DAY 4
Make the most of your
lunch break
Much as Annie hated going to the hospital, she had to admit there was something strangely comforting about it. That hushed hum of activity, the sense the staff had things in hand, and you could just sit and wait and soon they’d come to take your blood pressure or scan you with their machines. All those notices about hand washing and crash carts—life in there was serious. There was no point getting upset about stupid things.
Unlike at Annie’s office.
“Annie—9:08. Just so you know, for your time sheet.”
Annie gritted her teeth so hard she was surprised she didn’t spit out bits of enamel. “Right. Thanks, Sharon.”
“Just make sure you note it down. That’s a quarter of an hour docked off, rounding up.” Sharon, a bitter woman who lived off chips and Appletiser, was the only person in Annie’s office who didn’t hate the new time sheets. Once, Annie had approved of the system, too. She’d even helped to bring it in, in her role as finance officer. Sure, she was sympathetic when people had sick children or late trains or broken boilers, but it was a workplace and they all had a job to do. Back then she’d worn smart trouser suits, or dresses with belts and cardigans, and she’d brought her lunch with her in Tupperware and she’d helped organize the Christmas do.
Until everything changed.
She sat down at her desk—dust and sandwich crumbs lodged in every crevice, no pictures, nothing nice. The plants she’d once tended had turned brown and dusty, and she’d thrown her wedding picture in the bin two years ago, shattering it. She switched on her computer, hearing it groan as it tried to come to life. She wondered if Polly still worked. She bet it had been somewhere with shiny clean iMacs, and plants that everyone watered, not just Sharon, who passive-aggressively let them die, then prodded their desiccated corpses like victims at a show trial. Where everyone wore dark-rimmed glasses and had creative brainstorming sessions over table football.
“Coming for the team lunch today, Annie?” asked Fee, the office manager, scratching at her eczema. “Only I need everyone’s choices in advance.”
Annie shook her head. She’d once made an effort to join in, but really she didn’t have anything in common with Sharon, or Tim, who blew his nose onto his sleeve, or Syed, who never took off his massive headphones, or—“Annie?”
“Hi, Jeff.” She pasted on a weak smile. He was her boss, after all.
“Can I have a word?” He mimed a mouth flapping, as if Annie didn’t understand English. Jeff didn’t seem to realize that he worked in the world’s saddest office, where enthusiasm was about as useful as opening a vein right onto the floor. His office was plastered in motivational posters and Post-its with slogans like Quitters Never Win, Winners Never Quit. His bookcase was crammed with business books. Get Rich or Die Trying. Rich Middle-Manager, Poor Middle-Manager. Although how you were supposed to get rich running local government waste-processing services, Annie didn’t know.
“Do take a seat in the Chat Area.” Jeff, who owned about thirty-eight suits from Top Man and was trying to grow a beard, was a big fan of the “Chat Area”—two spindly chairs and a table with fanned-out issues of the local government magazine, Inside Lewisham. “Annie. How are you?”
Shit, she thought. Awful. Dying inside. “Fine.”
“Because I’ve noticed you’ve been...not so present this week?”
“I took some days as leave.”
“Yes, yes, but—when you’re here, you don’t seem to engage with people?”
Why did he turn everything into a question? “What do you mean?”
“Well, people have mentioned that you don’t really chat in the kitchen, or go out for lunch, the old watercooler moments, you know, ha-ha!”
“That’s because I’m doing my job! And we don’t even have a watercooler since the budget cuts!”
“Well. You know what I mean.” He leaned forward earnestly. He was five years younger than Annie, she knew, yet he spoke to her like she was a stroppy teenager, which, admittedly, was how she felt right now. “Thing is, Annie, an office is more than just work. It’s a team. Friends, I hope. Like the crew of a ship.” He mimed something that she gathered was meant to convey pulling on rigging. “So what’s the harm in a bit of chitchat over a nice cuppa? And it might help if you smiled more. People find you a bit...unfriendly?”
She felt the ache of tears in her nose again. “My mum’s ill. You know that.”
