“No.” I tried again. “Look, I dreamed my mum was going to die. And then she did. She died of cancer.” I could have choked on those words.
“Fresh air,” he clipped, as if I hadn’t even spoken. “Get some exercise, stop drinking, take these.” He scribbled out a prescription and handed it to me.
“I do exercise, and I don’t drink much—”
“They’re for the insomnia. Make sure you read the leaflet.”
“But the insomnia...” I said shakily, “... isn’t really the problem. It’s more of a side effect.”
He shifted in his chair, cleared the clag from his throat. “Did you manage to get a seat in the waiting room just now, Mr. Morgan?”
“Yes, I—”
“Lucky you. Sometimes it’s standing-room only. Students are a sickly bunch.” He leaned forward, stabbed his jotter with a pen like he was angry. Like I’d deliberately flouted a rule that was clear to everyone except me. “I can only deal withone problem per appointment.” The expression on his face was total disdain. It ate into my gut like acid.
I don’t know what it was (bad day, personal problems), but something about my presence that afternoon had really irritated him. Out of nowhere, I was reminded of my dad.
A silence settled then, drawn out by the ticking of the clock on his desk. Cheap white plastic, a pharmaceutical-company logo emblazoned across it in purple.
But I had to try. One last time. It had taken so much for me to book the appointment, work up the courage to walk through the surgery door. Repeat the words I’d been practicing for days in my bathroom mirror.
“Is there anything neurological... Could there be something wrong with my brain? With the premonitions—”
I was cut off by his laugh. An actual laugh. One that, against all the odds, lit up his humorless face. “Well, you cannot predict the future, obviously. I don’t know if this is some sort of joke, or a dare you’ve been put up to, but you’re wasting my time. Get out of my surgery.”
21.
Callie
A week or so after Bonfire Night, when I see Joel first thing at the coffee shop, I know what I’m going to do. I’ve been practicing how to pitch it to him—but now my mouth’s gone dry and I’m wobbling slightly, which probably isn’t going to help.
I set down his double espresso, the cup twitching from my hand. “Morning.”
“Hey.” He looks up. Though his eyes are tired, his smile is warm.
My heart’s like a fist trying to break down my rib cage. “I... got an e-mail last night. They’ve invited me for an interview at Waterfen.”
His whole face lifts. “Wow, congratulations. That’s brilliant news.”
I rush into my next question.Don’t think about it, just do it.“So, that new Italian place by the river’s been getting rave reviews. Excellent spaghetti al pomodoro, apparently. Fancy trying it tonight, helping me prep?”
He looks slightly taken aback—though to be fair that’s maybe because it’s nine in the morning, there’s a queue at the counter for coffee to go, and I’m lingering by his table, waffling on about spaghetti.
Then, from out of nowhere, the woman at the next table leans over and chimes in. “I tried it last night. Top-notch. Definitely recommend.” She makes a chef’s kiss with her fingers.
I want to give her an actual kiss. But instead I simply smile, look back at Joel, and wait, stomach writhing in silent agony.
Finally, he swallows, gives me the answer I’ve been praying for. “Yeah, okay. Why not?”
•••
As we wait to be shown to our table at the restaurant, Joel’s describing his afternoon dog walk.
“... so Tinkerbell—that’s the Maltese—makes a break for it by the bins. And I’m running after her, shouting her name, over and over...”
He does a quick impression. Already I’m laughing so hard there are tears in my eyes.
“She’s essentially a thug disguised as a mop. Very outward-ranging.”
