About the Author

Katie Marsh lives in south-west London with her husband and daughter. As well as writing novels she has a career in healthcare, and My Everything was inspired by the bravery of the patients she met while working in stroke services.

Katie loves strong coffee, the feel of a blank page and stealing her husband’s toast.

You can follow her on Twitter @marshisms and visit her website at www.katie-marsh.com.

MY EVERYTHING

Katie Marsh

The Hodder and Stoughton logo.

www.hodder.co.uk

First published in Great Britain in 2015 by Hodder & Stoughton

An Hachette UK company

Copyright © Katie Marsh 2015

The right of Katie Marsh to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright,Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

ISBN 978 1 473 61362 1

Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

Carmelite House

50 Victoria Embankment

London EC4Y 0DZ

www.hodder.co.uk

For Max and Evie

One

Hannah wakes up with a piece of toast stuck to her face.

She opens unwilling eyes and realises that the lights are on. She is fully dressed. Her teeth are unbrushed. Exhaustion oozes from every pore. She peers at the clock on the wall and closes her eyes again in despair. It’s 2 a.m. This day of all days isn’t meant to start like this. It’s supposed to be different. The start of things to come.

She rubs her aching neck as she pulls the soggy toast from her cheek and drops it onto the plate. Her phone is shuffling through the more embarrassing realms of her playlist and she hastily presses pause. Her body feels like it belongs inside a chalk line at a crime scene. She levers herself up on her elbows and surveys the marking laid out across the kitchen table.

‘Damn.’ She’s managed to knock her wine glass over in her sleep and now Year 10’s essays on Macbeth look as if they have been liberally spattered in blood. She wonders if she can get away with saying she did it deliberately to bring the play to life. She imagines her students’ sceptical expressions and very much doubts it. Their teenage antennae are on a constant hunt for scandal of any kind, and she suspects the school rumour mill will despatch her to the Priory before the week is out.

A text bleeps its arrival. Steph is in the middle of a marking marathon too.

Has he been home yet? Have you told him? x

Hannah taps out her reply. No and no.

Steph texts straight back. But you will? Promise?

Hannah exhales. Yes. Otherwise you’ll kill me. And I’d quite like to see the next series of Scandal.

Good luck. You can do it x

As Hannah pushes her chair back she hits the spoils of her latest doomed attempt to walk past a bookshop without buying anything. She reaches down and strokes the smooth comfort of the front covers, tempted to stay up all night losing herself in someone else’s story. Then she remembers what she is going to do today, and she reluctantly stands up, exhaling slowly to calm the nerves clutching at every breath.

Tom. I’m leaving you. She feels a skewer of fear at the thought of saying the words out loud. Of seeing his mouth opening and his eyes narrowing as he prepares to attack her for one final time. It’s one of his talents. Email. Voicemail. Good old-fashioned shouting. He always knows how to hurt.

She takes the plate to the overcrowded sink, squeezing it in beside an empty can of baked beans and a dirty pan that is busy generating some new kind of life form.

Later. She’ll deal with everything later. She switches off the lights and unbuttons her grey dress as she climbs the stairs. She stops in surprise at the bedroom door as she hears the rasp of her husband’s breathing. She had assumed he was still at the office. Another deal. Another night apart.

She slides quietly beneath the duvet.

‘Why didn’t you wake me when you came in?’

Tom’s only answer is a snore.

Scratch.

Hannah pulls the pillow over her head.

Scratch.

She can still hear it. She sticks her head out and looks at the clock. 4:30. She is raw from lack of sleep.

There it is again.

She turns over. ‘Tom, can you be quiet?’ Her voice comes out as a croak. ‘I’m trying to sleep.’ It would be so wonderful if he actually listened.

Fat chance. Instead he starts mumbling. His voice is breathy and slurred.

‘Sh. Sh. Sh. Shtuck.’

Reluctantly she leans towards his side of the bed. She peers through the darkness and sees a figure on the floor. Great. Clearly he’s been busy with whisky rather than work. Again. She reaches over and prods him but gets only a moan in reply.

‘For God’s sake.’ She rubs her aching eyes with her hands.

‘Shtuck. Hellllllmeeeeee.’ Wearily, she reaches over and turns on the bedside light. She looks down at him, blinking in the sudden brightness.

Something is wrong.

