Page 170 of The Stranger

“She was ninety-odd years old.” My words don’t diminish but I hope they explain. “She hadn’t had any visitors, and I suppose I wanted to bring her some comfort.” His fingers tighten on mine in reassurance. “We’re all going that way eventually,” I add, ignoring the sudden lump in my throat. “I held her hand and listened to her story of a daring life. A life full of adventure and love. Multiple loves,” I say with some emphasis. “But ultimately, it was a life that ended small. In a ward full of elderly snoring women in North London.”

“But at least she was holding someone’s hand.”

“Yeah.” I give a small smile. “There is that.”

“You’re a special person, Primrose Whittington.”

I shrug off his words because I’m not. “Anyway, speaking with her made me think about my life. And, in the moment, I suppose I promised myself I’d make a little space for my own adventures. Sometime.”

“So you were on an adventure,” he says softly. He means Paris and Emmy.

But I still am, I think. And I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

“Do you like being a doctor? Living and working in London.”

“London is home. And I love treating old people.”

“I’m saying nothing.”

“I think that’s best.” I set off laughing and the moment changes. “How old are you anyway? And don’t say old enough to know better.”

“I’m forty-two,” he says with a touch of asperity. “I know. Far too old for you.”

I think of Lavender and Raif, but I don’t offer him that tale.

“What can I say? I’m a fan of the older models.”

“Charming. I expect that is something to do with their reliable undercarriage.”

“As a doctor of oldies, let me tell you, the older the model, the leakier the undercarriage. Prostate problems are no joke.”

“Then why do I feel you’re taking the piss?”

“Good pun,” I say, patting his chest. Just because. “But, yeah, I love my job. It took me a while to get there, to find my thing, but when I’m at work, I feel like I’ve found my place in the world. I love my patients—even the crotchety ones. Old people have a lot to offer, I find.” He makes a noise of agreement that makes me giggle. “Sadly, most of us don’t want to listen to the older generation.”

“Hmm.”

“I know. If I’d listened to you, we wouldn’t now be looking at just days.” The thought makes me feel ill.

“So you listen,” he says, bringing me out of my head.

“I try.” I also try a smile. “I listen, and I try to learn from them, and I try to heal them. And where I can’t heal, I hope to comfort those tired souls and, hopefully, guide them to a good death. It’s as important as a good life as far as I’m concerned.”

“I agree.”

Ah, fuq moi! Why did I have to say that? “I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “I didn’t mean⁠—”

“Don’t take it back.” His arm tightens around me. “People do deserve tenderness at the hardest moment of their lives. Why would I want you to apologize for that?”

The softness in his voice makes my throat ache. “I don’t know,” I whisper.

His fingers drift along my arm. “I think you do.”

I’m afraid of saying the wrong thing—of being wrong. Or maybe not enough.

He tips my face towards his. “You don’t have to be careful with me, Primevère.”

When his gaze drops to my mouth, careful is the last thing I want to be. “What should I be?” I whisper as his mouth lowers to mine. To you? To me?