“Arthur stops chewing, as if he hadn’t realised he was under scrutiny and is now embarrassed

The cakes are fresh and appealing. Too luscious for a hospital cafe.

I think they should be past their sell-by date and taste of dust, in line with the emotional tenor of the place.

Arthur is tucking into a croissant. Why is he still here?

“Why are you still here?”

I’m staring at him across the Formica table. Steam rises from the cappuccino between my elbows.

Arthur stops chewing, as if he hadn’t realised he was under scrutiny and is now embarrassed.

His cheeks colour up and he wipes crumbs from the corners of his mouth.

“I’m just checking out the baking.” His eyes, behind the smeary spectacles, hold a glint of humour.

“They do a nice line in almond croissants. Good, but not as good as the one I had in Budapest in 2006.”

“You remember where you were when you ate good cake?”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“No. I remember where I’ve had good sex.”

I want to shock him. That’s the anger coming out, now that the initial shock has passed.

Charade

I’m so angry. Why did Reuben crash? Why have I now got to go through this charade, when all I want to do is throw myself on the bed beside him?

Poor, quiet Arthur is fair game for my rage. “Oh, you do?” He isn’t so easily shocked. “Where was your best place?”

It’s my turn to blush. I glance down at my cup, bathe in the steam.

“An old pub on the coast. A sea view and a brass bed.”

“With Reuben?”

I nod slowly. I can feel his gaze on my forehead. “Do you know what? I just want to go home.”

“I’ll take you home. You’d better say your goodbyes.”

Straightening up, I glance at the overhead signs. There are crowds of people all milling around, buying sweets, cigarettes, magazines.

Some are in their pyjamas and robes, drips still attached as if this, this, is reality, and we’re all incomers.

I don’t want to get used to this reality. “Which ward is it again?” “Orthopaedic trauma. Do you want me to come up with you?”

I don’t reply, but he scrapes his chair back anyway, and ushers me out.

Mac

There is mischief afoot. My mouth is dry and I’m getting the smell of horses – no, saddlery.

The old heart is pattering along like a train and I’m trying to call out to Elspeth.

I can see her in the distance, dangerously close to the water’s edge. Where is Bella?

Bella should be watching out for her, but try as I might, I cannot catch a glimpse of that dark hair, that pale face.

The trees are in the way. Then I hear gunshots: one, two. Close range. Elspeth! Come away! I think I’m screaming...

I gasp into wakefulness, finding myself slumped in my comfy armchair.

My head is wedged at an awkward angle against the wing of it, nose pressed into green leather.

No wonder I’m smelling saddles. I shift cautiously, face all scrunched up in anticipation of pain.

This is how we get bloody wrinkles, anticipating the crap life throws at us.

The telly is still on, some awful cop show, Yanks shooting each other all over New York City.

Close range. One, two. The dream recedes.

Unsettled

I remember I’ve been reading The Cruel Sister, and the book has fallen to the floor.

Elspeth, and Bella, wherever she is, draw back into my imagination.

Oh Lord... I wipe a hand across my face. It feels clammy and my neck hurts.

Worse, my heart is still skidding around like a hyperactive spaniel.

Pressing both palms against it, I feel hard bone beneath my breasts. Am I losing weight?

A glance at the carriage clock on the mantelpiece – just after 10.

I must have dropped off during The One Show. Groaning, I lurch to my feet. The dogs will have peed all over the damn kitchen.

Those two sisters running through my dreams: Bella and Elspeth.

Up to no good, slinking around the mill, picking quarrels.

The events of the day have unsettled me, and I can’t get Lucie’s reaction out of my head.

She seemed so distraught, and yet I hadn’t got the impression she was close to her sister.

Shuffling down the hall, I wonder if Arthur is back. Did he just drop Lucie off at the hospital?

Why didn’t he come in to tell me the news? If there is any news.

They’re very cagey, these days, doctors. It’s the same every time I go for tests.

You could fill up Loch Ness with the amount of blood they’ve taken out of me, and still no one will offer a proper diagnosis.

Arrhythmia, is the closest they’ve come. An irregular heartbeat.

But why? Why is my heart out of sync with the rest of me?

Nobody will hazard a guess, because if they guess, and guess wrong... well, they’re all afraid of the big lawsuits these days.

The dogs go wild, but at least there’s been no disasters and I let them out the back door.

The night is crisp and very dark. No moon, even though I look for it.

It’s one of life’s pleasures, a starry sky and a moon of some description.

It doesn’t have to be full, a nice neat sickle will do. It just makes you feel less alone in the universe, to look at that moon and think that the one you love is somewhere beneath it too.

Connectivity

Connectivity, that’s what it’s all about.

Of course, none of that applies to me now. Back in the day, when Jim was here, I could let myself think like that.

I was always the one who was absent. There was always some conference or other claiming my attention, or a teaching assignment, or a book festival.

It was always me in a strange hotel room, flinging open the window, looking for the moon.

Jim never strayed far, and I always felt sorry for him, somehow.

The dogs are out there in the dark, nosing around. One of them lets out a short, sharp bark.

I can hear a fox yipping a reply in the distance and the pungent scent of rosemary invades my nostrils.

My heart is still uneasy, and slowly the reason is slipping back to me.

There was someone else in my dream, someone I haven’t thought of for such a long time.

More tomorrow.