the central tables, beneath the vast chandeliers, it’s mostly groups—the odd hen party, and perhaps a delayed Christmas do or two. On the outskirts of the restaurant are smaller tables, where low lighting casts shadows over courting couples. An older couple, dressed for the theater, check watches and rush the bill. Lives full of celebration, love, happiness. Leila’s throat constricts and she forces down a mouthful of bread. She wonders what Max and Pip are doing now. Whether they’ve decided.