16

~ Throwing salt or white wine on a red wine stain is more likely to make things worse. Instead, rinse with fizzy water (the bubbles help lift the stain) then blot and spray with carpet shampoo.

O ne minute I was in the back of the ambulance, mechanically discussing the relative merits of biscuits with Kyle, the next I was sitting alone at the hospital while the rest of the world rushed past around me at high speed.

Terry's heart was still ticking over, but only just. His left leg and left wrist were not so good. More worrying was his hip. We were met at the door by two nurses, who whisked him straight off to ICU.

His battered address book was on the cafe table next to my cup, an incongruous piece of his resolutely twentieth-century flat in the bright, clean hospital cafe. I had to phone Terry's closest relatives and tell them what was happening, possibly the worst phone calls I would ever have to make. I had no idea how I was going to find the words, yet I couldn't avoid it. My brain was in full defer, defer mode, but I couldn't – I'd been late for Terry once, I couldn't be late again.

I opened the address book and turned the pages in search of familiar names. Gillian, his calorie-counting late wife, hadn't bothered with surnames, but I remembered some of the family from the elaborate tree he'd drawn me on the back of the French Fancies packet.

Who was the daughter who'd fitted the key safe? Jayne. I'd start with her.

Jayne had four different Wolverhampton addresses, three written in Gillian's curly handwriting and the last in Terry's poignantly wobbly old man biro. That wobbly biro alone nearly set me off.

I dialled the number, my heart beating so hard I could feel the pulse in my throat. It rang, and rang, and then I got her voicemail.

Beep . Speak. I swallowed. ‘I'm so sorry to bother you, but I'm your dad's cleaner and I'm afraid he's had an accident …'

I didn't get through to Brian, or Barry, and I was starting to panic that maybe I wouldn't get through to anyone, but eventually I spoke to Nicola, Barry's oldest daughter, who lived nearest, in Birmingham.

‘Thank god he had a friendly face with him,' Nicola sobbed, turning her car round from a shopping trip to drive straight to the hospital. ‘Thank you, thank you, Robyn. You've saved his life.'

I hope she didn't mind that I was too choked to reply.

Once family support for Terry was on the way, I had no reason left not to deal with the pile of missed calls and messages.

The first was from Cleo, at 8 a.m. 8 a.m.!

‘Robyn, just a heads-up. Terry's left me a message to say he's not feeling too good and that he's left the door open for you. If you don't think he's up to having you clean, tell him we can come another time. I'll fit him in somewhere. Thanks.'

And another, 9.10 a.m. Cleo again.

‘Robyn, I've just had a call from Terry's number but he didn't speak, which is a bit worrying. Can you call me when you get there to let me know he's OK?'

Ten past nine? Had he fallen then? How long had he lain there, alone?

I took the phone from my ear. There were three more voicemails from Cleo and I didn't want to hear them. I knew what they'd be saying: update me, what's going on? And where the hell are you?

My instinct was to delete them without listening – something I did a lot when my imagination informed me that the message was likely to cause inner distress. I sometimes bribed Johnny or Katie at work to screen my client voicemails at times of high stress.

God, I thought, disgusted with myself. What a baby I am.

‘Get a grip,' I said aloud.

Then I braced myself and called Cleo back.

She picked up immediately, furious. ‘Where the hell are you? I've been trying to get hold of you since eight o'clock! You've got to answer your phone if you're working, it's not like your personal life where you can just ignore people until you think fit to—'

‘I'm at the hospital,' I said flatly. ‘With Terry.'

There was a short, sharp intake of breath. Cleo's indignation evaporated instantly. ‘Oh no. I knew something was up! Is he OK?'

‘I don't know. He's been taken off for assessment. I wasn't sure if I should leave or not.' I bit my lip. ‘There's nothing I can do but I just didn't want him to come round and not have anyone here.'

‘What happened?'

‘I don't know. I got there and he was … lying in the hall. I called the ambulance and the paramedics came and …' I couldn't say it. There was every chance Terry could still die, and it would be my fault: he'd lain there without medical attention for those critical minutes.

‘Thank god you were there,' said Cleo. ‘Oh, Robyn. Are you all right?'

‘I'm fine.'

‘Really, though? You must be in shock.'

‘I'm fine,' I repeated.

‘Don't worry about the rest of the day,' she said. ‘Go home, have a brandy. And ignore my arsey messages, obviously you couldn't phone me back if you were in an ambulance with Terry. I must have called when you were dealing with the paramedics, did I?'

Should I tell her? I felt an urge to confess, to admit to Cleo I'd only just got her messages, but an equally powerful force swept up against it. I couldn't . What good would it do to have Cleo go ballistic at me now? No one knew what time it had happened. It might not make a difference.

