Health Care

Waiting on the platform, my bag is digging into my shoulder. It must weigh around seven kilos. Perhaps I’ve packed too much. I consider everything that’s inside my bag: a change of underwear, pyjamas (not that you’ll be wearing them for long, my conscience butts in), a top for the morning, a dress for the evening, my new heels, toiletries and essentials – purse, phone, keys. There’s nothing I could really get away with leaving at home. Perhaps I should ask Sam where he bought his convenient wheelie-suitcase from. I could certainly do with one of those.

I hoisted my bag onto the seat next to me and crossed over my legs. I got out my phone to let Sam know my train was on its way into Swindon. Truthfully I could’ve driven, but I got my railcard free – so it’s always good to get use out of it. Knowing the journey is only twenty-five minutes, I occupy myself by people-watching. In front of me, I see a small group of teenage girls. They have to be no older than fourteen, and they’re all on their phones: BlackBerrys, iPods, each with its own sparkly pink case.

“And then I text him to ask him who he fancied,” one girl chatters. Her eyelids are heavy with blue eye shadow and her mousy hair has been tugged into two low pigtails. “And he replied saying he wasn’t going to tell me but her initials were A.N.” The rest of the gaggle gasped and ooo’ed. They were like Katherine, Lucy, Louise and I … except seven years prior. “I know right,” she continued impatiently, her eyes wide. “So then I asked if he fancied me, because I also fancied someone but I wasn’t going to tell him who,” she says. Ooh, well played, very clever, my conscience rolls her eyes. Teenage girls have it so hard. “And then he said that he didn’t fancy me!” she cried, and her guppies all moaned and gasped. “Yeah, apparently it’s [i[Amelia Newman!” she pulled a face of disgust and her friends copied.

That Amelia Newman, I think to myself. What a bitch. I smile amusingly at the girls and turn to look out of the window. I think they’ve seen me smile, because the gaggling stops. Perhaps they think I’m being weird by staring and laughing at them. Perhaps they think I’m a lesbian or something.

The train pulls into the station and both me and the group of trouts step off. Standing almost directly in front of my door is Sam. He’s wearing a pale blue polo shirt and a scuffed pair of jeans. Boy, he looks hot. And the best bit? He’s holding a bouquet of yellow roses. I practically jump into his arms as he holds the flowers out at arms’ length so I don’t crush them. With his free hand, he scoops me around the waist and squeezes me tightly. The goosy girls scuttle past, trying to catch a glimpse of Sam. Maybe they’re debating whether he’s good looking or not; or whether they’re checking to see if he’s actually a boy. Sam eyes them up and frowns.

“What are they staring at?” he asks.

“They’re checking you’re not a woman,” I deadpan. He stares at me, perplexed, but shakes his head as though he doesn’t want me to explain. He hands over the flowers and I gush. He slips his hand into mine and he leads me out of the train station.

“My house is about a ten minute drive,” he says. “We could walk, but it’s too hot for that.”

He had a point. The summer temperatures were beginning to rise. Currently it was a few degrees cooler than a typical 7pm in Majorca.

Sam drives a 2008 Peugeot; black. She’s glossy and you can tell he likes to take care of her. The interior boasts a brand new stereo, complete with crazy blue LED lights.

“Gets me all the ladies,” he winks, pulling out of the car park and heading across the town.

We drive past a variety of small convenience stores, hardware shops, pubs, doctors and finally reach a maze of newly built two-story flats. They’re bordered by their own tiny patch of grass and private block-paving parking areas. Sam winds through the tiny streets for what seems like an eternity. I could never find my way back out on my own. He’s forever pulling over in order to let cars pass as the roads aren’t wide enough to accommodate for two. Finally, he swings into a space labelled ‘6’. It’s positioned outside a ground floor flat that in reality looks just the same as all the others. The white front door with its three glass panes, the chrome doorhandle and matching letterbox. It all seems very clean; very tidy. I wonder if the neighbours are friendly.

