Page 136 of Who’s That Girl?

‘I should be going too,’ she says after everyone’s filed out of the room. ‘I’ve got a hot date.’ She pulls a face and lets out a giggle.

‘Thanks, Bea. For everything,’ I say gratefully.

‘Don’t be silly. All part of the service.’ She reaches for her coat and bags. ‘Oh, and by the way, I picked up your mail for you. Looks mostly like lots of get-well cards.’ Popping it on my bedside table, she disappears.

And then the room’s completely empty and quiet, and I’m finally alone. Feeling suddenly exhausted, I sweep my eyes around the room, noticing for the first time that it’s filled with flowers. I take a deep breath, letting everything sink in.

So that’s it. It didn’t really happen at all. It seemed so real and yet of course it couldn’t really happen, could it? I smile to myself. Because although a part of me is sad that it was all just make-believe and I didn’t actually meet my twenty-one-year-old self, I feel as if I reconnected with her somehow. Deep down inside.

Plus, let’s face it, that was the most fun dream I’ve ever had. It certainly makes a change from the one about my teeth falling out, I realise, stifling a giggle.

My eyes fall back on the pile of cards and, realising my fingers work OK as long as I don’t move my left arm, I start opening them. There’s one from Melody, with a big lipstick kiss, a few more from my clients and one from Miles:

Sorry about your accident. Get well soon. PS Did you take out that personal accident insurance I told you about? If so you will be able to claim.

I smile to myself and thank him silently. Trust Miles, I muse fondly, reaching for the next card, then pause as I look at the envelope. It’s covered in lots of different addresses and postmarks, as if it’s been forwarded loads of times, until finally they got my correct address, I note, realising it’s covered in all my old ones. Huh, how funny. I wonder what it is? I start tearing open the envelope and just then I hear a quiet knock on the door.

I glance up. It’s probably the nurse, come to check on me.

My heart nearly stops.

It’s Oliver.

‘Hi.’ He smiles bashfully and hovers at the doorway. ‘I called your office and your assistant told me you’d had a bit of an accident.’

‘Just a bit,’ I reply, my heart hammering in my chest now. I feel absurdly nervous.

‘I’ve heard hospital food isn’t much good, so I brought you a dish from the pub.’ He gestures to a tinfoil-covered plate he’s holding. ‘Fresh wild salmon, baby new potatoes and grilled asparagus.’

‘Oh, um, thanks.’ My voice wobbles a bit.

‘I hope you haven’t had your mercury ration for the week,’ he adds, and laughs nervously.

I smile, then there’s a pause and we both fall silent.

Which is bizarre, as there’s just so much I want to say, I realise, desperately constructing elaborate sentences in my head before blurting, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘I’m sorry.’

We speak at the same time and then laugh with a mixture of relief and self-consciousness.

‘Shall I toss a coin to see who can apologise first?’ he asks, raising an eyebrow.

‘Look, I didn’t mean those things I said—’ I begin.

‘Neither did I,’ he interrupts. ‘How about we call a truce? Start over?’

I smile, feeling a tiny ray of hope appearing from behind the black clouds that descended when we had our row.

‘So you got a lot of get-well cards, huh?’ he says, gesturing to the pile in front of me.

‘Oh, yeah.’ I nod, looking down at the card in my hand and tugging it out of the envelope.

Only it’s not a card. It’s a parking ticket. I smile ruefully. God, can you believe it? Those pesky bloody parking fines, they even find you in hospital, I think, looking at it. Which is when I notice it seems really old and faded. Hmm, that’s odd – I glance at the details.

Car/Make Model: VW Beetle

Offence: parking in a permit-controlled area