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  ‘Now, lie down on the couch for me, if you could,’ I instruct, clearing my throat as he gets on. It’s as his shirt falls to the floor, as I bend down to pick it up for him, that I catch the scent of his cologne – a spicy sandalwood fragrance that can barely be called a fragrance, more an actual memory, it’s so… so reminiscent. But of what, I have no idea.

  I put a hand on Scott’s shoulder and take a deep breath, feeling dizzy and light-headed again.

  The music was so loud, it had battered my mind, my head, my entire body. I loved it. It made every fibre of me dance, even though I wasn’t actually dancing at that point. It was more like I was escaping – just for that one evening. Being in the bar was like being in another universe – all-consuming, taking me out of myself, making me forget. It wasn’t at all like me, but exactly what I needed at the time – to feel drunk and alive. Free of my own thoughts just for an evening.

  I’d walked away from the previous guy who’d bought me a drink and had woven my way to the edge of the dance floor. Then I’d spotted the spare table… the stool… a place to sit and be alone… trying not to twist an ankle in my stupid heels.

  And then the hand on my shoulder…

  I’d stopped, dead still. It seemed as if my blood vessels had suddenly frozen, and I even wondered if my heart had actually stopped beating. There was an oasis of warmth where the man’s hand had settled on my skin, trapping us both inside a perfectly still cocoon with everything around us dissolved. The strangest thing was, it felt like I’d been waiting for that moment my entire adult life.

  ‘I don’t think it’s frozen,’ I say, my own voice snapping me back to the present. ‘Your shoulder. You have a full range of movement,’ I add, lowering his arm down by his side again.

  ‘Frozen?’

  ‘Adhesive capsulitis. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy,’ I say, for some reason raising my eyebrows.

  ‘That’s good to know,’ he says with a smile, sitting up, his abdominal muscles tensing.

  ‘It’s incredibly painful and can last for several years. Treatments are fairly limited and include surgery.’ I clear my throat. ‘Do get dressed,’ I say, going to the basin to wash my hands. For some reason, I wash them twice.

  ‘So what have I got then, Dr Miller?’ Scott says, standing outside the cubicle as he buttons his shirt.

  I feel dizzy again, the paper towel between my hands as his shape morphs into someone else. No, somewhere else.

  ‘Perhaps… perhaps a mild rotator cuff injury,’ I explain, shaking my head. I sit down at my desk again, managing several deep, calming breaths, just like I had to do day in, day out to prevent the panic attacks after I lost Jeremy. It was the only way I could get through those early days of grief – a moment-to-moment lifeline that somehow, along with the diazepam, helped to numb reality.

  ‘For now, I recommend ibuprofen for a few days and I’ll print out a sheet of exercises to do daily. If there’s no improvement within a week or if it gets worse, come back and see me and we’ll look at a referral and a stronger painkiller.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Scott says slowly, tucking in his shirt and putting on his jacket. ‘I’ll do just that.’ He gives me a smile – warm and familiar – before heading for the door. With his hand on the knob, he turns back and says, ‘It was good to see you, Jennifer.’ And then he leaves.

  Five

  Jen

  ‘Hello?’ I call out, after knocking on the front door and ringing the bell for the third time. ‘Elsie, are you there?’ Of course she’s there, I convince myself, though that doesn’t stop me being concerned for her. She’s eighty-five, doesn’t have a car, has limited access to public transport, and her only remaining family member is her daughter who lives two hundred miles away and refuses contact with her. I, plus a couple of other kindly souls from the village, are the only visitors Elsie has. She relies on us. Each time I pay a house call, I wonder if it will be my last. And each time I knock, I wonder if she’s lying dead inside.

  The thought makes me shudder.

  I hear a noise and let out my breath. Thank God. I couldn’t stand to think of her all alone, perhaps having had a fall or suffered a heart attack or stroke. Though, apart from her feet giving her trouble, medically there’s not a lot wrong with Elsie Wheeler.

  A key turns in the lock and, after a bit of rattling, she pulls the door open on its chain. She scowls up at me. Elsie is barely five feet tall and refuses to wear her glasses or her hearing aid. A pungent smell of stale urine and dog excrement escapes from the gap in the door, wafting out in a warm, fetid stink.