“I know. I know. I’m very aware you’ve had...a rough time of things the last few years. And we’re fully committed to a family-friendly, er...” Jeff trailed off awkwardly, perhaps remembering that Annie no longer had a family. He knew, of course. Everyone knew, and yet they still got upset about the franking machine and who’d used all the milk. What was the matter with them? “I know it’s been hard. But we have to bring a positive attitude to work, no matter what’s going on. PMA, Annie!” He made a gesture as if he was swinging an imaginary baseball bat. “You know, there’s going to be more redundancies this year. We’ll all have to fight for our jobs. So...if you could just join in a bit more, smile, you know, ask after people’s kids and so on. I mean, it’s been two years, hasn’t it? Since...everything?”
Annie stared down at her hands, humiliated beyond words. But she wouldn’t cry in front of him. She would wait until she could slip into the loo and sob her heart out there, as she had done at least once a week for the past two years. Through gritted teeth, she said, “I’ll try. Can I go now?”
* * *
Annie stood in the work kitchen, waiting for the silted-up kettle to boil. The air smelled permanently of tuna, and in the sink there was a spill of what was either vomit or instant pasta. Sharon had prized it off with a fork, like a food crime scene, and left one of her trademark notes about it. It is NOT the cleaners JOB 2 wash up ur FOOD. There had to be more to life than this. Dragging herself here every day, on a bus full of angry commuters. Sitting in this office that was never cleaned properly, with people she would literally cross the street to avoid. As the kettle snapped off she felt a cold nugget of certainty settle in her chest. There has to be more than this. There has to.
* * *
“There’s someone to see you.”
Annie looked up from her screen a few hours later to see Sharon hovering. Sharon only seemed to have five outfits, which she wore in strict rotation. Today’s outfit was number two—a red cardigan covered in dog hairs (she had four) and an ankle-length skirt with a misshapen hem. “Who is it?”
Sharon sniffed. “Some woman. Dressed like a mad person.”
Oh, no, that sounded like Polly. When there’d been no knock at the door that morning, she’d thought she was safe. Polly was clearly dealing with her diagnosis by seizing life, but would it last? The trouble with seizing life was eventually you had to pay some taxes or get your hair cut or regrout the shower. Why had she latched on to Annie, who wasn’t seizing life so much as hiding from it at all costs, crying in the loos? Maybe she could head her off.
Too late, she saw Polly was already barreling into the office, waving. She wore a red trilby and a big cape-like coat, and was carrying a cardboard box.
Annie jumped up. “What are you doing here?”
“I thought we could have lunch.”
“I don’t have time for lunch.”
“Annie! Are you paid for your break?”
“Well, no, but—”
“So they’re getting an extra hour out of you, unpaid, every day?”
“Keep your voice down,” Annie hissed, looking about her. Her coworkers were hunched at their desks, eating sandwiches or slurping up tinned soup, staring at their computers. “How did you know where I worked?”
“Oh, you’re on the website. I brought you a care package!” Polly shoved the box onto Annie’s desk. A silver photo frame, a mug that said You Don’t Have to Be Mad to Work Here But You Probably Are. Sachets of tea. Biscuits, sparkly pens, wet wipes, a little plant. A notebook with a blue silk cover. “Just a few things to brighten up your work space. I bet it’s all dirty and nasty.”
“It is not!”
“You sure?” Polly ran a finger over the base of Annie’s computer and brought it back, black with dust. “Everyone’s work desk is filthy. We spend so much time at them and we don’t even try to make them nice. Little things can really make a difference.”
Annie sighed. “Come on, we should go out. We’re not meant to have visitors.” She hustled Polly out the door, past a goggling Sharon, who had finally found something more interesting than Farm World to look at.
Polly looked at the building—hideous seventies concrete plonked beside ten lanes of traffic—with a critical eye. “I don’t blame you for being miserable. This place would bring anyone down.”
“Exactly. And I have to work here every day, doing something I hate, so how will adding some tea bags to my desk help?”
“It’ll help. A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.”
“You’re not going to suggest I open up and get to know everyone in the office, and learn that we’re all the same under the skin, no matter how much skin there is?”
Polly laughed. “No. Some people are just awful. And some things need to be run away from, very fast, like an exploding bomb. You should quit.”
