My eyelids are glued together with sleep and I prise them open and yawn. Napping in the daytime always leaves me feeling sluggish. The sun is still bright outside, shining through the slatted blinds that cover my lounge window, casting tiger stripes on my laminate floor. My body is stuck to my leather sofa and, as I peel myself to sitting, I drop my head in my hands remembering what a disaster my first morning back at work has been. Stumbling into the kitchen, my bare feet sticking to the tiles, I fill a glass with lemon squash, slouching against the sink as I drink, letting the sourness chase away the last whispers of tiredness. The swirling lines of my mind map catch my eye and I stare at it transfixed, ignoring my buzzing phone. It will be Mum or Dad stressing about how my first morning back went. I did text them both when I first got home to reassure them it went well but they won’t be placated until they’ve actually spoken to me. The way they fuss you’d think I’d been mountain climbing. If I call them they’ll realise straight away something is wrong, particularly Mum, and I can’t face them knowing I fled the surgery in tears after my encounter with Casper. I can’t face the ‘I told you it would be too much’ conversation that would inevitably follow.

Shaking thoughts of the Jack Russell away I sit and pull my laptop towards me, and I download various images of Callie from her Facebook page and send them to the wireless printer in my hallway. The printer whirrs and churns and spits them out, and I stick the photos to my fridge with the magnetic letters and, when it’s full, I Blu-Tack them to the walls: Callie cross-legged on a carpet of green, face shining with happiness, a daisy chain looped around her hair; Callie and Nathan, unaware of the camera, staring deeply into one another’s eyes; Callie, sitting in the middle of Tom and Amanda, glasses brimming with fizzing champagne raised into a toast. Underneath each photo I write captions on Post-it notes so I remember where and when they were taken. Where did you disappear to that night? I trace the outline of Callie’s face with my finger. Her clear and perfect skin glows. My spine straightens as though strength has flowed into my bones and, standing tall, I suddenly feel strong. No longer disempowered by illness but I have a sense I can actually do something. Make a difference. Purposefully, I pick up my mobile and, punching in the number of Nathan’s office that I’d written on my mind map, I make a call.

* * *

Outside Nathan’s office the sun glistens on hot tarmac, and the air is heavy with the stench of exhaust fumes. Leaning against a tree trunk I ensure I’m shaded by its boughs; the immunosuppressants I’ll always have to take leave me vulnerable to skin cancer but I’m going to embrace the English Rose look this summer. I don’t take my eyes off the door to the building. Nathan’s secretary had told me on the phone that he finishes work at six. As I wait, feeling alone and exposed, anxiety dampens my clothes. I don’t make eye contact with anyone. In my head I run through the script I’ve prepared, but even to me the words sound forced and contrived. At six o’clock people begin to stream out of Nathan’s office. Men loosen ties and roll up sleeves as women bunch cardigans into handbags. I flinch whenever someone brushes against me as they hurry by, and I press myself harder against the tree. Bark scrapes against my bare shoulders causing my skin to sting. By quarter past my legs ache. The frequency with which I check my watch doesn’t make the time go any faster, and by half past I’m hot and tired and close to giving up. I think perhaps I’ve missed him. The traffic is constant, engines rev and stereos blare from open windows, and a dull ache has formed behind my temples. I’m about to go home when the door swings open again and there he is. Nathan. Beige mac looped over his forearm. Tan leather briefcase swinging in his opposite hand. I inhale sharply at the sight of him as a bolt of recognition shoots through me. My legs move without conscious volition as though there’s an invisible cord tugging me towards him. His strides are long, black shiny brogues slapping against the pavement, and I have to half-run to keep up with him.

The high street is teeming with people scurrying home to enjoy the sun before it disappears, and I’m knocked and jostled. It’s too crowded and I lose sight of Nathan. My blood whooshes in my ears as I fight to stay calm. Clenching and unclenching my fists I try to recall Vanessa’s advice by noticing how fast I’m breathing and attempting to slow it down. My anxiety increases. I can’t remember whether I am supposed to breathe in for the count of three or five or whether that’s exhaling, and I feel utterly useless as I fight to control my panic. Stepping into a doorway I crouch down and try to make myself as small as possible. Breathe. One, two, three. My head jerks upwards as a bus hisses fumes as it releases its brakes, its wheels turning as it pulls away from the kerb. I stare into its windows as it passes but I can’t see Nathan. He could be anywhere. It feels hopeless that I’ll find him again now and after the long wait outside his office to have lost him is sickening, but if I’m honest, underneath the disappointment is relief. My head feels thick and my thoughts jumbled. Dry-throated I look left and right searching for somewhere to buy a bottle of water. There’s a Co-op down the street, and I clamber to my feet, continuing to breathe deeply as I cross the road. After this I’m going home.