  ‘Who’s that?’ she says, almost in a bark. Following which, there is an actual bark. Minty, her wiry old terrier who’s anything but minty, shuffles up to her ankles, letting out a croak of a yap, all the ancient creature can manage. Like her owner, the dog can’t see well though doesn’t have the opportunity of glasses. And the poor thing regularly messes in the house.

  ‘It’s me, Elsie,’ I say. ‘Dr Miller.’ I never call myself Jennifer. Somehow, it doesn’t seem right.

  ‘’Allo,’ she says in that northern accent of hers, her tone brightening when she realises it’s me. ‘Come on in, duck.’ Elsie shoves the door shut and removes the chain before opening it wide and beckoning me inside. I take a breath and step over the threshold.

  ‘Has the new care agency not been in touch yet, Elsie?’ I say loudly, looking around as I head into her small sitting room. The gas fire is on full blast with the heat from the flickering orange and purple flames amplifying the smell. I sit down on the worn beige velour sofa, knowing which bits to avoid.

  ‘What? Nooo, we don’t need none of that care rubbish,’ she chuckles. ‘Do we, Mint?’ She bends down with surprising ease for a woman of her age and scoops up the dog, tucking it under her arm. ‘How are you then, duck?’ she asks. Adding, ‘Tea?’ before I can reply.

  ‘Thanks, OK then,’ I say. After I’ve checked up on Elsie I don’t have any other appointments and I can’t quite face going home yet, especially with Kieran not back until later. The emptiness of my house would swallow me up.

  Elsie shuffles off to put the kettle on so I follow her to the kitchen, a ten-foot square room that wouldn’t look out of place in a nineteen-sixties museum. Dilapidated green and cream units line one wall with chipped cross-hatched Formica on top. There’s an old wooden storage cupboard against the other wall and beside it a small, boxy refrigerator with rust along the edges of the door. Next to that is an ancient free-standing gas stove. Beneath the window, which only appears frosted from the grimy splashes, is a sink and drainer, dull from limescale.

  ‘You need to get these tiles sorted,’ I tell Elsie, pointing at the floor. ‘They’re dangerous,’ I trample down the edges of the dark red linoleum squares.

  ‘Stuff and nonsense,’ Elsie says, filling the kettle. ‘They’ve been that way for fifty years at least.’ With a shaking hand, she turns on the gas on the old stove and presses down the knob, waiting for the spark. ‘Takes bloody ages,’ she says, glancing up at me.

  The gas hisses out. ‘Elsie, I don’t think—’

  ‘Where’s me sodding matches?’ she says, shuffling off to pull open a drawer. The gas stays stuck on so I quickly turn it off, lunging at Elsie as she finds the matches and goes to strike one.

  ‘No, wait,’ I say, placing a hand on her arm. ‘Let’s open the door first, eh? Get some air in. We don’t want an accident.’

  ‘Right, duck,’ Elsie says, suddenly looking thoughtful. ‘No, no, we don’t want another one of those.’ She nods and heads for the back door, giving the bottom of it a sharp kick with her foot to get it open.

  ‘Tell me how you’ve been then, Elsie,’ I say, checking the rim of my mug before I sip. While she was brewing the tea – for her, it’s a ritual with loose leaves and a pot – I found a pair of rubber gloves and some kind of disinfectant spray and cleaned up the dog’s mess in her living room, dumping it all in her overflowing dustbin outside. ‘Do you feel you’re coping O
K?’

  ‘That’s kind of you to ask, Doctor,’ she replies, rattling her cup on her saucer. ‘You’re about the only person who cares, but I’ve not been eighty-three years on this planet for nothing, you know. Everyone seems to think I’m not able to look after myself. First Cherry from number twelve, she pops in on me, you know, wretched girl, telling me I’m doing things wrong, and then that woman from some care place poking her nose in about sending someone regular, like. Surely not you too, Doctor?’ Elsie shakes her head and slurps her tea. Her top lip and chin are covered in a fine mist of grey hairs. ‘I thought you were on my side, of all people.’

  Oh, I am, I want to tell her. More than you know.

  ‘I’m not saying you can’t cope, Elsie,’ I say with a smile, admiring her feistiness. ‘But sometimes, as we get older, it’s nice to have a bit of help.’

  Elsie makes a growling sound and shakes her head.

