Now that Phoebe is out of the way of the boat, she catches her breath, readjusting her swimsuit so she’s not flashing anyone. People talk about not wanting to be found dead in dirty underwear, but the thought of her body being dragged up onto the riverbank in a swimsuit that makes her look like she’s a wannabe auditioning for a remake ofBaywatchis frankly just as chilling.
The streamlined boat has stopped now, the oars restinglimply in the water. The rower checks his watch, pressing a button that looks like some sort of timer before looking up.
Up close, the man looks younger than Phoebe initially thought, perhaps a little older than her, with just a few flecks of grey scattered about his dark brown hair, which is short at the sides but thick and curly on top, damp with either sweat or river water. He’s dressed in skintight Lycra and there’s a fine glimmer of sweat glistening on his tanned forehead, which is currently creased into a frown. His shoulders are broad, but the rest of his physique is slim, which is just as well because the boat is incredibly narrow. Phoebe can’t imagine she’d fit inside, certainly not without capsizing it.
‘Other people use this river too, you know,’ snaps Sandra, her hand still wrapped protectively around Phoebe’s arm.
The rower looks around as though only just taking in his surroundings. His chest rises and falls rapidly.
‘Sorry.’ But he doesn’t sound at all sorry.
‘Well, next time be more careful,’ says the lifeguard. ‘There’s space for all of us here at the river if everyone is considerate.’
The rower glances down at his watch again. Sandra lets go of Phoebe’s arm and together they swim around the boat and back towards the bank. Once they are out of the way, the rower picks up his oars, digging them smoothly into the water. In a few strokes, he has disappeared around the river bend and the water is still again.
‘Are you OK, Phoebe?’ asks Jazz, Hester watching on with a concerned expression.
‘Yeah, I’m fine thanks,’ she replies, summoning a smile despite her still-racing pulse. ‘No limbs lost. Only my dignity,and who needs that, eh? I think I lost that as soon as I wrestled myself into this bloody swimsuit.’
‘Right, I think that’s enough excitement for one morning,’ says Sandra, heading up the bank, Phoebe and the others following behind.
Once they’re on dry land, Phoebe rubs herself vigorously with the towel to warm up.
‘Oh wow, I hadn’t noticed your other tattoos, I thought they were just on your arms,’ says Jazz as she pulls a large hooded towel over her head.
‘Yeah, I might run out of space soon,’ Phoebe laughs, glancing down at her bare legs. They are absolutely covered in tattoos, mostly delicate line drawings of plants and flowers. ‘I know they’re not to everyone’s taste, but I love them.’ Getting a new tattoo gives her a similar rush to a ride on her motorbike. When so much of her life feels heavy, there’s a lightness to decorating her skin just for the joy and beauty of it. And maybe there’s something about the pain of it too. She got one of her tattoos – a rose on her left ankle – when Phoebe first lost a patient to suicide. Roses were Laura’s favourite flower. She was twenty-two.
When she applied for her first nursing job, she’d been nervous that having so many visible tattoos might put off an employer but when she’d gently raised it in the interview, the head nurse hadn’t flinched. ‘Does having tattoos impact your ability to take blood and fit cannulas?’
‘Um, no,’ Phoebe had replied.
‘Then I don’t give two hoots about your tattoos.’
It’s nice to think that some attitudes have changed. She’spretty certain that the response might have been different a few years ago.
‘I’ve always wanted to get one,’ says Jazz hesitantly. ‘But it feels like a big commitment …’
‘If you want one, you should just go for it. Life’s too short not to.’
Phoebe’s job has taught her that much.
‘You’d look great with a tattoo,’ she adds and Jazz smiles warmly.
Thinking about work makes Phoebe dig quickly for her phone in her pile of clothes, checking the time. Shit. She’s running late.
‘God, I better go,’ she says, pulling her jeans onto her still-damp legs.
‘But you’ll miss out on the best part of these swims,’ says Sandra as she tugs down her swimming costume, not seeming to care one bit about flashing everyone at the river, and then pulls on her bra.
‘And what’s that?’
Hester points to the Kingfisher Café and Book Barge. ‘They do a great cup of tea.’
‘I’d love to, but I’ve really got to get to work.’
She realises suddenly that she hasn’t even found out what these three women do, or told them about her job. Hester looks like she might be still at school, but what about the others? In the water, it felt as though their outside lives didn’t matter. As she swam, she wasn’t a nurse, she was just Phoebe.
‘OK, but we’ll see you again soon, I hope?’ says Sandra.
