“Think that’s all you’re gonna get at the moment. Sorry, babe.”
“Don’t you...‘babe’ me, Annie Hebden.”
“Oh, stop moaning and get out of those gross PJs and into your frock. He’ll be here soon.”
Polly seemed to consider it for a moment, chewing her lip. Then she held her arms up. “Bollocks, I suppose it is my...last chance. Help me, will you? I’m afraid you’re on...pants-pulling-up duty.”
*
“You look beautiful.”
“Thanks. Beautiful in a...dying-of-cancer way, I assume.”
“Nah. All the models look like they’re dying, anyway. You’d fit right in.”
Polly looked at herself in the small mirror of the bathroom, twisting and turning. It was the first time Annie had seen her standing up for weeks. The dress was made of heavy red silk, with a boat neck and tight sleeves to the elbows. It swelled out at the hips, hiding her thin legs and ribs, giving her pale face warmth. Annie handed her a lipstick. “Here. Red, to match.”
“Thanks.” She slicked it on her dry lips, still staring at herself. “I look... God, Annie. I look...normal. I look like me. Me after a month-long...juice cleanse.”
“You’ll knock him dead.”
Polly narrowed her eyes. “Ha-ha.”
“Sorry. Omigod, he’s coming!” Annie peered out the glass panel in the door. “It’s him!”
“Jeez, Annie, I’m not going to...prom.” But it felt that way. Polly clutched her hands, grinning widely. “I’m going on a...date! In the romantic hospital!”
“Shh. Okay, are you ready?”
There was a knock on the door. “Keep him waiting,” Polly muttered. “One, two, three...oh, sod it, I don’t have time to play...hard to get.” She pulled the door open. “Dr. Quarani.”
“Sami, please.” He was dressed in a navy suit and pale blue shirt, and smelled of something lovely and musky. “Polly. You look very beautiful.”
“Oh, this old...thing. So, Sami. Where are you taking me?”
“We’re going to...a little place I know.”
“Is it the canteen?” Polly whispered.
“Of course not. It’s a lovely restaurant that just happens to be in the same place as the canteen. Shall we?” He held out his arm and Polly swept forward, her dress swirling about her ankles, leaning on him heavily. She’d refused to use the wheelchair tonight. It was only ten steps to the lifts so maybe she’d make it.
“Walk slowly,” Annie said, scooting past them. “I happen to know for a fact your waitress isn’t there yet.”
*
“So tonight we have a special Greek menu for you. To start with, stuffed vine leaves, followed by moussaka. May I take your wine order?” Annie had to avoid Polly’s eyes, or she knew she would laugh. She had a tea towel draped over her arm, and had shoved a waistcoat, borrowed from George, over her white shirt. The lights were dimmed and candles flickered on the canteen tables, which had been covered in red cloth. She’d set up an iPod dock playing Michael Bublé. It almost looked nice. If you squinted and ignored the strong smell of bleach, which even a bunch of pink lilies hadn’t been able to shift.
“We have wine?”
“Champagne.” Annie indicated the ice bucket Costas had nicked from his friend’s restaurant.
“Am I allowed?”
“Apparently, yes. One glass.”
Dr. Quarani shook his head. “Not for me, thank you. I don’t drink.”
“Not a problem. We have grape juice for Sir.”
He raised his glass once she’d poured it from the carton. “Congratulations, Polly. How old are you?” Polly shot Annie a look: What? Dr. Quarani saw. “Oh, I’m sorry, that’s a rude question, isn’t it. What is it you say—cheers.”
Annie poured Polly’s wine and retreated. “I’ll leave you to chat.”
In the kitchen, things were steamy, and not in a good way. Costas was wrestling with something on a chopping board, his face red. He swore in Greek. “It does not look like this when my mama makes.”
George was also sweaty, his white T-shirt drenched. “Goddamn vine leaves won’t stay stuffed. Did your mother get back to you, Costas?”
His phone beeped and Costas grabbed it, getting meat all over the screen. “She say why am I doing woman’s work. Classic Mama.”
“Not very helpful, though. Bollocks.” George sucked his finger, which he’d nicked with the knife.
“Problems?” said a Scottish voice. Dr. Max was leaning in the doorway, hands in the pockets of his white(ish) coat.
“Vine leaves will not stay stuffed,” Costas said miserably. “I cannot follow what my mama says.”
Dr. Max rolled up his sleeves. “Someone care to tell me what’s going on here?”
“Um, we cleared it all with the hospital,” Annie said guiltily. “She wanted one last night out, you see. One last date.”
“And you made Sami the fall guy? Sami who never puts a foot out of line professionally? He’s on a date with a dying patient?”
George wiped some rice off his cheek. “Um. I maybe didn’t use the word date.”
“What did you tell him?” Annie glared.
“Maybe I said something about just having dinner with her...and maybe I implied other people would be joining them. Look, I told him it was Polly’s birthday party, okay?”
“You what?” Annie felt stupid under the ironic gaze of Dr. Max.
Dr. Max sighed. “Right. And none of you considered that Sami could be struck off for dating a patient? And that if he’s struck off he’ll be sent back to a war zone?”
“How were we supposed to know that?” George flounced away. “Honestly. Cooking, asking out straight men... I didn’t sign up for any of this!”
Costas looked confused, wiping meat off his hands. “We are not cooking the dinner?”
“Don’t worry,” Dr. Max said dependably. “I can do these.” Deftly, he began trussing up the vine leaves.
“How did you know how to do that?” Annie watched, half annoyed, half relieved.
He shrugged. “That’s all surgery is, really. Taking out things that don’t belong, making sure other things stay in.” He threaded a skewer through the leaf, as neatly as he sewed up wounds. “There. How’s the rest coming on?”
“Moussaka is in oven,” Costas said anxiously. “George is making baklava.”
“Not that I’ll get any thanks for it,” George said from the other end of the kitchen.
Dr. Max washed his hands, turning off the taps with his elbows. “Right, then. Annie, come out here with me.”
“Why?” She untied her apron, now splattered with rice.
“If this is Polly’s last chance to have an evening out, it’s up to you and me to save it. Well, me mostly, but you can make up the numbers.”
Make up the numbers indeed. Fuming, she trailed out behind him.
**