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“Caroline?”
She’s not in her nurse’s uniform today, but in paint-splattered jeans and a top, hair pulled back in an untidy ponytail, and she looks as fed up as I’ve been feeling.
“Emma Averell.” My face is flushing. “You brought my wallet back and I was horribly rude. I’m so sorry, I was having a crap day and everything I said came out wrong.”
“Yes, I remember.” She looks back down at the shelves, awkward, and I should probably walk away, but I don’t.
“You’re not sleeping either?” I nod at the stand she’s at and hold up my prescription bag. “Avoid the NightNight.It’s useless. I’ve had to get some stronger stuff.”
“Vitamin D.” She holds up a bottle. There’s a large plaster along one side of her hand, a little red at the center.
“What happened to your hand?”
“Oh, nothing. I’m doing some decorating. A pane of glass broke.”
I look down and see she’s got two cans of paint at her feet. No wonder her cut is bleeding again if she’s been carrying those. “Look,” I say, reaching for them. “You pay for the vitamins and I’ll help you to the car with these.”
“I got the bus,” she says. “Honestly I’m fine.”
“Don’t be silly.” I pick up the two cans, heavier than I thought, one in each hand, and quietly hope the bus stop isn’t too far. “I owe you a favor.” I give her my biggest smile. “Iinsist.”
“Okay,” she says, and I sense she’d rather I didn’t but can’t really say no. I only want to make it up to her for being rude and she can hardly manage with the cut hand.
She pays and then we leave the pharmacy, awkward strangers, and I think that out of her nurse’s uniform she looks younger, less severe, but she does look really tired. “Is this your day off?” I say, making conversation.
“Supposedly. But the house needs painting among other things before I can sell it—it was my mother’s—and I can’t afford to get people in and it’s a bigger job than I was expecting, but I really need to get it done, so no day off for me.” She gives me a small smile then, a genuine one. “Sorry. Just been one of those days.”
“I know how you feel.” I get a flush of warmth that she’s relaxing a bit. Something about her really appeals to me and I can’t put my finger on it. Maybe this is someone I can help. Maybe she’ll be a new friend. Someone unconnected to the bloody school gates. My stomach rumbles and as we go past a Wetherspoons I hear myself saying, “Brexit burger? I think it’s two for one.”
“Honestly, I should get on.”
“Don’t make me insist again,” I say, trying to sound jovial. “I hate eating alone. I have to spend the whole time scrolling through my phone pretending to be busy.”
She glances toward the bus stop but doesn’t say no yet.
“Come on. Half an hour. Give that injured hand a rest. It’s a thank-you for bringing my wallet back. And my social conscience hates me for it, but I’m a slave to their blue-cheese burger. Share my shame. And then I’ll drop you home afterward. My car’s parked only a couple minutes away.” I sound like I’m trying to drag her out on a date.
“Okay,” she says, after studying me for a moment. “I could use a break.”
When we’re settled in a booth with burgers ordered and a small wine each, she nods at my prescription packet. “Not sleeping well?”
“Not really.” There’s a massive understatement. She’s looking at me quietly, and I do what I always do in awkward situations—fill the silence. “My son’s having problems at school and my mother died yesterday.” Her face falls and I quickly add, “She was old and we weren’t close—it’s a long, complicated and boring story—but it’s causing some friction with my sister. Family stuff, you know how it is.”
“I’m an only child, so no. Sometimes I’m happy about that, but then, also, when you’re an only child it all falls on you.”
“Oh god,” I say as the burgers arrive efficiently quickly. “You said you’re decorating your mother’s house to sell. Is she—has she passed away too?”
“No, worse, she’s in a home.” She’s relaxing now she’s had a few sips of wine and she reaches for a chip. “That sounds terrible, I know, but those places drain money. If you want an at least half-decent one. Still, once the house is sold it’ll be fine. Will pay forher home and leave enough for me to get a place. I’ve lived with her to care for her. Long story.”
“Well, good luck with it,” I say, reaching for my own food. “Husbands and children can be a money drain too.”
“I guess especially if you’re starting a new business. Or at least your husband is.”
I’m so distracted by eating that I take a moment to register that she meansmyhusband. “What new business?”
I have to wait for her to finish chewing a large bite before I get an answer. She swallows fast. “The bar? Aren’t you—I must have the wrong end of the stick. Ignore me.”
“What bar?”