“I heard, are you excited?” I try to echo her enthusiasm but it sounds fake to my jaded ears. That nagging feeling in my gut just won’t disappear.
“I can’t wait. Mum says we can decorate my room and buy a new bed cover.”
See? I tell myself. No mention of Darren. I’m not heartless enough to put a dampener on her enthusiasm by sharing my concerns.
“Wow, what kind are you going to buy?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know, definitely something pink. I love pink.”
Her stating of the obvious makes me smile. I’m about to reply when her support worker pops his head around the door and looks at Allegra. “Are you ready? I’ve got a cab waiting outside.”
“Sorry. I kept her back.” I flash him a smile and grab a piece of scrap paper from my desk, hastily scribbling my mobile phone number on it, passing it to Allegra. “Here, make sure you keep this number with you in case you need anything,” I say, trying to keep my voice light. “You could always call me and tell me what bedding you choose.”
She stuffs it in her pocket and runs off, and I make a bet with myself that it will end up in the washing machine by nightfall, the ink bleeding into the water as it spins round and round. I’d give her a phone if I could get away with it, one with my number pre-programmed in, but that would look a bit weird. A lot weird.
“You okay?” Niall stops
next to me, his arms full of paint pots. “You look miles away.”
Only about ten miles, I think. In a crumbling concrete tower block where people can be beaten up and almost die and even their neighbours don’t notice. Where kids wear bruises like armbands and nobody blinks an eyelid.
I take a deep breath. “I’m okay. There’s just so much to do in the next couple of weeks. I’m not sure how I’m going to fit it all in.”
“Can I help with something?”
“How are you at seating plans?”
“Pretty shite?” he offers. I try not to laugh.
“Dealing with hotel managers, fussy eaters, musicians, printers?” I start to reel off my list of woes. “Creating auction catalogues...”
“Now that I can help with. I’ve worked on enough exhibitions to know how to catalogue.”
I look him square in the eye. “Who are you and what have you done with Niall Joseph? You know, that mean, moody asshole who wouldn’t return my texts?”
“I’m trying to be your friend,” he admits. “I said I would, and I failed miserably, so I’m giving it a second go, friend.”
We stand there for a moment, staring at each other. I feel stupid, because I can’t think of anything to say in response, so instead I stand there looking dumb and trying not to grin.
“Can I walk you out?” he asks. For a moment I think of Victorian gentlemen courting chaperoned ladies.
“No... I... um... have to finish up here. I’ll be another couple of hours at least.”
“No worries. I’ll finish clearing up and then be out of your hair. Are you free on Monday to come to the studio? We can pick out a painting and talk catalogues.”
I smirk before I reply. “Would you believe it if I told you that’s the best offer I’ve had in weeks?”
* * *
After an hour of staring at names on the seating chart I realise I’m now just gazing into space. My eyes are stinging and I’m starving hungry, not to mention the fact I need a caffeine injection. So I head for the tiny kitchen on the first floor, hoping against hope that somebody hasn’t eaten all the Bourbon biscuits before I get a chance to snaffle a few.
I don’t spend a lot of time in the clinic outside of core hours. It’s different when there are no clients in the building—lifeless and sterile. If my life were a horror movie, this would be the part where the zombies break in.
I almost laugh when I find Lara in the kitchen. Though she isn’t the walking dead, she does look like crap. There are dark shadows under her eyes, and her lips are dry and cracked. She looks as if she hasn’t had any liquid for weeks.
“Hey, are you okay? You look terrible.” Of course, I immediately regret my verbal diarrhoea.
Her face crumples. “I’m pregnant.”