Health Care

Sam holds tightly onto my hand the entire way around Ikea. He’s practically skipping considering how enthusiastic my mum was in letting him stay another night. This time she allowed for us to share the same bedroom, mine. She was ever so enthused to see him again and even gave me the eye over his shoulder. I cringe at the memory.

We wonder aimlessly around the showrooms, checking price tags and testing out beds and sofas. Sam settles himself down in a fake lounge that looks remarkably like his. He sets his feet up on an oak coffee table.

“It matches your bookcase,” I point out. Sam nods, stretching out and placing his hands behind his head.

“Yes, I can see this working,” he muses. “Baby, sit down, try it for yourself.” I drop myself onto the sofa next to him and he places his arm around me. Instantly, I snuggle down into his arms and rest my head on his shoulder. We gaze at the blank television set. I reach forward and tug at the price label. It’s only £25. Sam hands me the form and pencil and I quickly jot down the code. He tugs on my hand to pull me up.

“That was easy,” he says. “Lunch?” Without even waiting for my protest, he steers me around a further collection of living rooms and ducks me straight into the entrance of the café. Releasing all our inhibitions, we load up our plates with Daim cake, Swedish meatballs, fries, gravy and soft drinks. Before I have time to dig around for my purse, Sam has already typed in his PIN number. I squeeze his hand appreciatively.

“I may have paid,” he says. “But now it’s your job to carry the tray.” I do as I’m told, careful not to drop or spill any of the delicious food. “And it’s also my job to choose the table,” Sam adds. He leads me around a whole variety of lavish oak dining tables, funky plastic garden tables until finally he sets me down on a tiny table for two, covered with a cutesy red polka dot plastic cloth. I eye him suspiciously. There is a small blue vase with artificial roses placed in the centre. He shrugs.

“I chose it because of the plastic table cloth,” he says. “I know how much of a messy eater you are.”

*

Once we’re considerably fed and watered, Sam and I descend down to the collection point, where we find his coffee table, flat-packed and boxed, ready to go. Holding the trolley steady as he loads the table onto it, I admire his impressive biceps.

Luckily, we can fit the table onto the back seat of my car, providing we lay it at the right angle. Sam pulls his seat forward and climbs in awkwardly. He manages it with ease, mind due; his legs aren’t nearly as long as Christopher’s.

We arrive home at gone four in the afternoon. Mum is reading in the garden, still in her work uniform. She waves at us and Sam waves back. Those two are sickening, they really are. As Sam begins to unpack his rucksack (he left his wheelie-suitcase at home this time), my mum calls me downstairs. I wonder what she has to say to me out of Sam’s earshot. I smile apologetically at me but he just shrugs.

Mum is standing the kitchen.

“Does Sam want a drink?” she asks first. Was that all she had to tell me?

“Er, he’s just unpacking. I’ll ask him in a minute,” I reply.

“Okay well, I saw Christopher today,” Mum says, her tone darkening. Oh lord, what now? Luckily Mum has since bitten her tongue after the TGI-walk-out incident. “I met his new floosy.”

Christopher has been bringing Melissa into work? Why?

“It was an odd set up to begin with,” Mum says. “She’s only just turned eighteen.” I was right all along. My God, what is the poor girl getting herself into. “Straight up and down, barely says a word.”

“That’s the way Christopher likes it,” I retort. “When they don’t argue back.” Mum smiles to herself.

“Well, I had to give you a head’s up,” she says. “Not that it matters, seeing as you’ve got Sam now.”

Truthfully, Sam and I were yet to decide on our ‘label’ so to speak. It was still early days.

“I know, I just think Christopher was a big mistake,” I sigh sadly.

“You can’t say that,” Mum warns me. “You really did like him, Alex, believe me, I remember.”

I blushed, because I knew my mum was right. Before Christopher got jealous and controlling, he really was a gentleman, and super-hot, too. Mum had spoken about him for months before I’d actually gone into the chemist and met him properly. He moved with such ease and grace around the tiny shop, always watching out for the other ladies; taking things they couldn’t reach off the shelves. And those eyes, Jesus Christ. Those emerald X-Ray eyes that brought me up short when he looked at me. I’d come flying into the shop to tell Mum that Aunty Grace had her baby and Dad had just got the phone call. I was a babbling mess, my throat dry from yelling. My mum had squealed just as much, dancing around the store claiming she was finally an aunty. My Aunty Grace previously had a nightmare when it came to miscarriages. It meant a lot to us that she’d finally got her baby girl.

“Congratulations!” Christopher had grinned at me, placing a warm hand on my shoulder. I thought my knees were about to buckle. “It’s nice to meet you at last too, Alexa.”

“Call me Alex,” I replied instinctively. Christopher smiled that dazzling smile with his fucking perfect teeth. It was a fairy tale waiting to happen. I remember my stomach curling. Sadly, I think back my first encounter with Sam.

You shouldn’t be comparing them, my conscience reprimands me.

“My point is,” my mum presses on. “Tim is having a summer garden party for staff and families,” Tim is Christopher’s father. “Everyone’s invited. You’re invited.”

“I am?” I splutter. Why does Christopher’s father want me at his garden party?

“Yes. It’s for staff and families. I’m staff. And you’re family,” she sounds crisp. “Besides, we need it to be a big event. He’s invited everyone from the rest of the chain. It’s some thank you thing, for this year’s profits.”

“Right,” I say. Another excuse for The Thompson’s to show off what they’ve accomplished with their fancy house and their civilised summer parties.

“It’s the twenty-eighth of July. Two weeks’ time. Choose a nice outfit and please, for the love of God, bring Sam!” My eyes widen with shock. Bring my new boyfriend … to a garden party with my old boyfriend? My mum senses my confusion.

“For Christ’s sake Alexa, obviously Christopher is going to bring Melissa along, and I’m not having you sat there by yourself with a sulk on! Bring him, please, for me. I want you two to enjoy yourself.” She looks imploringly at me. “There’s going to be food,” she adds, as though that’s the deciding factor.

As I enter my bedroom, Sam is sat cross-legged on my bed.

“I have a proposition for you,” I sigh, plonking myself down next to him. His ears prick up, out of curiousity.

“July twenty-eighth is a Friday,” I say.

“Friday’s are my day off,” Sam interrupts. I close my eyes. Oh joy, now there’s no reason for him not to come. Sam frowns slightly at me. I look pissed off already.

“Okay well, we have a cordial invite to a garden party,” I say.

“Really?” Sam sounds interested. “From who?”

“Well, from my mum, who’s been invited by her boss. It’s a big, y’know, ‘get everyone together to show off how well we’ve done as a company’ thing. Food, though, and lots of it!” I say, trying to make it sound as appealing as possible.

“That sounds great!” Sam takes, taking one of my hands. “What’s the problem?”

“Oh gee,” I sigh. Sam grips my hand tighter. I feel guilt tugging at my heart string. I can’t look him in the eye. “Mum’s boss has a son who works in my mum’s shop,” I explain. Sam nods expectantly. “So he’s also going to be there.” God, I’m still not making this clear.

“Your mum’s boss has a son who will be at the garden party …” Sam repeats.

“Yes. And my mum’s boss’s son who will be at the garden party is my ex-boyfriend.”

“Oh,” Sam’s face falls for a second, but he squeezes my hand reassuringly again. “Does this mean I have to stuff a sock down my pants?”