The Flatshare(57)

‘Let’s give her some space. Can we have everyone out, please? Yes, don’t worry,’ Leon says, getting up to usher people from the room. ‘Just let me do an examination with a bit of peace and quiet.’

A lot of people say things about what to do if we need anything. They file out one by one.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, as the door closes behind everyone. I cough; it’s still hard to talk.

‘None of that,’ Leon says. ‘How are you feeling now?’

‘Cold and a bit achy.’

‘I didn’t see you go down. Do you remember if you banged your head on a rock or anything?’

He kicks off his shoes and pulls his feet up to sit cross-legged on the end of the bed. I notice, finally, that he’s soaking wet and shivering too.

‘Shit, you’re drenched!’

‘Just reassure me you’ve not got brain fluid seeping out from anywhere. Then I’ll go get changed, OK?’

I smile a little. ‘Sorry. No, I don’t think I banged my head. Just twisted my ankle.’

‘That’s good. And can you tell me where we are?’

‘Brighton.’ I look around. ‘Hey, and the only place I’ve ever been with nearly as much floral wallpaper as my mother’s house.’ The full sentence makes me cough, but it’s worth it to see Leon’s frown loosen a little, and his lopsided grin return.

‘I’ll take that as a correct answer. Can you tell me your full name?’

‘Tiffany Rose Moore.’

‘Didn’t know the middle name. Rose – it suits you.’

‘Shouldn’t you be asking me questions you know the answers to?’

‘I think I liked you better when you were all drowned and dopey.’ Leon leans forward, one hand raised, and lifts his palm to my cheek. It’s very intense and a little out of nowhere. I blink as he stares into my eyes, checking for something, I guess. ‘Are you feeling at all sleepy?’ he asks.

‘Umm. Not really. I’m tired, but not in a sleepy way.’

He nods and then, a little belatedly, drops his hand from my cheek. ‘I’m going to give my colleague a ring. She’s a doctor, and she’s just come off her rotation in Accident and Emergency, so she’ll know the drill with an ankle exam. Is that OK? Pretty sure it’s just a sprain from your history and what I’ve seen of how you’re moving, but we’d better check.’

‘Umm. Sure.’

It’s strange being in the room for a conversation between Leon and one of the doctors he works with. He’s no different – just as quiet and measured as when he speaks to me, with just the same lilting touch of an Irish accent – but he seems more . . . grown up.

‘OK, it’s a pretty simple exam,’ Leon says, turning back to me once he’s hung up. His forehead is furrowed in a frown, and he perches on the bed again, shifting the blankets so he can reach my ankle. ‘Are you happy for me to give it a go? See if you need to go to A&E?’

I swallow, suddenly a little nervous. ‘OK.’

He pauses, looking at me for a moment as if he’s wondering whether I’ll change my mind, and my cheeks get hot. Then he slowly presses his fingers to the skin of my ankle, gently feeling for different points until I wince with pain.

‘Sorry,’ he says, laying a cool hand on my leg. My skin goes goosepimply almost instantaneously, and I pull the blanket up, a little embarrassed. Leon twists my foot very gently from side to side, eyes moving from my ankle to my face as he tries to gauge my reaction.

‘How painful is that, out of ten?’ he asks.

‘I don’t know, like, six?’ I’m really thinking eight eight eight but I don’t want to seem pathetic.

The corner of Leon’s mouth lifts a little and I get the impression he knows exactly what I’m doing. As he continues examining me, I watch his hands move over my skin, and I wonder why I’ve never realised how peculiarly intimate medical stuff like this is, how much of it’s about touch. I guess generally you’re in a GP’s surgery, not scantily clad and in a big double bed.

‘Right.’ Leon sets my foot down gently. ‘I’d say you have officially sprained your ankle. You probably don’t need to bother with five hours in A&E, to be honest. But we can go if you’d like?’

I shake my head. I feel like I’m in safe hands right here.

Someone knocks at the door, and then a middle-aged lady appears with two steaming mugs and a pile of clothes.

‘Oh, perfect. Thank you.’ Leon grabs the mugs from her and passes one to me. It’s hot chocolate, and it smells amazing.

‘I took the liberty of making yours an Irish one,’ the woman says, giving me a wink. ‘I’m Babs. How’re you holding up?’

I take a deep, shuddering breath. ‘A lot better now I’m here. Thank you so much.’

‘Could you just stay with her while I change?’ Leon asks Babs.

‘I don’t need . . .’ I start coughing again.

‘Watch her like a hawk,’ Leon says warningly, and then he’s slipped off to the bathroom.





40


Leon

Lean back on bathroom door, eyes closed. No concussion and a sprained ankle. Could have been much, much worse.