Someone Else's Shoes(54)

“Then, sir, I’m afraid we cannot give you your medication.”

“He needs his medication! That’s what the doctor said!”

“I’ve explained the rules, madam.”

“No. You’re just discriminating. You’re meant to respect your patient’s wishes and you’re just ignoring what he wants. He’s not a vegetable, you know.”

“I’m not a vegetable,” affirms the man.

Sam glances at her watch. She has been here an hour and forty minutes and in that time the nurses have had to deal with three no-shows, a hysterical teenager and endless, endless patients who seem to feel the failure of this unit to run to their exact requirements is some kind of personal affront. She meets the nurse’s eye, briefly, and tries to raise a smile, but drops it when the ponytailed woman shoots her a look.

“What are you staring at?” she spits at Sam.

“Nothing,” says Sam, blushing.

“You want to mind your own business.”

“Yeah,” says the other woman, who might be her sister. She walks so that she is a couple of feet from Sam, her shoulders square and her chin jutting. “You want to butt out.”

Sam tries to think of something to say but cannot think of anything, so just lifts up her magazine and tries to hide the uncomfortable flush that has stained her cheeks. As she does this, the boy finally pulls over the water dispenser, which collapses in a gush, soaking her feet. Security is called, there is yelling and an attempt to mop up the water, someone starts to cry, and eventually the man is wheeled out, with his extended family, still cursing, into the corridor. It is at this point that Andrea appears. She is ghost white, her lips pinched together. Sam leaps up and puts on her mask to meet her.

“How was the scan?”

“Bloody marvelous. Can’t wait to come back,” she says.

“Well, thank you again for bringing me to all the hot places,” Sam says.

“Don’t start shouting about it. Everyone will want to come.”

Andrea threads her arm through Sam’s and they walk slowly to the car park.

In the car, Andrea doesn’t speak. Sam has done this trip enough times now—and has been friends long enough—to know when to leave her be, and when to try to lift her spirits. Halfway back from the hospital, though, she looks at the whiteness of Andrea’s knuckles and reaches behind her for the soft blanket in the rear seat. She waits until they are at the traffic-lights and places it gently over Andrea’s lap. Neither of them says a word, but a few minutes later Andrea reaches across and squeezes Sam’s hand. She doesn’t let go until Sam has to indicate and finds her eyes welling with tears, unsure whether it was just a thank-you or someone reaching for a life raft.

“It will be okay, you know,” she says. “I have a good feeling about this one.”

She gives Andrea ?740 to cover her month’s mortgage when she leaves. Andrea doesn’t say anything but stares at the check, then puts a pale hand over her mouth and shakes her head. She puts the check carefully on the sideboard and holds her friend tightly.

They both know that Andrea doesn’t have it, that the mortgage company has refused for weeks to confirm whether they will give her a payment holiday, that the benefits do not cover Andrea’s meager outgoings. Only one of them knows that it is nearly all that remains of Sam’s savings.

I didn’t have a choice, she tells herself, to try to quell the fear that rises in a bubble in her chest as she drives away. She would have done the same for me.



* * *



? ? ?

The following morning she is on the phone to the builder about the fact that Phil has still not moved the camper-van when Simon finds her. She turns while she is in the middle of the call, suddenly conscious of someone watching her, and he is standing a few feet away, one finger tapping the face of his oversized watch, his face solemn.

“Well, can you move it?” she murmurs into the phone. “If he’s not answering the door perhaps he’s gone out. Look, the key for the ignition is under the wheel arch. It’s not locked. I know . . . I know it has a flat tire. But you only need to back it onto the street . . .”

Simon walks round, his pace slow and deliberate, so that he is standing directly in front of her. She glances up, one hand over the mouthpiece.

“I’m so sorry. I’m at work. There’s nothing I can do from here . . . Please don’t do that—look, I’ll try to reach him and get it moved. Please don’t go. I’m sure he can sort it . . . Hello? . . . Hello?”

Simon beckons her to his office and closes the door behind her. His office is made of glass so that everyone can see when you’re being dressed down. She looks round and sees a couple of co-workers glance her way awkwardly across the cubicles. They know. They all know.

Simon sits down, sighing as if this very conversation causes him pain. “Sam, I’m afraid I’ve reached a point where I can no longer ignore your failure to do your job properly.”

“What?”

He doesn’t invite her to sit.

“The thing is, you’re not a team player.”

“What? How—”

“I’ve given you every chance. But you’re not up to speed. You’re not reliable.”

“Hang on. I’m as good as anyone else here.”