This had to be said and it had to be said now.
‘Leon, you must get your head around this. I’m Max, but I’m not your Max. We might look alike but be very different in character. Your Max might have been quiet, calm, patient, and able to cook and didn’t stuff herself on chocolate and …’
‘No, my Max wasn’t any of that, but I take your point. And I’m not your Leon, either.’
‘In fact, we’re complete strangers. We’re strangers with familiar faces. We don’t know each other at all.’
‘Yes. I understand that. Even so, I would like to extend an invitation for you to stay for a while. If this really isn’t your world then you have a lot of catching up to do. Decisions to make. But all that’s for the future. For the time being, until you’re better, I think you should stay. I really would like you to stay.’
I took a breath. ‘Thank you. I really would like to stay.’
He put out a hand. ‘Hello. My name’s Leon.’
The years rolled back. I was standing on the staircase at St Mary’s, meeting a man in an orange jumpsuit … and the whole incredible adventure was about to begin, all over again.
I held it tightly. ‘Hello, Leon. Nice to meet you.’
The silence lengthened.
I gently pulled my hand free before the tears started to fall. This was no time to get all soppy and sentimental.
I staggered to my feet and went to investigate my painting area. It was all very neat and tidy. I’d soon put a stop to that.
I bent painfully, placed a canvas on the easel, and stroked it gently, while I waited for it to tell me what it wanted to be.
The silence was overwhelming.
I reached up and began to twist my hair back into its bun. That done, I pulled my brushes towards me, looked at him over my shoulder, threw him a bit of a wobbly smile, and said, ‘Where’s that tea, then?’
Epilogue
I’d had a good night’s sleep, a very long, hot bath, several mugs of tea, and was now feeling very much more on top of things.
In an effort to overcome the slight social awkwardness occasioned by the two of us not knowing where to begin, he was fussing around the kitchen doing me some tea and toast since I’d missed breakfast. I was busy at the kitchen table.
‘What are you doing?’ he said, plonking a mug of tea in front of me.
‘Writing my obituary.’
‘What on earth for?’
‘Well, you can’t do it, can you? I never met you before yesterday.’
‘My surprise was based less on the fact that we’ve hardly met and more because you’re not actually dead.’
‘No, but I was. Maybe I’m a zombie. Brains … must have brains …’
‘No brains. Only Marmite.’
‘A very acceptable alternative.’
There was a slight pause. I wondered if perhaps his Max hadn’t liked Marmite. Was this how it was always going to be, with each of us silently comparing this new version of ourselves to the old one. I liked Marmite – maybe his Max hadn’t. This Leon wore black socks – my Leon hadn’t. My Leon had been dynamite in bed. We were good together. Suppose now … we weren’t?
I looked up and he was watching me, following my every thought. That hadn’t changed, anyway.
‘It’s not going to be a problem,’ he said softly. ‘We don’t have to rush anything. We have our whole lives ahead of us and we’ll just take each day as it comes. The first priority is to get you fit and well again. I don’t like women running around the flat with big holes in their chests. It makes the place look untidy.’
‘All closed up now,’ I said. ‘It just hurts a bit every now and then.’
Actually, it still hurt a lot. Mrs Partridge had known what she was doing. I had no choice but to remain here and take things slowly. For a week, at least.
A lot can happen in a week.
And it was about to.
The telephone rang.
Busy buttering toast, Leon ignored it and the machine cut in.
I heard his voice. ‘Please leave a message.’
A pause.
A beep.
Then Dr Bairstow, his voice harsh with urgency said, ‘Leon. Get out. They’re here. Run!’
THE END