Horribly wrong.

Tom is lying on the floor, his body contorted, eyes wide and pleading as they meet hers. His face is ashen and lopsided, his distorted mouth straining to form words that Hannah can’t understand. She watches, horrified, as his right hand pushes feebly against the wooden foot of the bed. Scratch. His left hand is curved beneath him at an impossible angle, his fingers pulled upwards into a misshapen beak.

Something terrible has happened. Hannah’s pulse spirals and she stumbles out of bed and instinctively reaches down to try to pull him up. She strains every muscle but his body is a dead weight and he slumps back down to the carpet. She winces as she hears him groan, worrying that she has made things worse. Her mouth is dry and panic threatens to choke her.

They need help.

‘Don’t worry, Tom.’ Her fingers shake as she picks up her phone to dial 999. ‘Don’t worry. It’ll be OK. You’ll be OK.’

If she says it enough times she might believe it.

Her call is answered instantly and her voice wavers as she asks for the ambulance service. Saying the words out loud makes this shockingly real. Tom’s eyes are pure terror and she reaches down to stroke his dark hair. It’s baby soft. It’s been so long since she has touched it.

A male operator asks her the questions she has only ever heard on TV. What has happened. Who. When. Where. She controls the shake in her voice as she answers, and he tells her that an ambulance will be with them very soon. She finds herself wondering who the operator is. What he looks like. Whether he can tell her what the future holds.

Maybe it’s better not to know. She hangs up and stands frozen for a moment, until she hears Tom mumbling a word that could be her name. She folds herself onto the floor and cradles his head in her lap, blocking out the future and trying to give him whatever comfort she can. She takes his right hand in hers and he clutches her fingers and they wait together for whatever comes next.

His hand feels cold. Heavy. Like responsibility.

Two paramedics arrive minutes later – a man and a woman whose names she instantly forgets but whose faces she will remember for ever. She follows their green uniforms up the stairs and into the bedroom.

‘What’s wrong? What’s happened to him?’ Hannah is starting to shake and crosses her arms tight across her chest in a vain attempt at comfort.

The woman’s chestnut ponytail flicks behind her as she kneels down next to Tom. She barely looks old enough to buy alcohol but her unruffled concentration steadies Hannah as she takes Tom’s pulse. ‘I’m not sure yet. I’ll just examine him.’ She stares at his face. ‘Hello, Tom. How are you feeling?’

‘Sh. Sh. Shtuck.’

‘OK.’ The girl nods as if he is speaking normally. ‘I’m just going to do a couple of tests so we can start to make you more comfortable. Can you raise your arms please?’

Hannah holds her breath. Come on, Tom.

His right arm rises but his left remains at his side.

Hannah wills it to move.

Nothing.

Hannah turns to the man as panic starts to rise. ‘Is he going to be OK?’

He looks at her with unwelcome news in his eyes. ‘Tom’s face is drooping. Together with the speech and movement issues, it looks likely that he’s had a stroke. We’ll need to do further tests to confirm.’

‘A stroke? Oh God.’ She tries to force away tear-stained memories of her childhood babysitter dribbling in a hospital ward.

‘We’ll get Tom to hospital as quickly as possible.’ The man’s voice is steady. Designed to reassure.

‘OK.’ She is struggling to focus. Her mind is shouting STROKE and her breath is coming in gasps. She digs her nails into her palms to keep the tears at bay. ‘Can I come with him?’

‘Of course.’ He drops his eyes tactfully to the floor. ‘You might want to get dressed first though.’

She looks down at her minimal pink T-shirt. Yes. Getting dressed is a good idea. She pulls the first clothes she finds from her wardrobe and goes into the bathroom to change.

She is still fumbling with her jeans as she walks out to see that Tom is in a portable chair and the paramedics are carrying him down the stairs. His short hair is drenched in sweat. His eyes are blank and his waxen face lolls to the right, cruelly contrasting with the energy and joy of the man in the wedding photos on the walls, punctuating his descent. Tears prick her eyes at the shock of seeing him so helpless. So mortal.

She must help him. However she can. She throws her coat on and pulls her bag from its peg in the hall before running out of the door. As she pulls it shut she catches a glimpse of someone reflected in the dark glass of the living room window. The flashing blue lights of the ambulance illuminate the curly hair exploding from her head. Her white face. Her terrified eyes.

