‘Are you giving me your number, Igor?’ I say, my hand to my chest, acting flattered.
‘Yes, I am. Because it’s my medical duty and my wife and your sister are very good friends.’
‘You’re married?’ I ask him, slightly stunned. That’s a woman of some strength and stomach who would be into that hair.
‘I am married. I even have kids. You missed out there.’
‘Plenty of fish, Igor. I am sure I can find another merchant of torture elsewhere.’
‘I doubt it. In any case, your sister has pre-booked appointments with you for the next three months so I am not rid of you yet.’
Igor, there were times when I actually hated you and wished many unkind things but you, sir, had much conversational wit at least.
‘Don’t get hit by any more buses, Miss Lucy. I will be in touch.’
He puts his notes back in his bag, shakes my hand and carries a kit bag out of the room while I sit on the edge of the bed and rotate my ankles.
‘Good toes,’ I say, straightening them like pokers, bad toes, flexing them at right angles. Low impact, my arse. I have a ballet session booked in a few days and I’m dying to get back to it but, hell, what Igor doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
It’s been two weeks since I woke up and it’s been days of lying in this room, staring at the walls, hearing the faint bleeps and alarms from medical machinery nearby, scoffing down sandwiches and sushi that my family have sneaked in for me, and entertaining a selection of people who’ve come to be by my bedside. Tony rocked up with Jill, the sisters, a few nieces, Kyle from Velvet Boulevard brought cake (purchased from outside the club) and Dad has moments when he sits here and reads in perfect silence, falling asleep with a book at his chest, and I watch, wait and make loud noises to wake and scare him.
Recovery will be a journey but today I’m being sent home, to Mum and Dad’s, to start before I go back to the shared house. Mum is ecstatic this begins the countdown to Pussy leaving her house but I will be glad to be out of here at least, making steps in the right direction.
‘Is that what you’re wearing?’ Emma asks as she stands at the doorway.
I’m in a cropped top, zipped hoodie and leggings, I didn’t realise that I needed to wear an official leaving outfit but it’s comfortable, it’s me.
‘Go on, tell me I’ll catch a death, Mother,’ I say to her haughtily.
She rolls her eyes then comes to sit on the bed next to me.
‘How are you feeling?’ she asks, stroking my head.
‘Ready.’
‘That is like the best word to describe you, ever.’ She releases a small breath of air that feels loaded with emotion and I grab onto her arm.
‘I’m good, Ems. Please don’t worry.’
‘Do you know how it feels being your sister? There’s always worry, this air of unpredictability. You’re like a spring, where will she bounce to next? What will she say? What will Lucy do?’
‘Isn’t that the beauty of me?’ I ask.
‘Perhaps. It keeps us on our toes at least.’
‘You need it.’
She picks a bit of fluff off my top. ‘Bounce high, little one, yeah?’
‘Always.’
She gives my scar the once-over and then moves to the cannula in my hand, the bloody bane of my life for the past fortnight. Don’t tell people but I’ve pissed all over it at times when I’ve had to wheel my drip to the toilet. That can’t be good.
‘Isn’t that a nurse’s job?’ I ask her as she unwraps some cotton swabs.
‘I asked for the honour,’ she says. ‘Though they were lining up to do it. You’ve made friends, eh?’
‘It’s a gift.’
