In the box was a crumbly piece of cheddar, a juicy sliced pear, a thick slab of pink ham and a hunk of crusty bread. All topped with jewel-red chutney.
“You didn’t get this around here,” Annie said accusingly. “It’s all chicken shops and kebab vans.” She tried a mouthful of the cheese, sharp and salty and crumbly in her mouth. Oh, God, it was delicious. And to think she’d been planning to eat some Easy Cheese singles.
Polly took a few bites, then set down her own box. “Here,” she said, taking something from her bag. “A list of ten things to do at lunchtime within ten minutes from your office. Yoga. A singing group. A street market.”
“I can’t take a lunch break every day!”
“Er, why not?”
Annie didn’t have an answer for that. “I’ll think about it.”
“It can just be tiny things. Look at this place, for a start. Isn’t it nice? There’s a football pitch—you could come and watch hunky men in shorts. There’s dogs to pet, and even a little coffee kiosk. Not to mention this play park.” She nodded toward the swings, where kids were being pushed on swings and down slides, bundled up against the cold. Annie winced and turned away; she tried to avoid playgrounds.
“I said I’ll think about it.”
Polly leaned back, closing her eyes against the faint spring sun. “Don’t be your own worst enemy, Annie. There’s plenty of other people for that. Remember—today is the first day of the rest of your life.”
Annie rolled her eyes, but she had to admit the fresh air and good food had lifted her mood somewhat. Better than a Cup a Soup while Sharon snooped over her shoulder and everyone talked about Strictly Come Dancing. She realized that Polly had now been to her office and her home—where she spent about 96 percent of her time these days—and she knew nothing about the other woman, except for her eccentric wardrobe and the fact she seemed to have swallowed the Little Book of Inspirational Quotes. “So, are you feeling okay?” she ventured.
Polly opened one eye. “I’m still dying. But within the context of that, yes, I’m okay. My energy levels are good, probably because I’m on so many pills I’m surprised I don’t rattle. Dr. Max is paranoid the thing will grow a millimeter and I’ll start drooling.” Annie winced, but Polly was still smiling.
“And...have you given up work?”
“Of course. I was in PR, you see. Who cares about campaigns for a new lipstick when you have three months to live?”
Annie didn’t ask what she was doing for money. Only posh people were called Polly. Her head swirled with questions. Was Polly married? Did she have any kids? And most of all, why had she chosen Annie? “This project,” Annie tried. “Are your friends doing it?” She almost said, your other friends, but she and Polly were hardly that yet.
“Oh, they’d love it. They’re all about Instagramming their morning avocado and blogging about yoga holidays. I don’t want that. Anyway, they’ve got kids and jobs and marriages and stuff. They’re busy.”
And Annie barely had one of those things now. “So, why did you ask me?”
“Because. I want someone who doesn’t believe in it. I want to know if it’s possible to make yourself happy, even when things really, really suck. I need to know death can have some meaning. Like it isn’t all just totally random bad luck. You see?”
“Um, I guess.”
Annie wasn’t someone who had a lot of friends. She preferred a small group, people she could trust, though this had backfired somewhat now that she could never speak to Jane again. So there was no denying it—there was a gaping hole in her life, which had once held the people she loved most. Mike. Jane. Jacob. And her mum. Maybe, just maybe, it would be nice to make a new friend. But Polly was unpredictable and posh, and, for Annie, a silly project would have been like putting a plaster on a severed arm. So she forked up bits of her lunch—so sweet, so crunchy—and said she’d better get back. “Can I pay you...?”
“Don’t be daft. I’ll stay here for a bit,” said Polly, swaddled in the blanket. “I bet there’s some cool little shops.”
“If you like fried chicken and stolen bikes,” said Annie, but her heart wasn’t really in the gibe, and she realized she did feel better. Refreshed, unlike when she sat at her desk with a sandwich in a plastic triangle from the corner shop.
On the way back to the office, she passed the receptionist, who recoiled. “Shit, are you okay? Are you sick or something?”
“No, why?”
“Because, like, you just sort of smiled at me.”
**
Back at her desk, Annie unpacked Polly’s box. She put the pretty stationery into the dusty desk-tidy, then on second thoughts wiped it down with her sleeve. God, it was filthy. She put the sparkly pens in a mug with Cotswolds Wildlife Park on it, where they’d taken Jacob on his first ever day out. His last, too, as it turned out. For months afterward she’d played it over in her mind. Had he caught a chill? Picked up an infection? She placed the plant beside her monitor, touching the thick green leaves. Hyacinth, bright pink. She’d grown ones just like it in her little garden. She wondered if Mike and Jane were looking after them now.
Sharon sniffed loudly, which was her way of getting Annie’s attention without having to say her name. “You were late back from lunch. That’s ten minutes.”
Annie sighed. “I’ll put it on my time sheet.”
“And you should answer that message. I don’t have time to be taking your personal calls all day.”
“What message?”
“Left it on your desk. Some foreign woman rang.”
Annie hunted around, eventually finding the scrap of paper under the desk, alongside a sizable dust bunny. She shot Sharon a dirty look, but her colleague had gone back to her very important work (Farm World). She unfolded it, and for a moment a thrill of horror went through her. This was her fault. She’d taken a break, let herself feel all right for a moment. And now look. She shot up, fumbling for her bag.
“Where you going?” shouted Sharon. “You’ve got time to make up!”
Annie ignored her. She really couldn’t care less about the time sheets right now.
**
It was nearly forty minutes before she reached the ward, panting and sweating into her nylon top. “My mum...she’s taken a turn for the worse?”
“Who?” The receptionist didn’t even look up.
“Maureen Clarke. Please, is she all right?”
“Hang on.” She tapped at the keyboard while Annie’s blood boiled. Why were all these women so unhelpful?
“Annie? Is that you?” She turned at the sound of the Scottish accent, to see Polly’s neurologist. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in days, his curly hair sticking up and his white shirt creased.
“I got a message, my mum...”
“Aye, she had us a wee bit worried there, but she’s okay, don’t take on so.”
“What happened?” Annie’s heart gradually slowed. “Why are you treating her—aren’t you Neurology?”
“Polly asked if I’d take a look at her chart. Not really my area, of course, but I know a bit.”