JW the Sixth looks a little less anxious now.

Babs: Well, you two are staying here tonight. No arguments. It’s on the house.

Both Tiffy and I try to protest, but again Tiffy descends into spluttery half coughing, half retching, taking some of the sting out of our argument that she doesn’t need to stay in bed.

Me: I should at least go – you don’t need me now that—

Babs: Nonsense. It’s no extra bother to me, is it? Besides, Tiffy needs looking after, and my medical knowledge doesn’t extend much further than what a glass of whisky can do. John, do you want a lift home?

JW the Sixth tries to argue his way out of this favour also, but Babs is one of those formidably nice people who will not take no for an answer. It’s a good five minutes before they agree and head out the door. When they’re gone the click of the door makes me breathe out in relief. Hadn’t realised how much I want quiet.

Tiffy: Are you all right?

Me: Fine. Just not a fan of . . .

Tiffy: Commotion?

I nod.

Tiffy smiles, pulling her blankets up closer.

Tiffy: You’re a nurse – how can you avoid it?

Me: Work is different. But it still drains me. I need quiet afterwards.

Tiffy: You’re an introvert.

Make a face. I’m not a fan of those Myers–Briggs type things that tell you your personality type, like horoscopes for businesspeople.

Me: Guess so.

Tiffy: I’m the opposite. I can’t process anything without calling Gerty, or Mo, or Rachel.

Me: You want to call someone now?

Tiffy: Oh, shit, my phone was in my . . .

She spots the pile of her clothes, brought up from the shoreline by one of the hundred helpful strangers who followed us up the beach in procession. Tiffy claps hands in glee.

Tiffy: Would you pass my trousers?

I hand them over and watch as she rummages in the pockets for her phone.

Me: I’ll go get us some lunch. How long do you need?

Tiffy pushes a few stray strands of hair back from her face, looking up at me, phone in hand. That clicked-in lock hums in my chest again.

Tiffy: Half an hour?

Me: Got it.

41

   Tiffy

‘Are you all right?’ is Mo’s first question. ‘Have you been to A&E?’

Gerty, on the other hand, is focused on the real issue. ‘Why didn’t you tell us about the bathroom incident before? Are you in love with this man you’re sharing a bed with, and hiding it because you’re going to end up sleeping with him and I explicitly told you that the first rule of flatsharing is that you don’t sleep with your flatmate?’

‘Yes, I’m fine, and no, but Leon examined my ankle with some help from a friend of his who’s a doctor. I just need lots of rest, apparently. And whisky, depending on whose medical opinion you’re asking.’

‘My question now,’ Gerty says.

‘No, I’m not in love with him,’ I tell her, shifting my weight on the bed and wincing as my ankle throbs. ‘And I’m not going to sleep with him. He’s my friend.’

‘Is he single?’

‘Well, yes, actually. But—’

‘Sorry, but just to check, Tiffy, has anyone examined you for—’

‘Oh shut up, Mo,’ Gerty interrupts. ‘She’s with a trained nurse. The woman is fine. Tiffy, are you sure you’re not suffering from Stockholm Syndrome?’

‘Pardon?’

‘An A&E nurse is very different from a palliative care nurse—’

‘Stockholm Syndrome?’

‘Yes,’ Gerty says. ‘This man gave you a home when you were homeless. You are forced to sleep in his bed, and now you think you are in love with him.’

‘I don’t think I’m in love with him,’ I remind her patiently. ‘I told you, he’s my friend.’

‘But this was a date,’ Gerty says.

‘Tiffy, you do seem fine, but I just want to double-check – I’m on NHS Choices now – can you weight-bear on that ankle?’

‘You with Google is not better than a nurse with a doctor on the phone,’ Gerty tells Mo.

‘It wasn’t a date,’ I say, even though I’m pretty sure it was. I wish Mo and Gerty hadn’t got into this new habit of answering the phone together whenever they’re both home. I called Mo because I wanted to talk to Mo. It’s not that I don’t like talking to Gerty, it’s just that that is a very different experience, and not necessarily one you want after nearly drowning.

‘You’re going to need to explain this whole Johnny White thing to me again,’ Gerty says.

I check the time on my phone screen. Only five minutes until Leon gets back with lunch.

‘Listen, I have to go,’ I say. ‘But Mo, I’m fine. And Gerty, calm your protective instincts, please. He’s not trying to sleep with me or entrap me or lock me away in his basement, OK? In fact, I have very little reason to think that he’s at all interested in me.’

‘But you are interested in him?’ Gerty insists.

‘Goodbye, Gerty!’

‘Look after yourself, Tiffy,’ Mo manages to say before Gerty hangs up (she’s not big on goodbyes).

I dial Rachel’s number without pause.

*

‘So the key point here,’ Rachel says, ‘is that you are yet to have an interaction with Leon that doesn’t involve you stripping down to your underwear.’

‘Umm.’ I’m grinning.

‘You better keep your clothes on from now on. He’ll think you’re a – what’s it called when you’re one of those men who likes exposing themselves in the park?’

‘Hey!’ I protest. ‘I do not—’

‘I’m just saying what everybody’s thinking, my friend. You’re definitely not about to kick the bucket?’

‘I feel fine really. Just achy and exhausted.’

‘All right then. In that case, make the most of your free hotel stay, and call me if you find yourself accidentally whipping your bra off during dinner.’

There’s a knock at the door.

‘Shit. Got to go, bye!’ I hiss into the phone. ‘Come in,’ I call. I managed to put on the jumper Babs left me while Leon was out, so I’m now decent from the waist up, at least.