Only me. I would know. I shrivelled a bit inside. I'd just have to swallow this awful knowledge. It would be my punishment.

‘I'm going to ask Jim to come round to get you,' Cleo was saying.

‘Jim?'

‘I've just spoken to him, he's not far from the hospital. He'll pick you up and bring you back.'

Oh no. No, no, no. Jim was the last person I wanted to see. He'd see straight through to my guilty conscience. ‘It's fine, I'm honestly fine.'

But she wasn't having it. ‘He's on his way. And Robyn?' Cleo's voice cracked. ‘I've always said that our cleaners go above and beyond, and you've proved that today. I'm so proud of you. And not just as a boss, as your sister. You've saved a life.'

I couldn't reply. It was something I'd always wanted to hear from my big sister, that she was proud of me, but I'd managed to ruin it for myself by burying an appalling lie at the centre of it.

Yeah. Well done, Robyn.

I don't know how long I sat there, but at some point I heard a familiar click, click of purposeful steps.

I looked up. There was Jim, in a very un-Jim black T-shirt, but I was so dazed I barely registered his clothes or even wondered where he'd been. His expression was concerned.

‘Are you OK?' he asked, pulling up a chair next to mine. ‘Can I get you anything? Sweet tea? Another coffee?'

I shook my head.

‘So what happened?'

I couldn't speak for a moment, but to his credit, Jim said nothing else until I pulled myself together. Then he coaxed out the whole story with simple questions, and didn't patronise me with any ‘it'll be fine' platitudes.

When I finished, he said, ‘You did everything you could.'

I didn't respond. I really hadn't. My conscience kept zoning in on the fact that I'd been so eager to impress Anna and Graeme that I'd hadn't bothered to check the clock. I'd abandoned my responsibilities, just like that. I didn't think I was that sort of person, but here was the evidence.

And what about the other times?

I liked to think I had self-respect and good boundaries when it came to relationships, but I'd ended up in bed with Mitch in a hotel after one dinner that I barely remembered.

I saw myself as a professional, but my casual inefficiency had cost people time and money. Surveys wasted, movers cancelled, plans spoiled, lives altered. Because of me.

I thought I was a good sister but I didn't really know what was going on with Cleo, and I hadn't spoken to any of Dad's family in months, despite it being my Auntie Bex's fiftieth birthday recently.

Just look at yourself, I thought, disgusted. Who are you?

‘Robyn?' Jim's voice sounded a long way away. ‘Are you OK?'

‘No,' I said. ‘I'm not OK. I'm the worst person I know.'

‘I find that hard to believe.'

‘I am.'

He refused to react. ‘What have you done?'

I didn't look up, but I knew exactly what Jim's expression would be. He thought I was in shock about seeing Terry so close to death – which I was – but it was the sudden shock of how much terrible behaviour I'd managed to ignore that was making my head throb.

‘I just …' I began, and I knew if I started I would tell Jim everything. Not just about Terry, but how useless I felt, my talent peaking at thirteen, how jealous I was of Cleo, for her family and her business and her drive , how utterly desperate I felt at 3.15 a.m. when I couldn't sleep because time was trickling away, and my options were narrowing before I even knew what they were.

‘Robyn?'

It was pathetic. I didn't even have age-appropriate anxieties.

‘I …' I began, then a pair of sensible black shoes appeared in my line of vision.

‘Robyn Taylor?'

I looked up. A nurse was standing in front of us with a clipboard.

‘You came in with Terry Gilchrist?'

‘Yes.' I jumped up, and my legs wobbled. I put a hand out to steady myself and grabbed Jim's shoulder; I was so focused on the nurse I barely noticed him put his own around my hip to steady me.

‘I don't have a full update, I'm afraid, but he's stable. The doctor's waiting for some test results which will tell us more.' The nurse's expression was careful, deliberately not giving too much hope. ‘Would you like to see him?'

‘Are his family here yet?'

‘No one so far.'

I glanced at Jim. I wasn't sure what I should do.

‘Why don't you pop up and say hello?' he suggested. ‘Let Terry know the family's on the way.'

‘Will you come with me?' I hated how pathetic that sounded.

‘Of course,' said Jim.

Terry was as fragile as a sparrow in the ICU bed, surrounded by wires and machinery and drips. He was asleep, but his skin seemed less porridgey than it had done when I'd found him on the floor.

Remorse speared through me. A broken hip could take months to heal at his age, maybe even a year. If Terry pulled through, would he be able to live independently again? Would his confidence have shattered, along with his bone? Was that the end of his flat, and the French Fancies and the cupboard of mugs?

I sat down on the chair by the side of the bed. ‘Hello, Terry,' I said.