It takes her a second to realise that the woman is her.

The ambulance screeches through south London streets and ten minutes later they are outside the hospital. It is clear that every second counts.

Tom is in danger.

Tom might die.

She can’t think about that. As the door opens Hannah steps down onto the tarmac, bracing herself against the whip of the January wind. The paramedics swiftly wheel Tom’s stretcher towards the red ACCIDENT AND EMERGENCY sign that glows ominously through the darkness. Hannah reaches out and takes Tom’s hand as they pass a skeletal man standing by a large NO SMOKING sign. He is puffing defiantly on a cigarette and gives her a wink as she strides past. The gesture is so inappropriate she is tempted to slap him in the face.

No time.

The paramedics push Tom into the hospital and a tall man with stubble as dark as his eye bags strides towards them. He is tucking his tie into his shirt and Hannah sees the exhaustion beneath his smile.

‘Hi, I’m Dr Malik, the stroke consultant on call. You’re …?’

‘Hannah.’ He is already talking to the paramedics as they push Tom along the corridor. Words volley back and forth. Cerebral artery. Possible haemorrhage. Each one only serves to make her more afraid.

Tom is the silent eye of the storm. She squeezes his fingers but he doesn’t even react to that any more. His eyes are now closed and she can see him shutting down right in front of her. She won’t let him. She summons the strength she knows he needs and leans closer until her mouth is near his ear.

‘Hang in there, soldier.’ It’s an endearment from old times and his lids flicker open in response. For a second their eyes connect and she feels hope surge. Then his lids close.

‘Tom?’

Nothing.

‘Tom?’

No. She won’t let this happen. She turns to the paramedics, but they are already pushing Tom through a set of cream double doors labelled RESUSCITATION ROOM. She is about to follow but Dr Malik stops her. As the doors close she has a brief glimpse of bright lights and smells the metallic tang of blood. Bile rises in her throat and she takes a deep breath as Dr Malik steps towards her.

‘We’re going to take your husband for more tests. Then I’ll be able to come back and tell you more.’ He indicates some grey plastic chairs. ‘Wait here please. You can call someone if you need to.’

‘I …’ But he’s gone.

She is alone.

It’s terrifying.

She sits down and discovers that the chair has been ergonomically designed to give her a slipped disc. She springs back up and stares at the flaking wall in front of her. The colour resembles Tom’s face the morning after a bad kebab.

She thinks of him lying there. Powerless.

She clenches her fists.

Come on, Tom.

‘All right, darling?’

She spins round as the smoker from outside lands heavily across two chairs. He leans towards her and she is enveloped in an unappetising cloud of stale spirits.

‘No. I’m not all right.’ She steps away from him. Suddenly being alone doesn’t seem so bad.

He coughs and phlegm crackles in his chest. ‘Is that your husband in there?’ He indicates the cream doors with his head and leans back, spreading his legs wide. Hannah averts her eyes from the unfortunate hole in his jeans.

‘Yes.’ Her voice is high and strained.

‘Been married long?’

She looks towards the double doors, desperate to know what’s happening behind them. ‘Five and a half years.’

He nods. ‘Never made it that far, myself.’

Hannah can’t say she’s surprised.

Hannah jumps as Dr Malik pushes through the doors. His face is stamped with a gravity she doesn’t want to understand.

‘Come through, Hannah. We’re ready for you now.’

‘Good luck.’ Her companion gives her a thumbs up. ‘He’ll be fine.’

‘I hope so.’

Talk about clutching at straws.

She takes a deep breath and follows Dr Malik into the resuscitation room.

Coaster from Coco’s Diner, Soho

Summer 2006

He was drinking a malted milkshake when he met her. Hannah. She was a waitress in a fantastically short skirt, her black curls pulled back unwillingly beneath a pink baseball cap. All he wanted to do was reach out and set them free.

She was so animated. So full of giggles and chatter. So out of his league.

Looking around, he thought most of the men in the diner were in love with her – including those who were the other way inclined. He was just the quiet student in the corner. Whenever she served him he found himself hiding behind his law books, any confidence dissolving into sweaty mumbles and a terrible urge to pun.