Sam takes my bag off me and holds it awkwardly. To preserve his manhood, he doesn’t hold it over his shoulder like you would carry a handbag, oh no, he sort of holds it at arms’ length, which proves difficult as it nearly weighs a tonne.

“How long are you staying for?” he yelps, pushing open his front door and tossing the bag on the floor with a loud thud. The flat is still fairly dark, as the silver blinds on the lounge window are yet to be opened. The flat is mostly open plan; a large lounge that stretches back into a kitchen, which then leads you into the bathroom on the right or through into the only bedroom. Already, it seems reasonably tidy. There is a small rack of shoes by the door: polished work shoes, muddy trainers, dusty flip flops, grubby plimsolls. A small pile of unopened mail sits on the windowsill, followed by a large tangle of wires and cables that hang down from the television cabinet, presumably connected to the DVD player and his Xbox. A bookcase stretches up to ceiling, filled with DVDs and box sets, books and videogames. His two two-seater leather sofas, dark grey, look so inviting that I practically throw myself onto one without even waiting to be asked.

“Oh, making yourself at home, are we?” he raises his eyebrows suspiciously. “In which case, madam, I shall unpack for you.” My stomach clenches for a second, but I reassure myself there is nothing in my bag that I wouldn’t want Sam to see: pyjamas and pants is about as racy as it gets, and he’s already seen those before. He heaves my bag off the floor and disappears into his bedroom.

“I would let you stay in the spare room,” he calls. I frown slightly. I see no entrance to any sort of spare room, aside from a utility cupboard. “But I don’t have one. So unfortunately, you’ve got to share with me.”

“Oh what a shame,” I drawl sarcastically. Sam skids back into the lounge, grinning. He’s taken off his shoes, so his white socks give him optimum gliding power across the laminate flooring. He settles down on the sofa next to me and pulls his phone from his pocket. He opens his messages and selecting the lengthy stream of texts from me, he finds one in particular and clicks on it. It’s the drunken text I’d sent him from Ocean the other night.

“So,” he says, handing the phone to me. “You never did explain to me what that all meant.”
I read it over and over again. It’s difficult to decipher even half of what it says. However, the second line stands out somewhat.

Cnfr elivee I’ve jstu seebn mnyt oldf nygriend!

“I can’t believe I’ve just seen my old boyfriend,” I mouth to myself. Oh shit. I was texting Sam about Christopher.

“You’ve worked it out?” Sam asks, leaning closer to hear me mutter.

“Er, yes,” I admit reluctantly, but say nothing else. What excuse am I going to make for talking to Sam about my ex-boyfriend? I’d already mentioned Christopher once before. How is it going to look if I do it for a second time? Sam hasn’t told me about any of his old girlfriends, not even while drunk on holiday. I hope he doesn’t think I’m crazy. I hope, for all things, he doesn’t think I still love Christopher.

“And?” Sam nods eagerly. “It’s literally nothing but nonsense!”

“I think I was trying to tell you that I saw my old boyfriend,” I mutter guilty. “You know the one I told you about, the one that made me have that awful night? Well, I keep seeing him, like, he keeps coming into work and things, and then I saw him that night with a date and ugh, it’s so annoying.” Sam surveys me deeply.

“Do you still like this guy?” he asks. So far the tone of his voice gives nothing away.

“Christ, no!” I say. “He tries to make my life a misery!”

“In which case he still likes you,” Sam says pointedly. Since when did he understand men so well? Despite the fact he is a man, my conscience reminds me, slapping herself on the forehead in stupidity. “But you definitely don’t want him back?”

I shake my head defiantly, and smile. I lean in close to Sam and give him a long lingering kiss. He smiles too.

“Does that answer your question?” I ask, grinning at him.

“Clear as day, Miss Lillington. Discussion closed. Now, what would you like to eat?”