  ‘And I hate to break it to you, but you’re eighty-five,’ I add with a laugh.

  ‘Oh, get away with you now,’ she replies, a glint in her eyes.

  ‘And Cherry is only trying to help, Elsie. Between you and me, I think she likes to get out of the house. She’s got her little toddler to cope with and he’s hard—’ I stop myself. Christ, how could I be so insensitive? I watch Elsie, but the expression on her face tells me she didn’t hear properly, or if she did, she’s not made the connection.

  I mentioned to Cherry a while ago it was probably best she didn’t bring little Tyler round when she visited Elsie, all things considered. At three years old, I was concerned about the trigger, about the impact it could have on Elsie’s mental health. As her doctor, I’ve seen the signs of her PTSD getting more pronounced the older she’s got but, Elsie being Elsie, she’s consistently refused any help or counselling over the years. I don’t suppose she’ll change now.

  ‘Some things are best not spoken of,’ she kept telling me, always in a whisper. ‘Ever.’

  ‘Are you still managing to cook for yourself, Elsie, or would you like me to see about getting some meals delivered? It might help.’

  Elsie clacks her teeth and pulls a face. ‘’Course I’m managing to cook, duck. How else would I be alive?’ She laughs, slurping more tea.

  By cooking, Elsie means emptying half a tin of spaghetti hoops into a saucepan before spilling them, lukewarm, onto a piece of white bread. Dessert is always a mini chocolate roll. She eats cornflakes for breakfast and a ham sandwich for lunch. And she drinks copious amounts of tea. Somehow, she survives. But, as I already know, Elsie is a fighter. As stoic as they come, grinding from one day to the next. Nearly thirty years ago, she and her family experienced the unimaginable. The unthinkable. No mother, no grandmother, should have to suffer what they did. I shudder, forcing myself not to dwell on it.

  Minty attempts to jump up onto Elsie’s lap and, on the third go, the dog manages it.

  ‘Hey up,’ she half croaks, raising her cup and saucer until the dog settles. ‘Mrs Popular, am I?’

  ‘Minty is good company,’ I say thoughtfully, wondering how a dog would fit into my lifestyle – or what’s left of my lifestyle. The simple answer is, it wouldn’t.

  ‘You should get a pup,’ Elsie says, giving me a sideways glance, as though she’s read my mind. The thought of that makes me shudder again.

  I laugh. ‘It wouldn’t be fair on the dog.’

  ‘It would be company for you, duck,’ Elsie says with a nod. ‘I heard what happened to your husband. That Cherry can’t keep her sodding trap shut. I’m so sorry for your loss.’

  I suddenly feel like laughing and bursting into tears at the same time. There’s no doubt news travels quickly in Harbrooke. After all, I’m doctor to many locals, and word would have spread about the reasons behind my temporary absence from the surgery. And it’s not the first time I’ve heard Elsie swear. Rather, it’s the matter-of-factness of what she said, as though my grief for Jeremy could be magically fixed by getting a pet, that makes me want to bury my face in a cushion and scream. But then if anyone knows about grief and loss, it’s Elsie. In that sense, it makes us the same – we each blame ourselves, feeling we could have somehow prevented the deaths of our loved ones.

  ‘Thank you, Elsie,’ I say. ‘I have Kieran for company, don’t forget,’ I add. Though he’s often not home these days, I want to tell her but don’t, and nor do I mention that the worry I have for my son right now is off the scale. I didn’t come here to vent. The opposite, in fact. While I don’t find it necessary to check out Elsie medically every time I visit, me popping in each week is a way to keep track of how she is in herself. Not duty visits as such, but close. I’ve done it for as long as I can remember.

  ‘You’ll learn,’ Elsie says, peering at me over the rim of her cup as she slurps the dregs of her tea.

  ‘Learn?’ I say, loudly so she can hear.

  ‘You’ll learn about losing people, duck. That even though they’re gone, they’re never really gone,’ she chuckles, petting Minty. She leans forward and nuzzles the dog on the nose.

  I narrow my eyes, wondering what she means. Her grandson was brutally murdered, aged three. He’s been dead nearly the same number of decades. ‘That’s some comfort,’ I say, my words seeming to lose any empathy given that I have to almost shout them so she can hear.