The shop is packed. There’s almost a Christmas-like mania as customers shove their way to the shelves, grabbing the last of the burgers to barbecue, tutting because there are no bread rolls left. The air-conditioning is a stark contrast to the glorious sunshine outside. I stand still at first, welcoming the feeling of my blood cooling and calming, but before long my arms are covered in goose flesh and I pick my way towards the fridge. As my emotions start to settle, I begin to think about dinner and I look around to see if there’s anything I fancy. At the end of the fruit and veg aisle are punnets of fresh strawberries, plump and red, and saliva floods my mouth. Even though I normally hate them I feel compelled to peel back the cellophane, and I pick the largest fruit up by its stalk, dangle it over my open mouth before sinking my teeth into the soft flesh. The sweetness explodes into my mouth, and I close my eyes as juice trickles down my chin.

‘You look like you’re enjoying that?’

I snap my eyes open and he’s there. Nathan. Sound crescendos around us and then fades. I can’t stop staring at him. My hand twitches with an almost magnetic pull to reach out and trail my fingertips along the stubble on his jawline. Does he feel it too? This connection. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.

‘I couldn’t resist. I will pay for them.’

His laugh is low and belly deep. ‘I wasn’t judging you. I knew a girl who used to do that.’ His head tilts to the side as he studies me. ‘You remind me of her. I think it’s the hair.’

My hand touches the back of my neck. It’s still strange to feel the exposed skin.

‘Strawberries were her favourite; she ate them all the time. She said they were a natural teeth whitener too. Not that she needed her teeth whitening being a dental nurse.’ He runs his fingers though his hair, thick and curly. ‘Sorry. I’m babbling. But Callie used to do that. Eat the strawberries that we were supposed to be buying for a picnic as we walked around the shop, and I’d have to go back for more.’

Callie. Picnic. Strawberries. My dreams. They can’t be of Callie, can they? I think back to the painting at Amanda’s. The girls on the beach in my dream. Callie and Sophie? In front of me, Nathan is asking ‘are you all right?’ his brow furrowed, but I can’t seem to move my mouth, to smile, to talk. ‘A second energy,’ Fiona said. Callie? It’s impossible. Despite the air-conditioning I am boiling hot as emotions tumble, all tugging for my attention. I am floating above my body, almost touching the hot white strips of lights. Noise fades. Silence screams. I’m spinning and turning and my vision is shrinking and shrinking. I’m Alice disappearing down the rabbit hole until there’s only a pinprick of light and then, nothing.

* * *

Shoes. I’m surrounded by feet. Trainers, skyscraper heels, and flip-flops. Strawberries are scattered around me like confetti. My senses roar back into life and I sit up blinking, grasping the bottom of my top and tugging it down, conscious the rolls of flesh around my waist might be on display.

‘Here.’ Nathan scoots down next to me and untwists the cap from a bottle of Evian. The label is soft and damp with condensation.

I croak my thanks and gulp greedily as the crowd disperses.

‘You must have overheated outside. You’ve caught the sun.’

‘Probably. I missed lunch today too.’

A spotty shop assistant glares at me – even though his name badge says he’s ‘happy to help’ – as he picks up whole strawberries, mops the ones that have been splattered on the white tiled floor. It looks like a crime scene, and I shiver, drawing my knees up to my chin and tucking my arms around my shins.

‘Look. I know you don’t know me but I only live around the corner. Would you like to come back to mine? I can offer you some food and call you a cab when you’re feeling better?’ Nathan proffers his hand and pulls me to my feet. I sway, and his arm curves around my waist, and I lean into him as though I’ve done it a thousand times before.

‘It’s kind of you but…’

‘No buts. I can’t let you go home in this state. I’d never forgive myself if you fainted again crossing the road or something.’

‘I could always call my dad. I’m sure I could wait here until he comes.’

The assistant vigorously cleaning around us runs the mop over my feet so the water trickles over my toes, exposed in sandals, and they become sticky with disinfectant.

‘Sorry,’ he mutters, although he is grinning as he says it, and I don’t want to remain here a second longer.

There’s no way I’d ever usually go home with a stranger, let alone stay for dinner but I am feeling sick. Besides, it’s not as though Nathan is a stranger, is it? Not really. And I did want to talk to him. But an image of Callie’s bruised face looms into my consciousness, and I hesitate. What if Nathan is dangerous?

‘If you feel happier calling your dad I’ll wait with you until he arrives.’

His brow is wrinkled with concern, and I brush my doubts aside. How many people are kind enough to stop and help a complete stranger?

‘Thanks, but I’d like to go back to yours,’ I say.

Back to Callie’s, I think.

Back to mine, beats my heart.