Annie felt anger build again—who was this woman, telling her what to do? “I can’t. I need the money.”
“You can do something else,” Polly said cheerfully.
“There’s a recession on.”
“Excuses.” Polly waved a hand. “Everyone uses that one, Annie. Oh, everything was always better in the past! Things are rubbish now we’re not allowed to send our children down the mines! It’s just a cop-out.”
“But—”
Polly grasped Annie’s arm. “I know you’re cross, but I’m sorry—cancer card. You’ll see I’m right, in time. Now come with me. We’re doing something for our hundred happy days. It’s a pretty simple one—take a lunch break.”
“I never said I’d do the hundred days. And, anyway, I do take a lunch break.”
“And what do you do? Go on Facebook? Run errands?”
“Sometimes I buy a sandwich.”
“In a nice place?”
“There is nowhere nice around here. Tesco usually.”
“Do you at least leave your desk to eat it?”
“And go where? The loos? The traffic island in the roundabout?”
“What about here?” Polly stopped, opening her arms wide in the manner of a Las Vegas showgirl.
Annie looked skeptically at the square of grass they’d ended up beside. “The park? I’m not going in there—we’ll get kidnapped by drug dealers!”
Polly was already pushing open the gates. “Hello, hello, anyone here selling drugs? I really want to buy some crack! See, nothing. I think we’re safe.”
“It’s freezing.”
“I have blankets.” Parking herself on a bench, Polly took two heavy Slankets from her tote bag.
“I feel ridiculous.” Annie was glad at least that the blanket partly covered her face. What if someone from work walked by and saw her picnicking in the cold, dreary park beside all the dog poop? They’d think she’d finally snapped her last thread.
Polly whipped out two small cardboard boxes. “You’re not vegetarian?”
“No, but—”
“Then eat up!”
In the box was a crumbly piece of cheddar, a juicy sliced pear, a thick slab of pink ham and a hunk of crusty bread. All topped with jewel-red chutney.
“You didn’t get this around here,” Annie said accusingly. “It’s all chicken shops and kebab vans.” She tried a mouthful of the cheese, sharp and salty and crumbly in her mouth. Oh, God, it was delicious. And to think she’d been planning to eat some Easy Cheese singles.
Polly took a few bites, then set down her own box. “Here,” she said, taking something from her bag. “A list of ten things to do at lunchtime within ten minutes from your office. Yoga. A singing group. A street market.”
“I can’t take a lunch break every day!”
“Er, why not?”
Annie didn’t have an answer for that. “I’ll think about it.”
“It can just be tiny things. Look at this place, for a start. Isn’t it nice? There’s a football pitch—you could come and watch hunky men in shorts. There’s dogs to pet, and even a little coffee kiosk. Not to mention this play park.” She nodded toward the swings, where kids were being pushed on swings and down slides, bundled up against the cold. Annie winced and turned away; she tried to avoid playgrounds.
“I said I’ll think about it.”
Polly leaned back, closing her eyes against the faint spring sun. “Don’t be your own worst enemy, Annie. There’s plenty of other people for that. Remember—today is the first day of the rest of your life.”
Annie rolled her eyes, but she had to admit the fresh air and good food had lifted her mood somewhat. Better than a Cup a Soup while Sharon snooped over her shoulder and everyone talked about Strictly Come Dancing. She realized that Polly had now been to her office and her home—where she spent about 96 percent of her time these days—and she knew nothing about the other woman, except for her eccentric wardrobe and the fact she seemed to have swallowed the Little Book of Inspirational Quotes. “So, are you feeling okay?” she ventured.
Polly opened one eye. “I’m still dying. But within the context of that, yes, I’m okay. My energy levels are good, probably because I’m on so many pills I’m surprised I don’t rattle. Dr. Max is paranoid the thing will grow a millimeter and I’ll start drooling.” Annie winced, but Polly was still smiling.
“And...have you given up work?”
“Of course. I was in PR, you see. Who cares about campaigns for a new lipstick when you have three months to live?”