  Elsie freezes, making me wonder if she’s suffering some kind of episode. She grips the teacup hard, her fingertips whitening, making me think she’s going to snap off the china handle. Her eyes frost as though she has fast-forming cataracts and the loose skin under her jaw trembles, as though something is bubbling up inside her.

  ‘Oh no. No, no, no. It’s no comfort at all,’ she whispers, barely moving her mouth.

  Six

  Rhonda

  Rhonda dumps her bag down on the kitchen table, pulls off her coat, hanging it on the back of a kitchen chair, and heads to the fridge – the glow from inside illuminating her tired face. She wipes a hand down one cheek, staring at the near-empty shelves, only wanting a snack – something to knock the edge of the burn in her stomach since she didn’t get lunch, but nothing takes her fancy. She’s not had time to go to the supermarket this week and, besides, anything decent usually gets hoovered up by Chris or Caitlin within a couple of hours of being bought, as if they have some kind of survival competition between them. She smiles – whatever it is, it’s fine by her. Everything is better with Chris in their lives.

  She pulls out a bottle of Beck’s from the fridge door, checking to see it’s not one of Chris’s alcohol-free bottles. His dry January has smugly continued into February. Hers never made it past the third of the month. A Beck’s Blue would not hit the spot that needs hitting, currently, and she doesn’t want to get into the remaining spirits left over from Christmas. That’s a slippery slope on a weeknight.

  ‘Slippery bloody slope indeed,’ she whispers under her breath, popping the top off the bottle and swigging directly from it. She shakes her head. She still can’t believe it – that Jeremy is dead. And she still can’t believe it, either, that Jen seems to be coping – even though she suspects she’s not. She worries for her friend. Worries that she’s burying her grief so deeply that it’s gradually turning her insides to concrete. Worries that soon, she won’t be able to move from the weight.

  ‘Slippery slope,’ she says again, slumping down at the kitchen table, bottle gripped in one hand and her forehead resting on her other arm. For a moment, she sees only white behind her eyes – perhaps what Jeremy saw during his last moments as the avalanche hit. She forces herself to tune out of that. She can’t deal with those thoughts right now, not after such a bad day at work, hating that she has not one but two bottom sets to deal with this year. The staff meeting was the same old, same old, with Old Hairy, the deputy head, taking over as usual. As if anyone wants to hear his politically charged rants about—

  ‘You all right, Ronnie?’ a voice asks.

  Rhonda whips up her head, her wavy blonde hair falling over her face, rem
inding her of something earlier.

  Are they meant to be beach curls, Miss? She hears the girl’s giggling voice echoing through her mind – Brittany, the pupil with the biggest mouth and grating personality to go with it. No, you stupid, attention-seeking girl! she’d wanted to yell back at her. I was just born this bloody gorgeous.

  She knew the passive-aggressive teenager was being sardonic, always picking on and mocking every single item of clothing, jewellery or make-up she wore to work – Brittany and her gang. Sure, she felt intimidated by them. Intimidated by their privileged sixteen-year-old raging hormones and knowledge of all things cool in a world that she wasn’t sure she understood any more.

  Caitlin felt the same about that group in her year and sensibly gave them a wide berth, making herself almost invisible to them. It was out of necessity – she was the teacher’s daughter, the scholarship kid in a fee-paying school, after all. But Caitlin didn’t have to teach them three times a week, attempt to hold their attention while fielding their contempt. None of them were the slightest bit interested in classic literature. Girls that age could be so cruel.

  ‘I know you were born gorgeous, sweetheart,’ the voice says in a teasing way. Rhonda feels a hand on her shoulder. Something warm on her head briefly. A kiss. She must have been talking to herself.

  ‘Hey,’ she says, smiling up at her husband. ‘You’re back early.’

  ‘No, I’m back on time for once,’ he laughs, feeling the weight of the kettle. He flicks it on. ‘Usually I’m just back late.’

  ‘True,’ Rhonda says, smiling, going up to him and slipping her arm around his waist. She leans her head against him, feeling safe.

  ‘And I repeat, you were born this gorgeous,’ Chris says, planting another kiss on her before sliding away to fetch a mug. He holds up a second one, but Rhonda shakes her head and points to the beer. ‘Had a good day, then?’ He rolls his eyes. He knows about Brittany and her group.