But he bided his time and drank so many overpriced milkshakes he had to work extra hours at the pub. And make a new notch in his belt. And then one day his patience was rewarded. He was arriving at the diner when she came out for a fag break. He said hello and held out his Union Jack lighter. A chance to impress her. To connect. At last.

The lighter didn’t spark.

He tried again. Nothing. He could feel panic rising. Then she put her tiny hand over his to steady it and the flame burst into life. And she looked at him. Really looked at him. Wide brown eyes examining his face. Red lips curving into a smile. She was so close he couldn’t think straight. Marlboro Red scented the air. It was now or never.

His mouth was moving. Apparently it was forming words. ‘I’ve never fancied a girl in a baseball cap before.’

Not his finest hour. A pause yawned between them, long enough to age him by a decade. He dropped his eyes. Shit. He’d blown it. Then …

‘I’ve never fancied a guy who can’t light a cigarette before.’ Her tone was so deadpan that he looked up at her face again. Checking. He saw a glint of mischief in her brown eyes as she exhaled a predictably perfect plume of smoke. ‘I was wondering how many more visits it would take to get a conversation out of you.’ She smiled. ‘It’s been a long campaign, soldier.’

He dared to exhale. ‘Well, I wanted the moment to be right.’ A shrieking hen party strutted past them bent on some serious Soho mischief. He grinned. ‘You know – just the two of us.’ A pigeon flapped above them and he became aware of a warm wetness on his forehead. He touched it with his hand and groaned. ‘Obviously the pigeon shit wasn’t part of the plan.’

She started to giggle and then threw her head back in an uninhibited roar of laughter. And he looked at her and began to laugh with her and he promised himself that he was going to do everything he could to get this amazing girl. Everything.

Two

As she walks through the resuscitation room, antiseptic claws at Hannah’s throat. She blinks as her eyes adjust to the neon lights and she sees Dr Malik turn to her, running a hand through increasingly disorderly hair.

‘Can you confirm when you first noticed the symptoms, Hannah?’

She searches for an answer, but all she can think about is Tom’s body on the floor. His eyes closing. His left arm glued to his side.

She shakes her head to try to force the images away. She must remember. She must help.

‘I don’t know. About an hour ago, I suppose.’

‘And do you have any idea when they started?’

‘No.’ She feels as if she is failing some kind of test. ‘I’m so sorry. He was sound asleep when I went to bed at two.’ Behind a pink curtain to her left she catches a glimpse of a man rasping into an oxygen mask as though every breath were his last.

‘And would you say he is generally fit and well?’

‘I guess so. He plays football. And runs. Sometimes. Or he used to, anyway.’ She feels a pulse of frustration. She should know more. Be able to say more. The truth is, in the last few weeks she has spent more time talking to her newsagent than to her husband.

‘Does Tom smoke?’

‘Yes. Well, not much.’ They walk past shelves stacked with tubes and needles. ‘More in the last few months.’

‘And has he had any recurring symptoms recently?’

She struggles to think. ‘Like what?’

‘Headaches? Clumsiness? Forgetfulness?’

She thinks back. ‘He gets a lot of headaches when he’s hungover.’

‘And how often is that?’

‘Pretty much every day recently.’

‘And you’re sure he’d been drinking? Before the headaches?’

‘Yes.’ She nods, though uncertainty jolts her. She never bothers to ask any more. ‘Why?’

Dr Malik doesn’t answer and she follows him to the end cubicle, where she sees a figure in a pink hospital gown on the bed. A tangle of wires is attached to his chest and a black monitor bleeps out his vital signs. A nurse in a dark blue uniform is lowering an oxygen mask over his face, talking to him quietly as she pulls the strap over his head.

Hannah is about to walk on when she sees that Dr Malik has stopped and is pulling up the metallic slats at the side of the patient’s bed.

She looks at him again. He has dark hair and a wedding ring.

It’s Tom.

She raises a hand to her mouth as a sob explodes from her throat. Tom isn’t human any more. He’s all wires and veins and limbs. This can’t be the same man who whooped her over the threshold. Who spent their engagement party concocting lurid purple ‘Hantinis’ in a cocktail shaker. Who drove through the night in an ageing Ford Escort to bring her a ‘first day of teaching’ hamper of cake, Stilton and Amaretto.

Suddenly she can only remember the good times.

