“I’m not allowed to decorate. Landlord won’t let me.” The tenth-floor flat still had its depressing laminate floorboards and seventies knobbly walls. It smelled of damp and other people’s cooking. “Um, I need to shower. Do you want—you want tea or anything?”
“That’s okay. I’ll just stay here and read or something.” She looked around at the shabby room, the laundry on the rack—Annie’s overwashed pants and leggings—which had dried all crispy. Polly picked something up from the dusty coffee table. “How to Obtain Power of Attorney. This looks interesting.” Was that sarcasm? A slim pamphlet with a sad stock photo of someone holding an old person’s hand. When really getting power of attorney was more like grabbing that old person’s hand and tying it to their side before they could hurt themselves. Or someone else.
“Well, okay. I won’t be long.”
Annie went into the bathroom—rusty mirror, moldering shower curtain—and wondered if she’d gone mad. There was a strange woman in her house and she was just letting it happen. A woman she knew nothing about, who could be crazy, and quite likely was, judging by her clothes. Maybe that was why they’d met in the neurological department. Maybe she’d had a blow to the head and it had turned her into a person with no boundaries, who came to your flat and read your depressing private pamphlets.
Annie had the world’s quickest wash, what her mum would have called a lick and a polish. For many months after her life fell apart, the shower used to be the place she cried, her fist stuffed in her mouth to muffle the sound. But there was no time for that today, so she threw on a near-identical outfit to the one she’d worn yesterday. No point in looking nice. Not for a place where people were either dying, or wished they were.
On her way out—no makeup, wet hair bundled up—she heard voices from the living room. Her heart sank. He must be on a short shift today.
“Annie!” Polly beamed at her as she went in. “I was just meeting your lovely friend here!”
“Hiya, Annie!” Costas waved. Costas was Greek, gorgeous and had abs you could crack eggs on. He was also twenty-two, had turned Annie’s spare room into a festering rubbish dump and hilariously enough worked in Costa Coffee. At least, he thought it was hilarious.
“He’s my flatmate. I need to go now.”
“In a minute. Costas brought back some pastries!”
“Boss says I should take away. Still good, though!” He was holding open a brown paper bag full of croissants and Danish pastries. He smiled at Polly. “You come to Costa sometime, I make you special Greek coffee. Strong enough to blow off your head!”
Suddenly Annie was angry. How dare this woman come here and lift the lid on Annie’s life, the sordid flat, the unwashed dishes? “I’m going now,” she said. “Costas, could you wash up your pans? You left green stuff all over the baking dish last night.”
“Spanakopita—needs to soak.”
“Oh, I love spanakopita!” cried Polly. “I backpacked in Greece when I was eighteen. Kyria!”
“Kyria!” Costas gave her a thumbs-up, and his widest white grin. He was always smiling. It was very wearing. “Very good, Polly.”
Annie put her coat on, as passive-aggressively as she could. “I’ll be late.”
“Oh! Right, let’s split. Lovely to meet you, Costas-Annie’s-friend.”
“He’s my flatmate,” she said, opening the door crossly. She wasn’t entirely sure why.
*
“Ladies and gentlemen, the bus will now stop to change drivers. It will take, er...we don’t know.”
The bus filled with a gust of sighs. “I’ll definitely be late now,” Annie muttered to herself.
“Bloody wasters,” grumbled an elderly man behind her who was wearing a hairy suit that smelled strongly of damp. “Two pound a journey for this. Lining their pockets, they are.”
Polly said, “Well, it gives us a chance to look around.” Annie and the man exchanged a quick incredulous glance. The view out the window was of a large Tesco and a patch of waste ground with a burned-out car on it. “Or chat,” Polly went on. “Where are you off to, sir?”
“Funeral,” he grunted, leaning on his stick.
“I’m sorry. Friend of yours?”
Annie shrank into her seat. A man in paint-stained jeans was already rolling his eyes. What if people thought she was with the woman who talked on the bus? The most dangerous London pest, worse that urban foxes or Japanese knotweed.
“Me old mucker Jimmy. Had good innings, though. Fighter pilot in the Blitz, he was.”
“Oh, how fascinating. How did you meet?”
A woman in a headscarf removed one earbud and tutted loudly. Annie cringed.
“Grew up on the same street. Old Bermondsey. He was RAF, I was navy. I could tell you a thing or two, love.” He gave an emphysemic chuckle. Annie picked up an abandoned Metro and began to ostentatiously read about gangland stabbings, as the old man droned on.
“And then Jimmy, he ’id in the wardrobe till ’er ’usband nodded off, then he nipped out the window...”
“This is so sad,” Annie said pointedly, waving the paper. “Three stabbings this month alone.”
“Bunch of ’oodlums,” said the old man. “Jimmy and me were the terror of the streets but we never did no stabbings. A punch in the face—now, that’s civilized. Gentlemanly.”
Annie closed her eyes: she could not endure another second of this. Luckily, the bus started to move, and Mate-of-Jimmy’s got off at the next stop, seizing Polly’s hand and planting a wet kiss on it. “Nice speaking to you, young lady.”
“I’ve got some hand sanitizer,” offered Annie.
Polly laughed. “He’ll probably outlive me.”
Annie raised her paper again. Everyone else on the bus had headphones in, like decent people. Only Polly insisted on staring around her, waving at babies and dogs, making eye contact all over the show. If she carried on like that, there was a good chance they’d be arrested by the London Transport Police and not even make the hospital.
*
But they did make it. The homeless man was still sitting by the bus shelter, and Annie wondered if he’d been there all night. His head was bowed. Polly hunkered down to him, as Annie cringed again and stared off into the distance. “Hello. What’s your name? I’m Polly.”
He glanced up slowly, clearing his throat. His voice was like sandpaper. “Jonny.”
“Is there anything I can bring you when I come out? Hot drink?”
Annie was blushing on Polly’s behalf. Wasn’t it patronizing, to offer a hot drink instead of cash? He looked surprised. “A coffee would be nice. Anything hot, really.”
“Sugar?”
“Eh, two, please. Cheers.”
“See you a bit later, then. I’ve got to go in there now.”
“Oh. Good luck.”
Annie was already walking off, deathly embarrassed. Once inside, she did her best to shake Polly off. “I’m going this way, so—”
“Me, too. Good old Neurology.” Polly tucked her fur-clad arm through Annie’s. “It’s the best department. I mean, it’s your brain. Everything you are is in there. Much better than stupid hearts or legs, or the worst, dermatology.”
“Yeah,” Annie said with heavy sarcasm. “It’s great when your brain starts turning to mush in your head.” They’d stopped outside the inpatient ward. “Well, I need to go in there.”