questions. Ones that I didn’t ever expect to be contemplating. Like, how has this man got his pickled onions here? And is the catering so bad that this seems like a good snack option?
‘Have you never seen a pickled onion before?’
Clive seems like he might be hangry. It’s eleven in the morning, less than an hour to lunch.
‘To be honest, certainly not home-grown and never up this close,’ I reply.
‘I found you a chair at last, lovely. Always in short supply here.’ It’s the receptionist returning.
‘He’ll be able to do it if you can’t. Hand it over to him,’ says Clive.
‘I haven’t given it a go yet.’
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ the receptionist says.
I don’t want him to go. I feel like a visiting relative rather than someone who’s here in a professional capacity.
‘Stop ogling them and open the jar already, would you?’
‘Alright, Grumpy,’ I say too quickly, the word out there like toothpaste squeezed from the tube that I’m unable to squish back in. So much for being the visiting professional. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that.’
Clive’s expression becomes crestfallen. It’s the saddest expression I’ve ever seen and I need to make it right again. In one move I take off the lid and am successful in not spilling the contents despite leaning away from the waft. It’s a relief that the pungent aroma is distinctly vinegary.
‘Oh, love. What must you think of me? I don’t mean to be so miserable.’ Clive sniffles and grabs a tissue for the tears that are descending, as if the onion odour has caught him.
I hope that’s the reason. I know I should comfort him, but instead I place the jar and lid on the table and take up residence in the chair. I’m blushing, unsure how to respond and I can tell he is self-conscious too.
The tears continue and for the first time ever, I can see what I’m trying to learn more about. Here is a man with a broken heart. It’s obvious before even taking a pulse.
Clive clears his face for a third time. ‘I’m sorry. I know it’s ridiculous to be crying over pickled onions.’
I suspect they might not be the reason he is so upset. There are many questions I should ask to find out more, but I can’t process how. What do you say to a man sobbing over a jar of pickled vegetables? Instead I go with a well-practised patter of information. ‘I’m Keisha Grant. Your consultant, Dr Hutchins, will have told you that I’m a research associate from Southampton University and you’re a suitable participant for the PhD that I’m conducting looking at the benefits of nitric oxide after a cardiac event such as yours. He said you were happy to participate, if you feel up to taking part.’
‘Ah, yes. I thought that was who you must be. It sounds very interesting. I always knew veg were good for you. Something about drinking beetroot juice daily, he said. Had my first lot this morning.’
‘Yes, that’s right. You’ll have the same amount every day and we’ll monitor your progress over the coming months. Are we okay to continue? I need to take some notes from your records and get some readings, but the monitor is doing most of that work for me. Then I need to ask a few questions and there are some forms to fill out. If you’re not feeling up to it, we can always rearrange.’
‘Would you like a pickled onion?’ Clive finds a spoon and starts to fish them out one at a time, landing them on a saucer. Unlike his ability to open the jar, he seems to have this down to a fine knack.
‘I’m not sure if I do. Like them, that is.’
‘Well you must try one. I insist. If I’m going to be drinking beetroot juice daily, it seems only fair.’ Clive pushes the small plate in my direction as if it’s a dish of candy.
‘Do you want to take part in the study?’ Suitable candidates are few and far between. But I’m not sure that fact is enough to make me want to try the browned, pickled vegetable.
The problem is the diagnosis that the study requires the participants to have. It’s rare to be able to identify it, because most people don’t get to tell their story. A broken heart is a broken heart. Period. It isn’t often that sufferers manage to get up and tell you about the event afterwards.