sheets, no relatives to be seen. The window behind me is pushed up as far as it’ll go, and fans whir on some of the bedside cabinets, yet still there’s hardly a breath of air.
‘Hot out there today,’ I say. I’ve taken care to sit on the side that he can still hear properly from.
He sighs. ‘Is that what our friendship has come to? We’re reduced to talking about the weather?’
‘What else do you want to talk about?’
He shrugs his unbroken shoulder, then winces. ‘You’re the agony aunt. Tell me what the youth of today are worrying about.’
I unsnap a hairband from round my wrist and pull my hair back into a ponytail. ‘Okay. Well, it’s mostly girls who write in, so I get a lot of period-related questions.’
He rolls his eyes. ‘What else?’
‘Spots. They have a lot of spot issues. Someone asked me last week if dog saliva was good for acne.’
He brightens at the absurdity. ‘What did you tell them?’
‘Cat saliva is better.’
‘You didn’t.’
‘Of course I bloody didn’t.’
‘Should’ve.’
I pour him a glass of iced water from the jug an orderly has just deposited on his side table and stick a fresh straw in.
‘Here, have a drink.’ It’s difficult for him to lift the cup with one shoulder broken and his other hand tethered by the cannula, so I hold it in place while he sucks from the straw.
‘Thank you,’ he says, laying his head back on the pillow, closing his eyes with a huff of self-annoyance at the effort and the fact he has to ask for help with something as basic as a drink of water. ‘Tell me some more.’
I cast around for something that might catch his imagination. ‘Oh, I know. A boy wrote in a couple of weeks ago because the girl he’s mad about is moving to Ireland. He’s fifteen and she’s from a strict Catholic family who don’t approve. He wanted advice on how old he had to be before he could legally move there alone.’
‘Love’s young dream,’ Jack says, his eyes still closed. ‘What did you tell him?’
I look at his too-pale face, the pronounced hollows of his cheeks. He’s never carried any spare weight, and the toll of nearly a week of barely any solid food is apparent.
‘I said that I know how painful it can be letting someone you think you love go, but that I don’t believe there’s only one person in the world for each of us. It’s too fanciful, too limiting. I said he should give it some time and see how he feels, and he’ll probably find that he stops thinking about her so much, because that’s just how it goes, especially when you’re fifteen. I told him that there comes a point where you have to make the choice to be happy, because being sad for too long is exhausting. And that one day, you’ll look back, and you’ll not be able to remember exactly what it was you loved about that person.’
Jack nods, his eyes closed.
‘But I also said that sometimes, rarely, people can come back into your life. And if that happens, you should keep those people close to you for ever.’
I lapse into silence. He’s sleeping. I hope his dreams are good ones.
15 September
Jack
Fuckers. I chuck my mobile on top of the mess of dirty mugs and food detritus on the coffee table and sink back into the lumpy sofa. The weather can piss right off too, the bloody sun’s right in my eyes. I’d get up and close the curtains if I could be arsed. I can’t though, so I just shut my eyes. I may as well go back to sleep, seeing as I’m now officially unemployed. That’s what happens when you get too cocksure and hand in your notice at your old job before starting your new one, then get blindsided by a bloke who has a stroke at the wheel of his Volvo. At least I’m alive, everyone keeps telling me, look on the bright side, or some other equally trite shit. Where is the bright side of not being able to take up the job you’ve been working towards for your entire bloody career? I went through endless meetings and interviews, had the handshake, all but signed on the dotted line, appointment to be announced in the press within days. My dream contract was in the post for me to sign, and then bang, I’m busted up in a hospital bed and Jonny Fucking Nobody can’t wait