‘Believed what?’ I call after him, but he’s already gone, leaving a set of double doors swinging behind him.

This is . . . weird.

As I turn back I spot a male nurse with light-brown skin and dark hair, whose navy-blue scrubs look threadbare even from here – I’ve noticed how worn Leon’s scrubs are when they’re drying on the clothes horse. We make eye contact for a split second, but then he turns his head, checking the pager on his hip, and jogs off down the opposite corridor. He’s tall. It might have been him? We were too far apart to tell for sure. I walk more quickly to follow him, get slightly out of breath, then feel a bit stalkerish, and slow down again. Crap. I think I missed the turning to Kelp Ward.

I take stock in the middle of the corridor. Without the tulle skirt my dress has deflated, clinging to the fabric of my leggings; I’m hot and flustered, and, let’s be honest, completely lost.

The sign says next left for the Leisure Room, which is where I started. I sigh, checking the time. Only five minutes until our show should begin – I’d better get back in there. I’ll track Leon down afterwards, hopefully without encountering any more slightly freaky strangers who know my name.

There’s a sizeable crowd when I head back into the room; Katherin spots me with relief and kicks off the show right away. I dutifully follow her instructions, and, while Katherin enthusiastically extols the virtues of the closed stitch, I scan the room. The patients are a mix of elderly ladies and gentlemen, about two thirds of whom are in wheelchairs, and a few middle-aged ladies who look quite poorly but much more interested in what Katherin’s saying than anybody else is. There are three kids, too. One is a little girl whose hair is just growing back after chemo, I’m guessing. Her eyes are enormous and I notice them because she’s not staring at Katherin like everybody else is, she’s watching me, and beaming.

I give her a little wave. Katherin slaps my hand.

‘You’re a dreadful mannequin today!’ she scolds, and I’m brought back to the moment on the cruise ship in February, the last time Katherin was manhandling me into various uncomfortable positions in the name of crochet. For an instant, I can recall Justin’s expression exactly as it was when our eyes locked – not the way it looks in my memory, faded and changed with time, but as it actually was. A shiver goes through me.

Katherin casts me a curious look, and I snap out of the memory with an effort, managing a reassuring smile. As I look up I see a tall, dark-haired man in scrubs push through a door into one of the other wards, and my heart jumps. But it’s not Leon. I’m almost glad. I’m unsettled, off-kilter – it’s somehow not the moment I want to meet him.

‘Arms up, Tiffy!’ Katherin trills in my ear, and, with a shake of my head, I go back to doing as I’m told.

20

   Leon

Letter is crumpled in trouser pocket. Tiffy asked me to read it before I send it on to Richie. But haven’t, yet. It’s painful. Feel suddenly sure that she won’t understand. That she’ll say he’s a calculating criminal, just like the judge did. Say his excuses don’t add up, that given his character and his past he’s exactly what we should all have expected.

I’m stressed, shoulders tense. Barely caught a glimpse, and yet can’t shake the feeling that red-headed woman at the other end of the corridor to Dorsal Ward might have been her. If it was, hope she didn’t think I ran off. Obviously, did run off. But still. Would rather she didn’t know it.

Just . . . don’t want to face her before I’ve read the letter.

So. Clearly, must read letter. In the meantime, might hide out on Kelp Ward to avoid unplanned mid-corridor encounters.

Pass through reception en route and am accosted by June, who’s at the desk.

June: Your friend has arrived!

Only told a couple of people that this crochet event was organised by my flatmate. It has proven to be incredibly interesting gossip. Everyone seems insultingly surprised that I have a flatmate; apparently I look like a man who lives alone.

Me: Thanks, June.

June: She’s in the Leisure Room!

Me: Thanks, June.

June: She’s ever so pretty.

Blink. Haven’t given Tiffy’s appearance much thought, aside from wondering whether she wears five dresses at once (would explain sheer quantity hanging in our wardrobe). Am briefly tempted to ask if she has red hair, but think better of it.

June: Lovely girl. Really lovely. I’m so glad you’ve found such a lovely girl to live with.

I stare suspiciously at June. She beams back at me. Wonder who she’s been talking to – Holly? That girl has become obsessed with Tiffy.

Do odd jobs on Kelp Ward. Take unprecedented coffee break. Can’t put this off any longer. Not even any seriously unwell patients to keep me busy – I’ve got nothing to do but read this letter.

Unfold it. Look away, heart twisting. This is ridiculous. Why does it even matter?

Right. Looking at letter. Confronting letter, like adult faced with opinion of another adult who has asked them to read something and whose opinion shouldn’t even matter.

Does matter, though. Should be honest with myself: I like having Tiffy’s notes to come home to, and I’ll be sad to lose her if she is cruel to Richie. Not that she will be. But . . . that’s what I’ve thought before. Never know how people will react until you see it.

Dear Richie,

Thanks so much for your letter. It made me cry, which puts you in the same category as Me Before You, my ex-boyfriend, and onions. So that’s kind of impressive. (What I’m saying is, I’m not a willy-nilly crier – it takes some serious emotional turmoil or weird vegetable enzymes to get me weepy.)

I can’t believe how shit this is. I mean, you know things like this happen, but I guess it’s hard to relate to until you hear the full story from someone’s own mouth/pen. You didn’t tell me anything about what it felt like being in that courtroom, what prison has been like for you . . . so I can imagine the parts you’ve left out would make me cry even more.

But it’s no use me just telling you how shit this is (you already know that) and how sorry I am (you probably get that a lot from people). I was thinking that before I wrote this letter, and feeling pretty useless. I can’t just write to you and say ‘sorry, this is shit for you’, I thought. So I rang my best friend Gerty.

Gerty is a superb human being in the least obvious way. She’s mean to pretty much everyone, totally obsessive about her work, and if you cross her she’ll cut you out of her life completely. But she is deeply principled in her way, and very good to her friends, and values honesty above all else.

She also happens to be a barrister. And, if her ridiculously successful career is anything to go by, a bloody good one.