‘Oh, thank fucking God!’ she says. She normally tries to monitor her language at work, but she can’t help it.
Ben doesn’t seem to notice. His expression is blank, as though barely registering that she’s there.
‘Can I come in?’
He doesn’t say anything, but he opens the door a little wider before disappearing down the corridor. Phoebe closes the door and follows him. As she’s heading to the living room, her phone buzzes in her pocket. There’s a message from Mel saying that she’s got it covered for the afternoon and to keep her updated about Ben. But there are two missed calls from her mum too. She’ll call her back later.
In the living room, Ben is slumped on the sofa, his shouldersbowed. His eyes are ringed with grey and she spots a flash of blood on his bottom lip. He always bites his lip when he’s anxious; she noticed it the first time they met.
‘I’m here now, Ben. Do you think you might be able to tell me what’s going on?’
In the silence, Phoebe feels her phone ring in her pocket again. She tries her best to ignore it, focusing her attention on Ben.
‘Has something happened?’
Her phone rings again.
Ben says nothing, sinking further down into the sofa cushions.
‘How about a cup of tea first?’ Phoebe asks. Ben nods very slightly. Phoebe leaps up, placing a hand gently on his arm as she passes. ‘I’ll be back in a minute, OK?’
In the tiny kitchen, she takes in the mess of unwashed dishes, then flicks on the kettle and quickly checks her phone. Three more missed calls from her mum. Glancing quickly through the hallway to check Ben is OK, she dials her mum’s number.
‘Mum, is everything OK? I’m at work and can’t really talk right now …’
But then she realises that her mum is crying, sobs reaching her down the line. Her hands begin to shake as she grips the phone.
‘Mum, what is it?’
Her mum goes as if to speak, but the only sound that comes out is a squeak and another sob. Phoebe can hear vague noises in the background but can’t decipher what they are.
‘Is it Dad? Is he OK?’
As the words leave her mouth, it strikes her that, even afterall these years, she’s lived her whole life terrified of receiving this call. But, to her relief, she suddenly makes out his muffled voice in the background.
‘No, Dad’s fine,’ her mum replies. ‘It’s Mum. Your nan.’
The brief moment of relief is replaced by panic. ‘What’s happened?’
‘She’s had another fall.’
‘Shit. Is she OK?’
‘She slipped in the bathroom. She’d been in there a long time and I was starting to worry so knocked, but there was no reply. I got your dad to help me with the door and when we went in, there she was, lying on the ground in her dressing gown. She was unconscious.’ Her mum’s voice breaks again, another wave of sobs taking over.
‘Where are you now?’
‘We’re at the hospital. They’ve taken her away for tests and we haven’t been able to visit yet.’
‘Is she going to be OK?’
‘I don’t know!’ Her mum’s voice breaks off again. ‘I don’t know …’
Phoebe blinks back tears, thinking of all the times this week that she’s said she’d speak to her nan. But she hasn’t. Not once. And the last time she saw her in person was months ago. She kept telling herself that she was too busy, that she didn’t have time, that she’d get down to Cornwall soon. But what if she’s missed her chance?
The sound of the kettle boiling pulls her back into the room. She can’t fall apart, not here. Not when she has someone else’s crisis to deal with.
‘Mum, I’m really sorry, but I’ve got to go. I’ll call you back as soon as I can, though, OK? And call me again if there are any updates.’