Annie didn’t ask what she was doing for money. Only posh people were called Polly. Her head swirled with questions. Was Polly married? Did she have any kids? And most of all, why had she chosen Annie? “This project,” Annie tried. “Are your friends doing it?” She almost said, your other friends, but she and Polly were hardly that yet.
“Oh, they’d love it. They’re all about Instagramming their morning avocado and blogging about yoga holidays. I don’t want that. Anyway, they’ve got kids and jobs and marriages and stuff. They’re busy.”
And Annie barely had one of those things now. “So, why did you ask me?”
“Because. I want someone who doesn’t believe in it. I want to know if it’s possible to make yourself happy, even when things really, really suck. I need to know death can have some meaning. Like it isn’t all just totally random bad luck. You see?”
“Um, I guess.”
Annie wasn’t someone who had a lot of friends. She preferred a small group, people she could trust, though this had backfired somewhat now that she could never speak to Jane again. So there was no denying it—there was a gaping hole in her life, which had once held the people she loved most. Mike. Jane. Jacob. And her mum. Maybe, just maybe, it would be nice to make a new friend. But Polly was unpredictable and posh, and, for Annie, a silly project would have been like putting a plaster on a severed arm. So she forked up bits of her lunch—so sweet, so crunchy—and said she’d better get back. “Can I pay you...?”
“Don’t be daft. I’ll stay here for a bit,” said Polly, swaddled in the blanket. “I bet there’s some cool little shops.”
“If you like fried chicken and stolen bikes,” said Annie, but her heart wasn’t really in the gibe, and she realized she did feel better. Refreshed, unlike when she sat at her desk with a sandwich in a plastic triangle from the corner shop.
On the way back to the office, she passed the receptionist, who recoiled. “Shit, are you okay? Are you sick or something?”
“No, why?”
“Because, like, you just sort of smiled at me.”
* * * * **
Back at her desk, Annie unpacked Polly’s box. She put the pretty stationery into the dusty desk-tidy, then on second thoughts wiped it down with her sleeve. God, it was filthy. She put the sparkly pens in a mug with Cotswolds Wildlife Park on it, where they’d taken Jacob on his first ever day out. His last, too, as it turned out. For months afterward she’d played it over in her mind. Had he caught a chill? Picked up an infection? She placed the plant beside her monitor, touching the thick green leaves. Hyacinth, bright pink. She’d grown ones just like it in her little garden. She wondered if Mike and Jane were looking after them now.
Sharon sniffed loudly, which was her way of getting Annie’s attention without having to say her name. “You were late back from lunch. That’s ten minutes.”
Annie sighed. “I’ll put it on my time sheet.”
“And you should answer that message. I don’t have time to be taking your personal calls all day.”
“What message?”
“Left it on your desk. Some foreign woman rang.”
Annie hunted around, eventually finding the scrap of paper under the desk, alongside a sizable dust bunny. She shot Sharon a dirty look, but her colleague had gone back to her very important work (Farm World). She unfolded it, and for a moment a thrill of horror went through her. This was her fault. She’d taken a break, let herself feel all right for a moment. And now look. She shot up, fumbling for her bag.
“Where you going?” shouted Sharon. “You’ve got time to make up!”
Annie ignored her. She really couldn’t care less about the time sheets right now.
* * * * **
It was nearly forty minutes before she reached the ward, panting and sweating into her nylon top. “My mum...she’s taken a turn for the worse?”
“Who?” The receptionist didn’t even look up.
“Maureen Clarke. Please, is she all right?”
“Hang on.” She tapped at the keyboard while Annie’s blood boiled. Why were all these women so unhelpful?
“Annie? Is that you?” She turned at the sound of the Scottish accent, to see Polly’s neurologist. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in days, his curly hair sticking up and his white shirt creased.
“I got a message, my mum...”
“Aye, she had us a wee bit worried there, but she’s okay, don’t take on so.”
“What happened?” Annie’s heart gradually slowed. “Why are you treating her—aren’t you Neurology?”
“Polly asked if I’d take a look at her chart. Not really my area, of course, but I know a bit.”
“Oh.” Was Polly planning to infiltrate every area of Annie’s life?