‘Let’s go.’ Dr Malik starts to manoeuvre Tom’s bed into the corridor. A bearded porter takes over the steering so Dr Malik can focus on his patient. The nurse stays at Tom’s head as they push him through an assault course of abandoned trolleys, cardboard boxes and hulking metal cages stacked full of sheets.

Hannah jogs to keep up. ‘Where are we going?’

Dr Malik lifts Tom’s left arm up but it falls down. ‘We’re taking him up to the CT scanner to see what’s happening in his brain.’

Hannah’s stomach plunges. ‘What are you looking for?’

They enter the lift. The heavy grey doors close and it starts to judder upwards at an infuriatingly slow speed.

Dr Malik checks Tom’s pulse and then raises his eyes to Hannah’s face. ‘Strokes happen when the blood supply to the brain is cut off, either by a blockage in an artery or a bleed in the brain. Do you see?’

Hannah swallows. ‘I think so.’

‘Good.’ He nods. ‘The CT scan will show us which one – if either – has happened to Tom.’

Hannah is twisting the strap of her handbag so hard it is cutting into her palm.

Dr Malik is looking at Tom again. ‘Once we can see what’s happening we’ll know how to treat him.’

‘OK.’ Hannah stares at Tom as the lift finally deigns to reach the correct floor. His stillness terrifies her. She thinks back to their last argument – the energy of his anger as he paced around her pointing out her long list of flaws. Naïve. Selfish. The same old list. Looking at him lying inert on the stretcher, she finds herself wishing he was shouting at her now. Wishing that he could.

Dr Malik helps to steer the trolley out. They turn yet another corner and enter the radiology department. The reception area is dark and uninviting.

Dr Malik keeps moving. ‘Please wait here, Hannah.’

‘No.’ Her hands ball into fists. ‘I want to be with him.’

He shakes his head. ‘I’m sorry. You can’t come through.’

‘Please?’

‘The radiation levels are too high. You’ll have to wait outside, I’m afraid.’ He drums his fingers impatiently on Tom’s chart. ‘We have to take him in now – every second is vital.’

‘OK.’ Her shoulders slump as Tom is wheeled away and she is left alone again.

It’s eerie out here. She walks towards the water dispenser but there are no plastic cups. Her stomach rumbles. She checks the time on her phone. Five thirty.

She hears the scanner being switched on as she scrabbles through her bag in search of something to eat. She eventually unearths an old jumbo pack of Maltesers and pulls it open. The chocolates have been squashed out of shape but the sugar comforts her and she pops another into her mouth. Then another. Then one more. Suddenly she’s cramming them in, trying to block out the sense that her world is about to shatter. Nine. Ten. Eleven. She closes her eyes and her world reduces to chocolate and the crunch of honeycomb between her teeth.

Soon she hears footsteps and Dr Malik approaches and sits down next to her.

‘Hannah.’

‘Yes?’

‘The scan has confirmed that Tom has had a stroke.’

She can’t accept it. ‘But he’s only thirty-two.’

Dr Malik shakes his head. ‘I’m afraid that doesn’t make any difference. The blood flow is blocked to the part of his brain that controls his left side, and we can see a small area of damage on the scan.’

‘Oh God.’ Hannah’s hands are clasped together so tightly she can’t feel her fingers any more.

Dr Malik continues. ‘We don’t know what time symptoms started, so the best treatment we have is to admit him to the stroke unit and monitor him carefully. We’ll be taking him up in a minute.’

He gives her a taut smile before turning and striding off. Hannah sits staring at the floor, the final Malteser melting slowly in her palm. She closes her eyes and tries to remember how to pray.

When they wheel Tom out of the scanning room Hannah leaps up and takes his hand again. It’s ice cold.

The lift reluctantly transports them upwards, and on arrival Tom is pushed towards yet another set of double doors. Hannah looks up and sees that they are entering the stroke unit.

Dr Malik is back. ‘We’re going to look after Tom in here for now.’ He gestures to the darkened ward behind him. ‘We’ll monitor him intensively and the nurses will make sure he’s stable.’ The ward is full of breath and night-time rustling. He gestures to a nurse behind the reception desk. She comes out and helps to push Tom into the bay on their left.

Dr Malik leans towards Hannah, speaking in a low voice.

‘We’re just going to set Tom up in a bed and get him settled. Please can you wait here?’ He gestures towards a door labelled QUIET ROOM. ‘We won’t be long.’

