Listen to music
“I didn’t know it would be this dressy. Why didn’t you tell me it’d be dressy?” The Royal Festival Hall was full of older couples in tuxedos and floor-length frocks, quaffing white wine and chatting loudly about Mahler. Annie had rocked up in her usual black slacks and a jumper, and was now feeling woefully underdressed. They’d also had to talk their way in, since Polly had forgotten to bring the tickets. Her cancer card (and her Visa card) had been pressed into service, however, and the situation was saved, salved with a few tears. Annie had hung back, embarrassed, and ashamed of being embarrassed. Now they were late, and people were staring as they pushed their way into the row.
Polly was wearing a dress with sprigs of cornflowers on it. “Oh, you’re fine. Who cares about all that? We’re here to listen, not look.”
“And what is it we’re hearing?” She’d planned to YouTube it beforehand, so she could at least seem knowledgeable, but Sharon had hovered by her desk all day and there hadn’t been a moment.
“My absolute favorite. Vaughan Williams. It’s so dramatic and beautiful. I guess classical music snobs would say it was a little schmaltzy, but who cares.”
There were snobs even within classical music? Annie’s exposure to live music had consisted of a trip to see Phantom of the Opera for her hen-do, and one Take That concert in the O2. As she recalled, Jane had organized both of those. As they took their seats—very near the front; how much had this cost?—she felt itchy with nerves. The mood was reverential, hushed. She opened her bottle of Diet Coke and earned herself several black looks from the old people around them as it fizzed. Chastened, she hid it under her seat and resolved to be thirsty for the rest of the show. It wasn’t like a musical. No one had drinks, or sweets, and no one was flicking through Facebook on their phones. The hush died down even more as the orchestra filed on, all in black, and took up their instruments, tuning up and settling their sheet music. They looked impossibly glamorous, intensely focused. Annie began to feel wildly nervous. What if she had to cough? She might need to cough in a really important bit. Would they lynch her?
“Here we go,” Polly whispered, even those three quiet words drawing more dark looks. Annie gripped the edge of her chair. She needed to sneeze. Oh, God, she really needed to sneeze. She crinkled up her nose as the first note sounded.
Oh, wow. It was... Annie felt herself frowning, biting her lip at the sheer power of it. The deep bass notes, the same refrain taken up by different instruments, over and over, layered with moments of silence where she felt herself shaking. The melody searing her ears, the lower notes making her stomach vibrate. She found she was gripping her seat. And the urge to sneeze was completely gone.
Twenty minutes later, a storm of clapping erupted. Annie was wiping her eyes. Polly turned to her. “Well?”
“It was good. I thought it was...good.” It was the best thing she’d ever heard in her life.
“Are you having a Pretty Woman moment? Sorry, I can’t take you anywhere in my private jet, but the upside is you don’t have to have sex with me for money.” Polly’s voice sang out as usual, and a crumbling couple behind them tutted. The orchestra were shifting into place, getting ready for the next piece, when the auditorium was suddenly filled with the unmistakable opening chords of “Like a Virgin.” Annie looked around, panicking, for the source of the noise—was it by some horrible chance her phone? No, it was Polly’s. Everyone was staring. Even the orchestra were looking down in annoyance. Slowly, calmly, Polly fished it out and pressed Cancel, but not before Annie had seen the name “Tom” flash up. She looked at Polly, wide-eyed, and Polly just laughed. “I think we’re about to get banned from the concert. Come on, let’s get a churro and walk along the South Bank passing judgment on people.” And they fought their way out, feeling the full strength of five hundred people’s disapproval, but somehow, Annie didn’t mind as much as she would have thought.
DAY 18
Make time to chat
“What’s that you’re listening to?” said Sharon, hovering by Annie’s desk.
Annie took out her headphones, hurriedly. She’d been playing the Vaughan Williams over and over, the sound of it swelling in her ears as she looked out on the grimy strip-lit surroundings of her office. “Oh, nothing.”
“We’re not meant to have headphones in. What if I need you?”
Annie could have pointed out that Syed had his headphones in all day long, even going to the loo with them, but instead she said, “Just wave if you need me, Sharon. Or email.”
Sharon sat down again, cracking her knees. “Never used to be like that. What’s the point of being in the office if I have to email you? Antisocial, that’s what it is.” But Annie could hardly hear her, because she was drowning it out with the soar and sob of the violins, and she really didn’t care anymore.
DAY 19
Get a pet
“Look! Isn’t he adorable?”
Annie’s eyes traveled to Polly’s feet, which were clad in silver platforms, wobbly and shimmering. She seemed to be almost straining out of them, as if she was too impatient to be walking on the ground like normal people. “That’s a dog.”
“A puppy.” Polly bent down to scoop up the wriggling tangle of limbs at her feet. The puppy was a boxer, Annie thought—snub nose, dark wet eyes. Emitting a strong smell of damp fur. “His name’s Buster.”
“But where did you—?”
“Oh, I just woke up and thought, you know what I always wanted?”
“Fleas? Rabies?”
“A cute puppy. So I went and got one from a guy on Gumtree. It was that easy.”
“Um, how much did you—?”
“Oh, eight hundred or something.” Polly was blowing kisses and making silly faces at the little thing, which was letting out a high whining sound.
Eight hundred pounds. That was almost a whole month’s rent on Annie’s horrible flat. She tried not to roll her eyes. “Poll, you know you’ve brought a dog into a place full of sick people. You do realize we’re in the hospital?”
“It’s okay. I’m sure he won’t catch anything.”
“Polly. How did you even get him in?”
“I smuggled him in my bag.” She was defensive now. “I thought he might cheer people up. It’s so depressing in here.”
“Yes, it is depressing on the neurology ward, but honestly. Look at him.”
Buster, wide-eyed and wriggling, was now doing a small wee. Polly held him away from her as it puddled on the floor of the corridor, which funnily enough was the color of urine to start with. “Oops.”
“I’m getting Dr. Max,” said Annie.
*