And then she’s gone, the grubby glass doors of our office swinging behind her.

Martin turns on me. ‘I like your shoes,’ he says, with a charming smile. I shudder. I can’t stand Martin from PR. He says things like ‘let’s action that’ in meetings, and clicks his fingers at Ruby, who is a Marketing Exec, but who Martin seems to think is his personal assistant. He’s only twenty-three, but has decided it will further his merciless pursuit of seniority if he can seem older than he is, so he always puts on this awful jocular voice and tries to talk to our MD about golf.

The shoes are excellent, though. They’re purple Doc Marten-style boots, with white lilies painted on them, and they took me most of Saturday. My crafting and customising has really upped since Justin left me. ‘Thanks, Martin,’ I say, already attempting to sidle back to the security of my desk.

‘Leela mentioned that you’re looking for somewhere to live,’ Martin says.

I hesitate. I’m not sure where this is going. I sense nowhere good.

‘Me and Hana’ – a woman in Marketing who always sneers at my fashion sense – ‘have a spare room. You might have seen on Facebook, but I thought maybe I should bring it up, you know, IRL. It’s a single bed, but, well, I guess that won’t be a problem for you these days. As we’re friends, Hana and I decided we could offer it for five hundred a month, plus bills.’

‘That’s so kind of you!’ I say. ‘But I’ve actually just found somewhere.’ Well, I sort of have. Nearly. Oh, God, if L. Twomey won’t have me, will I have to live with Martin and Hana? I mean, I already spend every working day with them, and frankly that is plenty of Martin-and-Hana time for me. I’m not sure my (already shaky) resolve to leave Justin’s place can withstand the idea of Martin chasing me for rent payments and Hana seeing me in my porridge-stained Adventure Time pyjamas every morning.

‘Oh. Right, well. We’ll have to find someone else, then.’ Martin’s expression turns cunning. He has smelled guilt. ‘You could make it up to me by going with Katherin to that—’

‘No.’

He gives an exaggerated sigh. ‘God, Tiffy. It’s a free cruise! Don’t you go on cruises all the time?’

I used to go on cruises all the time, when my wonderful and now ex-boyfriend used to take me on them. We’d sail from Caribbean island to Caribbean island in a sunny haze of romantic bliss. We’d explore European cities and then head back to the boat for incredible sex in our tiny little bunk. We’d stuff ourselves at the all-you-can-eat buffet and then lie out on the deck watching the gulls circle above us as we talked idly of our future children.

‘Gone off them,’ I say, reaching for the phone. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to make a call.’

2

   Leon

Phone rings as Doctor Patel is prescribing meds for Holly (little girl with leukaemia). Bad timing. Very bad timing. Doctor Patel not happy at interruption, and makes her feelings clear. Seems to have forgotten that I, too, as night nurse, should have gone home at 8 a.m., and yet am still here dealing with ill people and grouchy consultants like Doctor Patel.

Hang up when it rings, obviously. Make mental note to listen to voicemail and change ringtone to something less embarrassing (this one is called ‘Jive’ and is far too funky for hospice setting. Not that funk does not have role in place of sickness, just that is not always appropriate).

Holly: Why didn’t you answer? Isn’t that rude? What if it was your girlfriend with the short hair?

Dr Patel: What’s rude is leaving your mobile on loud during a ward round. Though I’m surprised whoever-it-was even tried ringing him at this hour.

A glance at me, half irritable, half amused.

Dr Patel: You may have noticed that Leon is not a big talker, Holly.

Leans in, conspiratorial.

Dr Patel: One of the registrars has a theory. He says that Leon has a limited number of words to use each shift, and when it gets to this time of day, he’s entirely run out.

Don’t grace this with a response.

Speaking of girlfriend with short hair: haven’t told Kay about the room thing yet. Not had time. Also, am avoiding inevitable conflict. But really must call her later this morning.

Tonight was good. Mr Prior’s pain lessened enough that he could start telling me about the man he fell in love with in the trenches: a dark-haired charmer called Johnny White, with the chiselled jaw of a Hollywood star and a twinkle in his eye. They had one fraught, romantic, war-torn summer, then were split up. Johnny White was taken to hospital for shellshock. They never saw each other again. Mr Prior could’ve got in lots of trouble (homosexuality vexing to military sorts).

I was tired, coffee buzz dying, but stayed with Mr Prior after handover. The man never gets visitors and loves to talk when he can. Failed to escape conversation without a scarf (my fourteenth from Mr Prior). Can only say no a certain number of times, and Mr Prior knits so fast I wonder why anyone bothered with the Industrial Revolution. Pretty sure he’s faster than a machine.

*

Listen to voicemail after eating dangerously reheated chicken stir-fry in front of last week’s Masterchef.

Voicemail: Hi, is that L. Twomey? Oh, shite, you can’t answer – I always do this on voicemails. OK, I’m just going to proceed on the assumption that you’re L. Twomey. My name’s Tiffy Moore and I’m ringing about the Gumtree ad, about a room? Look, my friends think it’s weird that we’d be sharing a bed, even though it’d be at different times, but it doesn’t bother me if it doesn’t bother you, and to be honest I’d do pretty much anything for a central London flat I can move into right away at that price. [Pause] Oh, God, not anything. There’s loads of things I wouldn’t do. I’m not like . . . No, Martin, not now, can’t you see I’m on the phone?

Who is Martin? A child? Does this rambly woman with Essex accent want to bring a child into my flat?

Voicemail continues: Sorry, that’s my colleague, he wants me to go on a cruise with a middle-aged lady to talk to pensioners about crochet.

Not the explanation I was expecting. Better, definitely, but begs many questions.

Voicemail continues: Look, just call me back or text me if the room’s still available? I’m super tidy, I’ll keep right out of your way and I’m still in the habit of cooking double quantities of my dinner so if you like home-cooked food I can leave leftovers.

She reads out her number. Just in time, I remember to jot it down.

Woman is annoying, definitely. And is female, which may vex Kay. But only two other people have called: one asked if I had a problem with pet hedgehogs (answer: not unless they are living in my flat) and other was definitely a drug dealer (not being judgemental – was offered drugs during call). I need £350 extra a month if I’m going to keep paying Sal without Kay’s help. This is the only available plan. Plus, will never actually see annoying woman. Will only ever be in when annoying woman is out.