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“Well, there might have been the tiniest of miscommunications regarding the whole, that is, memory situation.”
She pushes her glasses up her nose. She’s wearing very large glasses with slightly sparkly rims. Dr Singh is barely older than I am and even though I’m old enough now that I shouldn’t find that surprising, I still sometimes feel like she’s very young for a doctor. “How tiny?”
I put my fingers about half a centimetre apart.
“I’m not sure that’s medically useful.”
I inch them slightly further apart.
“Still not.”
Giving up the fingers method as a bad job, I explain using my mouth words. “So, when I first fell into the shower, the doctor asked if I remembered what happened, and I said I didn’t like, because it was a bit fuzzy, and Jonathan—that’s my boss, well, myboyfriend, well, I mean he’s my boyfriend now but he was my boss then only I suppose technically he’s still my boss because I’ve quit but I’m still working until the end of the year and—”
“Sam, is this going somewhere?”
“Jonathan saidoh no, he’s got amnesiaand I sort of didn’t correct him like. And I think it must’ve made it into the report.”
She lets her glasses slide back down her nose, just so’s she can look at me over them. “Then you’renothaving problems with your memory?”
“Nope, totally fine. I really did have a concussion, though.”
“I’m sure you did. But the man you’re going out with who used to be your boss, and who you’ve been living with while you’ve been concussed thinks you had full-on movie amnesia?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
“Maybe do something about that?”
“I am.” I try to sound reassuring. “That’s why I’m here. Once you’ve given me a clean bill of health I can be all likeit’s okay, my memory’s come backand it’ll be good.”
“Apart from the bit where you lied to him for a month.”
I put my hands up. “Okay, okay, are you a doctor or a relationship counsellor? I’m trying to make the best of a bad situation.”
Not especially bothered by my displeasure, Dr Singh goes back to her notes. “Just trying to take an interest. Butmedicallyat least you’re fine. You can go back to your boyfriend-slash-boss and tell him that the doctor says you’re fit as a fiddle.”
“Thanks.”
“A lying fiddle.”
I sigh and leave. I’d be more aggrieved if she didn’t have a point.
Once I’ve had my all clear, the next thing on the agenda is to go and get the van. I’ve had it for years, but since I’ve been in Sheffield I’ve not really used it, I’ve just stashed it at the edge of town in this garage I rent off a bloke who lives near a chippy.
I fish the key out my pocket and open up. It’s one of them private rental deals where I’m basically just borrowing a parking spot for a hundred quid a month. So I’m not exactly shocked to discover that what with my not having been back in a while the owner’s filled all the space around the van with whatever crap he didn’t want to keep in his house. There’s a dartboard over here and a folding table over there, and a bunch of boxes labelledScott’s Thingsthough I’ve no idea who Scott is. I feel a bit bad moving stuff, but some of it’s in the way of getting the van out, so I do a bit of scrabbling and a bit of shifting and no small amount of humping until I’ve got everything put as carefully as I can to one side. Then I get in the van and back it out into the street.
Once the van is safely out, I go to shut the garage door, then I turn back. And I see the name on the side—Becker and Son, Local Plumbers—and it brings me up proper short.
I don’t think it’s that long, not really, though in the winter, on somebody else’s driveway, in Sheffield, it feels like ages. Just standing there looking at theand Sonand feeling—in a way I can’t explain—like I’ve let somebody down. Pulling my jacket a little tighter, I climb in the van and try not to think too hard about, well, about anything really. Then I drive to the store.
When I get there, Tiff is waiting for me next to a massive pile of decorations. I open the back doors of the van and wait for her to get started piling them in, which she doesn’t.
“Oh no,” she says, “I’m bringing mycreative vision—you didn’t hire me to do heavy lifting.”
“It’s not heavy,” I tell her, “it’s bits of plastic and glass.”
She looks smug. “Then you’ll have no trouble shifting it.”
I’m not totally convinced by her argument, but I don’t especially want a debate either. So I get to loading boxes. Wheneverything is stashed to Tiff’s satisfaction, we hop in the front, I glare at her until she puts a bloody seatbelt on, and we head off.