“Your mother was...” He sighed. “Well, she was a bit agitated. Thought we were keeping her in prison. Look, why don’t you come with me. I want you to meet a colleague of mine.”
Annie followed him down the corridor, which was painted the color of baby puke. She noticed people nod to him as they passed—orderlies, porters, cleaners. “Afternoon, Dr. Fraser. Hi, Max.” And he nodded back, not breaking his stride. They’d reached a door now, and he swiped his pass over it.
“Mum’s locked in?”
“For now. Annie, we thought she might hurt someone.”
Her mother was in the bed, wearing just a hospital gown, shivering as if she was freezing cold, looking around the room with hunted eyes. Annie started to rush forward, then stopped, horrified. “She’s chained up!”
“Och, Annie, it’s just a standard restraint. I know it looks bad, but trust me, it’s keeping her safe.” Her mum’s wrist, thin as a child’s, was encased in a foam band attached to the bed. Worse, Annie could see from the way her mother’s eyes skipped over her that once again she did not recognize her daughter, her only child. That, in this moment, Annie meant as much to her as the padded hospital bed and the yellow sharps bin and the beeping monitor she was hooked up to.
The door opened again and in came a tall man in a spotless white coat. “Who is this?” he said crossly. Annie couldn’t place the accent. “Mrs. Clarke should be kept in isolation, I said.”
“That’s why she’s bloody terrified.” Annie felt angry tears in her eyes. “Please. Did you have to tie her up, like an animal?”
The man—she could now see he was frighteningly handsome, with smooth olive skin, slicked-back black hair and the kind of cheekbones models would kill for—raised an eyebrow. “Dr. Fraser? What’s going on here?”
Dr. Fraser rubbed a hand over his tired face, making his bushy eyebrows stick up. “This is Mrs. Clarke’s daughter, Sami. I thought you could explain some of the treatment options to her. Why don’t we go into your office?”
Annie protested. “I can’t leave my mum like this!”
“Dr. Fraser is right. Your presence is upsetting her. Please.” The other doctor ushered them into a small side room. Annie caught a glimpse of her mother’s terrified, confused eyes as the door shut behind them. She doesn’t know who I am. She doesn’t know me.
“Sit down, please.” Dr. Handsome motioned to a plastic chair and Annie sat, broken by anger and sadness. “Miss Clarke...”
“It’s Ms. Hebden.” Why would he assume she wasn’t married? Did she just have that look about her?
He frowned at the interruption. “Your mother is very ill. She had what we call a dissociative episode and threw a chair at one of the nursing staff. Luckily no one was hurt, but we can’t take that risk again.”
Stunned, Annie looked to Dr. Fraser for confirmation. He shrugged uncomfortably: it was true. “But...she’s tiny.”
“People can be very strong when in the grip of dementia. I’d like to take your mother onto my service. I’m the new consultant geriatrician here, Dr. Quarani. We need to talk about options.”
Annie nodded dully. “Is there anything you can do?” She was staring hard at his desk, trying not to cry. On it was a framed photo of a beautiful woman with red lipstick and a headscarf, two young children hanging off her. A perfect family.
“There’s a clinical trial. A new drug. It’s been quite effective for certain forms of dementia.”
Annie looked up. “It might help?”
“We believe it can slow the progress of the disease in early onset cases like your mother’s, calm the patients down somewhat. It works by regenerating some of the neurons in the brain. You understand we can’t reverse the damage that’s already been done?”
Annie knew the disease had already done its work, twisting and tangling her mum’s brain synapses, mixing up her memories like a drawer dumped out on the floor. “But you could maybe stop it going further?”
“Slow it, perhaps. But Ms. Hebden, there are side effects, as with all medications. It’s experimental. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“You can think about it if you want, Annie,” said Dr. Fraser.
Dr. Quarani frowned again. “Mrs. Clarke should start the protocol as soon as possible. I want to move her to the geriatrics ward today. I’d like to keep her in for observation during the trial, so I can monitor the progress of the treatment.”
Geriatrics. Annie’s mum wasn’t even sixty yet, and she was being lumped in with old people, the ones with no time and no hope. “If I say no, what will happen?”