‘Why?’ Hannah feels a pulse of anger. ‘I should be with him.’

‘We just need a few minutes. Then you can come through.’

Once again Tom is surrounded by people while Hannah is left by herself. She walks to the window and looks down at a forbidding floodlit sculpture in the courtyard below. She thinks of all the calls she needs to make and the bad news she has to break and feels like banging her head against one of its twisted metal spikes.

She can barely acknowledge what’s happening herself. She has no idea how to tell other people.

She sits back down and pulls her phone out of her bag. She takes a deep breath and dials Julie’s number. As the phone rings she imagines Tom’s sister disentangling herself from whichever man she is dating this week. Not that she expects an answer – Julie has a strong track record of committed unconsciousness till noon.

A voice surprises her by drawling down the line. ‘Yeah?’

‘Julie. It’s Hannah.’ She tries to keep her voice calm. Comforting.

It doesn’t work. Julie has an appetite for disaster. She can find it in even the happiest of situations. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

Hannah lowers her voice still further. ‘I’m afraid Tom’s in hospital. He’s had a stroke.’

‘What?’ Julie greets the news with a cough that belongs in a TB clinic. ‘Is he …? Is he still …?’

‘Yes, Julie. He’s still alive. He’s stable now and they’re going to monitor him overnight.’

‘Shit.’ Hannah hears rustling, and the repeated click of a lighter failing to work. ‘SHIT.’

‘Julie?’

Hannah hears the sound of a hand slapping against skin. A man indignantly grunting. Julie’s bedfellow is not going to be allowed to sleep for much longer.

Julie’s voice, to whoever it is, is sharp. ‘Look, can you make this bloody lighter work?’

A deep voice. ‘It’s six a.m., Jules. Go back to sleep.’

Hannah rubs her eyes, trying to release the ache of tension clamped across her brows. She hears more grunts. Then Julie again. ‘I’m having some really bad news here, can you just sodding do something and light me a fag?’

Hannah sighs. ‘Julie?’

‘Yeah, just a second.’ Hannah hears frantic clicking again. ‘It doesn’t bloody work, just sort it out will you? My brother’s just had a stroke, OK?’

Somehow Hannah doesn’t think the relationship will last much longer. She takes a deep breath. ‘Listen, things are bad, Jules, but the good news is that they’ve already got him on the stroke unit where they can monitor him and give him the treatment he needs.’

‘So he’ll be all right?’

‘I don’t know.’ Hannah feels overwhelmed by exhaustion. ‘I have to go now, but come up here as quickly as you can. Please?’

‘But the car’s knackered. I don’t know—’

Hannah cuts in. For once Julie will have to sort herself out. ‘Take the train or something. Anything. We’re at the stroke unit at King’s Lane Hospital. I’m sorry but I really do have to get back to Tom.’

‘OK.’ Julie’s voice sounds suddenly frail. ‘Give him my love. Please?’

‘I will. See you soon.’

She hears the sobs starting as she hangs up.

When Hannah is allowed through to the ward Tom is caged in a bed, surrounded by beeps and needles. A clear IV bag hangs from a stand above him. Fear churns in her stomach as she sinks into a chair at the side of the bed and reaches out to hold his hand.

Dr Malik leans against the bed and looks at her. He speaks in a low voice. ‘The next twenty-four hours are really important. We’ll be watching for complications and trying to find out why he had the stroke and how much rehabilitation he will need.’

Hannah watches Tom’s breathing. In. Out. She feels that if she looks away even for a second it might stop.

She feels the tears start to fall.

‘How long can I stay here with him?’

‘Take as much time as you like.’

‘Thank you.’

As he leaves she turns to Tom and is struck by how young he looks. The semi-darkness wipes away his corporate frown lines until he’s the man who couldn’t take his eyes off her in a Soho diner. Happy days … She raises her eyes to the ominous lines on the monitors as tears slide down her cheeks.

She is overwhelmed by how much they have lost.

She becomes aware of a faint pressure on her fingers and looks down to see that Tom’s right hand has closed around hers. His eyes are also full of tears. She hasn’t seen him cry for years.

Tom. Oh Tom.

She caresses his face and waits silently until his eyes close. As his breathing deepens she thinks about what she was going to say to him today. The words that she has been building up to for weeks. Months.