He didn't respond. But then I'd have been more freaked out if he had.

I wasn't sure what to say next. The ward was open-plan with three other beds and the nurse was busy with the man in the far corner.

There wasn't much to inspire me, amid the grey metal and white wires. I racked my brains, and leaned my forehead against one cool metal arm.

‘I'm sorry I was late,' I confessed in a whisper. ‘I will never be late again.'

Jim approached, cautiously. ‘We can go now, Terry's daughter's on her way in. What? Don't look like that.'

But it was too late; there was Jayne, steaming into the ICU ward with a nurse close behind – the golden-child daughter I'd heard so much about. I'd have known her anyway; she looked exactly like Terry but with a silver pixie cut.

As soon as she saw her dad lying there, her face collapsed in grief and she rushed over to kneel by his side.

I started to move away, but Jayne got up and flung her arms around me, hugging me so tightly that her nose pressed hard into my shoulder. ‘Thank you, I'm sorry, I don't even know your name,' she sobbed into my overalls. ‘But he wasn't on his own!'

‘Least I could do,' I mumbled, and let her sink into the chair to hold Terry's hand while the nurse brought her up to speed.

As we left, I could hear Jayne half-talking, half-crying. ‘… Got here as soon as I could … should have moved nearer … my dad … feel so bad …'

Jim put his hand on my shoulder. I could feel the weight of his palm against my shoulder blade. I wondered if he could feel the guilt burning in my chest.

‘Come on,' he said. ‘Your work here is done.'

It was nearly six o'clock by the time we got back to the town centre, and we didn't speak for most of the journey.

Jim pulled up outside Molly's Bakehouse and it took me a moment to remember why he was doing that. It was because I'd lied about where I lived.

Cleo was right: I told such stupid, pointless lies. Why on earth did it matter if the neighbours saw me? The thought of the long trudge home made me feel weary, plus I'd left my bag with my interview clothes at Terry's flat, so I'd have to walk through the streets of Longhampton in my overalls. All I had was my phone, my purse and my house keys.

But I was too exhausted to care. The sooner I set off, the sooner I'd be back in bed, under a blanket.

‘Cheers, Jim.' I got out of the car. ‘I'll see you tomorrow.'

‘Robyn?'

‘What?'

Jim looked up at me from the driver's seat, his brow furrowed. I'd thought he looked like an eagle when I first met him, but now I thought he was more like an owl. A wise owl. ‘Are you sure you're OK?'

‘Yes,' I said.

‘Because …'

‘Because what?'

‘Because you haven't had anything to eat and you look shattered.' He paused. ‘Do you want to get something now? McDonald's or KFC or whatever else you can drive through?' he added, as if I'd worry he was asking me out for dinner.

I gestured towards House of Tatts, where I ‘lived'. ‘Honestly, I'm fine, I've got something in the freezer.'

‘If you're sure …'

I couldn't keep up this facade much longer. It was a half an hour walk home from here, and the first few drops of rain had started to fall.

‘See you tomorrow!' I said, and waved.

Jim hesitated, and I flapped my hand in a ‘get on with you!' gesture. He tipped his head, a regretful tilt, then waved back, checked his mirrors, indicated and drove off. He might not be dressed in the uniform but he still drove like a Taylor Maid employee.

I waited until the van disappeared around the corner and sank down on the bench outside the bakery. I dropped my head into my hands and listened as the bakers dragged the sign indoors, heard the squeak of the awnings being wound in for the night. There was still a faint smell of almond croissants in the air.

Keep Terry with us, I bargained with the universe, and I will clean his mug cupboard and laugh at his terrible stories, and not laugh at his dodgy theories about the moon landings.

I will try to be a much better person.

I will be a much better person.

The rain started falling properly, but I didn't have the energy to move.

I got myself home, somehow, and sat on my sofa until night fell around me.

My phone rang a few times but I didn't answer it. I didn't want Cleo's sympathy or Mum's praise.

Someone knocked on the door, but I ignored it.

Whoever it was knocked again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

Then Tomasz upstairs banged on the floor and yelled, ‘Open the fricking door!'

Dully, I supposed it might be Cleo with my bag from Terry's – or worse, the police, coming to check what time I'd found him, but that thought only occurred to me as I was opening the door and it was too late.

It was Jim, standing there with a carrier bag in each hand. ‘Before you say anything, Cleo asked me to come round,' he said. ‘She's at some sort of concert tonight.'

‘Wes, nephew, trumpet. Why are you here?' I asked, too exhausted to feel embarrassed that he'd caught me out.

He was still in his off-duty clothes but there was an air of on-duty efficiency about him, as if he'd arrived to tidy me up.

