I catch Angus’s eye. In that moment I imagine a younger version of Lauren, at home, locked in her bedroom, staring at the wall, sad, lost, scared, unsafe, with no one around her who gives a damn. A little girl who has lost her mum. Where was her dad? Why did he have to go and remarry someone unkind? ‘The world wouldn’t be better off,’ I say, ‘we wouldn’t have met you.’
‘Exactly,’ Angus says. ‘And no one would have tasted Pat’s chocolate sauce.’
‘Have you seen a doctor, Lauren?’ I ask, thinking about her back pain too.
She shakes her head.
‘When was the last time you saw one?’ I press.
She stares ahead. ‘I’ve never seen one.’
Angus and I glance at one another again. ‘Right. Well, if it’s OK with you,’ he says, ‘why don’t we book you an appointment?’
‘No,’ she says. ‘I don’t want to see no one.’
‘They might be able to help you sleep better,’ Angus reassures her. ‘Believe me, I know how lowIfeel when I don’t get a proper night’s kip.’
‘And maybe they could give you something for your back pain too?’ I suggest. ‘We could come with you, Lauren, if you wanted us to?’
‘Definitely,’ Angus says. ‘Us oldies can come along, so long as you don’t mind your street cred being ruined.’
She bites her lip. ‘I don’t know.’ Finally, she looks at us as if we’re not real, or as if we must be expecting something in return. ‘Why d’you want to help?’
‘Because we care,’ I say, meaning it.
Angus touches her shoulder, and this time she doesn’t flinch. ‘Sometimes there comes a time when we all need help. Hey, don’t cry.’
But soon she can’t stop. It’s as if a tap has been turned on. Lauren is allowing herself to grieve for the fifteen-year-old who was kicked out on to the street, like a piece of rubbish, and told to look after herself with nothing but a teddy bear to her name. Where did she go? How has she survived these past four years? When I was fifteen the only thing I had to worry about was if my mother had stuck my favourite-coloured jeans into the wash, jeans that I’d wanted to wear for a party that night. I blame Lauren’s father as much, if not more, than the stepmother. How can a parent abandon their child? How could he sleep at night, knowing his daughter was out in the freezing cold, alone and vulnerable? When I remember seeing Lauren arrive at the café for the first time, I feel ashamed that all I was worried about was myself, and how I was going to manage. I can’t imagine how anxious she must have felt joining a bunch of strangers in the kitchen.
When Lauren finally dries her eyes, Angus says, ‘Let me or Holly book you an appointment Lauren, and if you want us to come, all you have to do is ask.’
She says nothing. So many people have let her down, including the very people who should have loved her unconditionally, so why should she trust us?
10
‘Lauren Morris,’ the receptionist repeats, looking at her computer screen, before glancing up at Lauren, sandwiched between Angus and me. ‘That’s fine, take a seat.’
That would be fine if there were any, I think, as we approach the packed waiting room, a couple of children playing with toys in the far corner, tired parents alongside. An older imperious-looking woman, with bouffant hair and scarlet lipstick, looks up from her magazine, before treating us to a stare. I’m imagining she’s thinking she wouldn’t be seen dead entertaining us around her dining-room table, Angus with his stubble and beer belly, gothic Lauren modelling a black tracksuit and hoody, and then me in my crumpled linen trousers, hot and sweaty after running from the office to get here on time. We are a motley crew, incongruous alongside one another. ‘You sit down, Lauren,’ Angus says, gesturing to the first free chair we come to.
Three quarters of an hour later, we’re still waiting, but at least the room isn’t so crowded, the children have gone, and we’ve managed to bag three seats in a row, towards the front, where we’re in a good position to see the various GPs escorting patients out of their consulting rooms before calling out the next patient on their list. Lauren sits between us. She’s been crunching her knuckles for the past ten minutes and tapping her foot against the floor. I offer her a piece of chewing gum, imagining she’s dying for a cigarette. She accepts, shoving it in her mouth. I see a doctor walking down the corridor, towards the waiting room.Please call out Lauren’s name. Besides, I need to get back to work. Harriet’s been kind letting me take time off but I don’t want to exploit her generosity. ‘Mark Roland?’ she says, scanning the room.
A man jumps up, sunglasses perched on the top of his head, a light beige linen jacket slung over his shoulders, a swagger in his stride. ‘Doesn’t seem to be a lot wrong with Mark Roland,’ Angus whispers to me.
‘Except perhaps dying slowly of arrogance,’ I suggest, as I slump back in my seat, feeling almost as agitated as Lauren.
Angus continues to flick through a glossy wedding magazine. ‘I went to see my GP the other day, Lauren.’
‘What did you go for?’ I ask, when Lauren doesn’t.
‘I have the “black cloud” from time to time. It’s what Granny used to call it. It’s probably not the same black cloud as yours, Lauren, but I tell you, it’s not much fun when it’s right over my head. So, we need to sort out this black cloud of yours, right, this cloud that says the world will be better off without you, and turn it into something else.’
‘A rainbow,’ Lauren mutters.
I glance over at Angus, impressed by how he talks so honestly to Lauren, and with genuine concern. Since our argument, I’ve seen another side to him, a side so very different from the Angus I met that first morning in the café. I’ve realised that if he wants to put his mind to something he is unbelievably efficient. He was determined to get Lauren an appointment as soon as possible, with a female doctor, and given that Lauren had never been to the GP surgery before, and had asked if we could come with her, there was no way he was going to let her down. There was no way he was ever going to forget, again.
‘I’m sure she’ll be nice,’ I reassure her.Please be nice. And take Lauren seriously.When I was little, I used to get stabbing headaches, and our family GP asked, ‘And when do these headaches come on, little Holly? When it’s time to do the washing-up? Or time to do your homework?’
‘I’d look good in this dress, right?’ Angus shows Lauren a picture of a woman in a peach-coloured wedding gown. He’s such a fool, but somehow, he makes us smile.