She drops her head into her hands and whispers a plea into the sighing darkness of the ward.

Nobody hears.

Receipt: £35.75, Rainbow Bar

Summer 2006

Their first date ended in a gay bar.

‘This isn’t exactly the romantic atmosphere I was going for.’ He felt himself sliding off his leopardskin stool and tried to use his elbows to clamp himself to the tiny metal table.

‘I don’t know what you mean.’ Hannah shrugged off her leather jacket and ran a hand through her exuberant curls. A smile lifted the corner of her glistening lips. He was desperate to kiss them, but every time he’d plucked up the courage to try she seemed to take a sip of her drink or a bite of her food.

It was driving him crazy.

Hannah sat daintily on her stool. ‘What could be more romantic than drinking toxic margaritas out of a fluorescent pink bucket?’

‘True.’ He nodded. ‘It’s what movies are made of.’ He sipped through his straw, averting his eyes as chests considerably more manly than his own leant against the bar beside them. ‘It was more the music I was thinking about.’

‘What?’ She pulled an exaggeratedly shocked face. ‘And there was me thinking you’d asked the DJ to play it specially.’

He shook his head as A-ha’s ‘Take on Me’ pumped through the speakers. ‘I’m afraid not.’ He put his hand on hers, feeling lucky when she didn’t flick it away.

Her fingers were warm against his. ‘Typical law student. You’re probably too busy taking yourself seriously to appreciate a good old-fashioned pop song like this one.’

He rolled his eyes. ‘And you’re too much of a frivolous English student to know any better.’ He shook his head with mock solemnity. ‘And if you’re a fan of this crap, then I’m afraid I might consider it grounds to cross your name off the list for date two.’

‘Really?’ She leant forward and he had another chance to appreciate the view provided by her low-cut pink top. ‘And who else is on this list? Who’s my competition?’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Too many candidates to mention, I’m afraid.’

She pulled back. ‘I see. So all those nights you couldn’t do last week – when you said you were busy working at the pub – you were out with other women?’ Her tone was mischievous, but he saw a flicker of concern in her eyes before she dropped them to the table. ‘I suppose it’s good to know where I stand.’

He couldn’t tell if she was being serious.

He leant forward to take her hand again, only for the stool to do its best to foil him. He teetered precariously before gaining his balance. Cool, Tom. Cool.

‘Believe me, Hannah, there are no hordes of women in my life. There’s my mum. My sister. And I quite like the woman who sells me my Saturday paper, even though she keeps showing me pictures of her endless grandkids. But that’s about it.’

Hannah kept her gaze lowered. ‘Really?’

‘Really.’

She raised her head and took a sip from her straw. He was so relieved to see her smile. ‘I wasn’t really worried, of course.’ She shook her head. ‘I mean, obviously I’m besieged by admirers everywhere I go.’

He suspected this was true. But he also saw that she had absolutely no idea. It only made him like her more.

He tried to flex one of his biceps. It didn’t oblige. ‘Well, I’ll beat them all up. Obviously.’

She leant towards him. ‘Obviously.’ She opened her eyes wide. ‘Now that would be a sight for sore eyes.’

‘Would it?’ He feigned a cool he utterly didn’t feel.

‘Yes.’ She arched an eyebrow. ‘Anyway, what would I be missing out on? If I didn’t make the cut for date two?’

He zipped his fingers across his mouth and shook his head.

‘Oh, I see.’ The disco lights caught the silver pendant at her throat. ‘You’re doing your mysterious thing again.’

‘That’s right.’ He leant towards her. His lips were nearly on hers. At last.

‘Is your phone vibrating, or are you just pleased to see me?’

He took a second to realise he wasn’t kissing her yet.

‘Oh, right.’ He took out his phone. ‘It’s just my mum.’ He switched it off and put it back in his pocket.

‘This late?’ Hannah looked concerned. ‘Are you sure she’s OK? You can call her back if you like.’

‘She’s fine. She just likes to say hello when her shift ends.’ He braved reaching out to stroke Hannah’s hair. ‘Now let’s get back to that man of mystery stuff. I was enjoying that.’

She placed a finger on his lips. ‘Shut up and kiss me.’

So he did. She tasted of citrus and hope.

Take That started to play. He didn’t even notice.