“She’ll have to vacate the bed in a few days and be released to your care. I would suggest you think about a care home.”
And how much would that cost? Would she be able to find somewhere decent? Annie nodded dully. “I think—I think it sounds like a good idea. The trial. If you’re sure.”
Suddenly, he smiled, and Annie blinked. He was dazzling. “Thank you, Ms. Hebden. I’ll find you an information pack. Please.” He held open the door again and, rather stunned, Annie went through it. Her mother was lying there, small and quiet, only her eyes moving.
“Don’t mind Sami,” said Dr. Fraser, closing the door behind them. “He’s a good man, even if his bedside manner is a bit...brusque. Just not used to the way British patients want your arm and your leg as well as everything else.”
“Is it a good idea?”
“It’s the only chance. Doesn’t mean it’ll work. But...she’s not going to get better like this.” They both turned to the woman on the bed, who stared at them as if she might be able to work out what was going on, if only she concentrated hard enough.
“You two...”
Annie waited.
“Are you my lawyers? Because I didn’t do it, I’m sure. Whatever it was.”
“No, Mum,” Annie said wearily. “You aren’t in prison. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“But I think I did.” She heaved in a big panicky breath that turned into a sob. “I just don’t know what it was. Can you call Andrew, please? Call him to come and get me?”
“Mum...” Annie stopped herself. Not this again. “I’ll call him. I promise.”
“We can give her a shot,” Dr. Fraser said gently. “Let her sleep for now, and you can have a think about what Sami said. If you have any questions, just ask me, okay? I’m a neurologist really, but there’s a lot of crossover with Geriatrics, unfortunately.”
“Thanks.” Annie wanted to go to her mother, hug her or something, but she knew her skin would feel like ice, the pulse fluttering underneath it like a frightened bird. And it would be terrifying for her, to be hugged by a total stranger. “I better get back to work. I’m already in trouble.”
“They’ll understand, surely?”
“I wouldn’t bet on it. Thank you, Dr. Fraser.”
“Please, call me Max. Dr. Max, if you want.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
Going out, trailing back down the misery-colored corridor, she passed Polly. She was sitting on a gurney, chatting to a cleaner who was leaning on a mop, laughing. “Annie!” she cried, jumping down. “We have to stop meeting like this.”
Annie swallowed her tears. “How come you’re here again?”
“Well, basically the MRI machine is massively overstretched, so I sort of hang about most days and wait for a gap so I can have my scan.” Polly must have seen her face. “Oh, Annie! Are you okay? Is it your mum? Come here, sit down.”
Annie collapsed onto a waiting room chair, noticing the rip in the plastic covering. Spilling its guts, just like she felt. “She—she’s having a bad day. Doesn’t know who I am. She got very upset—they had to restrain her.”
“I’m so sorry. That must be awful.”
There was this woman, this virtual stranger with more than enough problems of her own, patting Annie’s arm. As if she really cared. How did she manage that? Annie took in a bubbly breath. There has to be more than this. Something was clearly working for Polly, whatever it was. And she was too tired to fight now, too tired to hold out against the one corner of color and positivity in her life.
“That hundred-days idea?” she heard herself say. “I’ll do it. I mean, if you want me to.”
“Of course I do. We both have to keep coming here...we may as well try to enjoy it.”
Annie couldn’t even begin to imagine how she’d ever enjoy this—how she’d ever not hate every second of it. How she’d find anything at all to be happy about in her life. But as with the drugs trial, when there was no other option, you had to do something rather than nothing. “Okay,” she said. “I’m in. Just as long as I don’t have to swim with dolphins.”
“You don’t want to swim with dolphins?”
Annie shuddered. “I can’t think of anything worse.”
“But dolphins! Everyone loves them.”
“I don’t. They always look like they’re planning something. Nothing that smiles that much can be trusted.”
Polly burst out laughing. “Oh, Annie, you’re hilarious. I promise, not a sea creature in sight. Why don’t you come over to mine on Saturday—we can compare our lists for the week, okay?”
It was years since Annie had been around to someone’s house. Since she’d made a new friend, or socialized at all. The idea was terrifying. But she made herself say, “Okay. I’ll be there.”