I Owe You One(72)

Chocolates? Sweets?

But what if his mouth got bashed and he can’t eat?

My stomach gives a nasty twinge at the thought, and I shake my head to dispel my worst fears. I’ll see him soon enough. I’ll know the full picture.

Then the answer hits me: a plant! It’s uplifting and natural like flowers but not quite as frilly. And it’ll last longer. There’s bound to be a plant shop somewhere on the way.

I check the hospital website for visiting times, phone Greg to make sure he’s opened up, change my outfit three times, google plant shops, spray myself with scent, then stare at myself in the mirror. I’m wearing nothing fancy: just jeans and a nice top.

OK, my best jeans. And my nicest top. It’s chiffony and a bit dressy, with sheer sleeves. But it’s not too dressy, definitely not, it’s simply … nice. It’s a nice top.

Which is of course totally irrelevant. In sudden shame, I realize I’ve been looking at my reflection for three minutes and hastily turn away. As if what I look like matters. Come on. Time to go.

—

The nearest florist to the hospital is called Plants and Petals, and as I arrive I feel it should be hauled up for misrepresentation. There are no plants, only flowers. And those are mostly of the frilly pink variety.

“Oh, hi,” I say to the girl behind the counter. “I’m after a plant. Quite a plain plant. For a man,” I clarify. “It needs to be masculine-looking. Strong-looking.”

I’m hoping she might say, “Step this way, the masculine plants are in the back,” but she just sweeps an aimless hand around and says, “Help yourself. Carnations are half price.”

“Yes,” I say patiently, “but I don’t want carnations, I want a plant. A masculine plant.”

The girl looks blankly at me as though she has no idea what a masculine plant is. I mean, come on. Masculine plants are definitely a thing. And if they’re not, then they should be.

“Don’t you do any yuccas?” I ask. “Or really plain spider plants? You’re called Plants and Petals,” I add, almost accusingly. “Where are the plants?”

“Yeah, we don’t really do plants no more,” she says with a shrug. “Except the orchids. Very popular, the orchids.”

She points at a row of pots on a nearby shelf, each containing a single orchid. Each beautiful flower is tethered to a little wooden stake, and they look quite cool and minimal.

A guy might like an orchid. Mightn’t he?

“OK, I’ll take this one,” I say, grabbing the most minimal orchid of the lot. It has only two white blooms, with large, shell-shaped petals.

“Gift wrap?” asks the girl, beginning to pull out a sheet of iridescent pink cellophane. “You get a free ribbon,” she adds. “Pink or purple?”

“No, thanks!” I say hastily. “No gift wrap. It’s fine as it is. Thanks. Although I would like a card.”

I choose the least garish Get Well option and write:

Dear Seb

Wishing you a speedy recovery

Fixie

Then I pay for the orchid and hurry along the streets to the hospital, wishing I’d remembered my gloves. It’s bloody freezing, even though the Snowpocalypse hasn’t hit. As I reach the hospital entrance, a few shell-shaped orchid petals blow away in the breeze, and I curse myself for not asking if there was any plain cellophane.

Anyway, never mind. I’m here now.

Clutching the orchid, I head to the main desk and eventually discover that Seb is on Nelson Ward on the fourth floor. As I rise up in the crowded lift, my heart starts thudding and my hands suddenly feel a little damp.

I mean, this is a good idea, isn’t it?

“Noah!” exclaims a woman. “Leave the lady’s flower alone!”

I turn my head and to my horror see a toddler in his mother’s arms, triumphantly clutching a fistful of orchid petals.

Shit. What’s he done? There are only about six petals left on the plant now.

I whisk the orchid away out of danger and survey it anxiously. It still looks OK. It just looks even more minimal. Super-minimal.

“I’m so sorry,” says the mother, and I notice that the toddler has a cast on his foot and, really, am I going to make a fuss in a hospital? So I smile and say, “Not to worry,” and cradle the precious orchid with both arms until we reach the fourth floor.

As I reach Nelson Ward, I’m starting to lose confidence. My throat is tight with apprehension. My legs have lost their bounce. What if— What if he’s— Oh God, what if— My head is looping around all kinds of disastrous possibilities, and a large part of me wants to run away and forget it.

But somehow I force myself to walk forward, ask a nurse for Sebastian Marlowe, and make my way to his cubicle. He’s in a ward of four beds, and his is at the far end. As I approach, it’s fully screened by a printed curtain.

“Knock knock,” I say, my voice a bit shaky. “Are you there, Seb? It’s Fixie.”

There’s no reply, so I peep round the curtain, and there he is. Alone. And asleep.

I survey him silently, my heart thumping in reflexive terror, which gradually subsides. His face is bruised. His hair has been shaved a little at the temple, and he’s got a dressing there that makes me wince. One of his ankles is strapped up in a bandage, I notice. But he doesn’t seem to be on life support or anything like that. My stomach gives the most almighty lurch of relief, and without meaning to, I exhale hugely. He’s OK. He’s alive.