‘I've brought you supper. You need to eat.' He lifted the bags. ‘I've got soup and some rolls. Shall I pop them in the oven?'

I thought about protesting – hadn't he been the one to insist on keeping work for work? – but Jim raised one eyebrow just enough to make it clear that resistance was futile. So I swung the door further open and let him in. Some further cleaning up meant the hall was now empty, and Jim was able to move freely to the kitchen, where he commenced unpacking his bags.

I followed him, but he steered me back to the sofa. ‘You stay there,' he said, draping my weighted blanket back over my shoulders. I melted gratefully into the cushions.

After a while he returned with a bowl of tomato soup, which I spooned into my mouth, reluctantly at first, then much faster until its warmth spread through me. I wasn't hungry until I started eating, then I realised I was ravenous. There was a soft white roll too, buttered. He brought me a second one, while I was finishing the first.

Jim sat quietly watching me, and I felt my guilt build and build until I blurted out, ‘Jim, I was late for Terry. If I'd been there when I should have been, he might not have ended up in hospital. If he dies …' I made myself say the words. ‘If he dies, I don't think I'm ever going to be able to forgive myself.'

‘Don't be so dramatic. There's every chance he'll pull through.'

‘But I'll still know it was my fault.' I stared at Astrid the aspidistra in her beaten brass pot. She'd put out a new leaf in the last week, a tightly furled spear in the heart of her foliage. I'd been so proud of that. A sign I'd turned a corner. ‘I'm not the person I want to think I am. I want to think I'm kind and smart, but I'm not.'

‘So you made a mistake,' he said. ‘Good people sometimes do bad things. Terrible things. Clever people do stupid things. One mistake doesn't change who you are. What you learn about yourself might, though, if you interrogate yourself honestly about your motives and actions.'

‘Don't do that management fortune-cookie talk, Jim,' I said. ‘It might work in whatever self-improvement seminar you used to run but I'm talking about real people.'

‘I mean real people,' he said.

‘Well, I'm talking about me.'

Jim paused. ‘So am I.'

We were sitting in the half-light of the table lamps; it was cosy but I couldn't quite make out the expression on Jim's face.

‘Go on,' I said.

He cleared his throat. ‘I used to work for a big pharmaceutical company, specialising in ... actually, that's not important. Basically, I was head of a sales division, lots of travelling, lots of targets – weekly, monthly, quarterly. Constant stress, but I got used to it after a while. And of course, the salary made up for a lot.'

He paused. I wondered if I was supposed to say well done or something, but my imagination was already at work, racing to reach the conclusion before he did.

Although, it was obvious now, wasn't it? Jim had been a workaholic and had turned to alcohol, or maybe cocaine – hence the rehab – to deal with the pressures of international pharmaceutical sales, whatever that was. (I didn't think it was the fun kind of pharmaceuticals.) He'd hit rock bottom, let his fridge get mouldy, jacked in the job, headed to the Priory, and was rebuilding his life with low-stress cleaning.

I could see where this was going, and I wasn't sure it really applied to my own situation, but I did him the courtesy of listening. I was mostly curious about what he'd been addicted to. It was hard to picture Jim letting his hair down with a crate of Jack Daniels. Single malts, maybe. Reckless bets on the Masters golf?

‘I was young, and people don't always like being managed by someone younger, so I had to develop a work persona to get anything done. I was the perfectionist. Not really me, just something I put on every morning with my suit. And that was fine, for a while, but the more responsibility I got handed, the less and less time I had away from that,' he went on. ‘No time to have a relationship that wasn't about meeting once a fortnight for dinner. Or a dog.' He turned his head, showing me his rueful smile.

‘That's responsible dog non-ownership,' I confirmed.

‘Thanks. Anyway, I had one commitment that always made me feel like myself again ...'

‘Your family?' I suggested.

Jim looked momentarily thrown. ‘No, rugby. My family are all right but they tend to make things worse, not better.'

‘Oh. Right.' I wasn't sure where this was going now.

‘I've always loved rugby, not just playing it, but the camaraderie and the tactics, the beers afterwards. Everyone's got a job to do, everyone relies on each other. I didn't have to be the leader there, I was part of the team.' He squeezed his nose. ‘So. About eighteen months ago, the business hit a rocky patch. Share price crashed, I had to sack people. People I'd worked with for years. I had a meeting at head office in which I nearly got sacked, then flew home on Saturday morning, still on this massive stress high, and went straight to rugby without getting my head straight.'

Jim's voice became muffled, then stopped.

I turned to look at him and had to hide my double take. He had his head in his hands, psyching himself up for something.

‘First tackle I made, I wasn't concentrating, I went in too hard,' he went on. ‘Bam. My mind was still in that meeting. All my frustration ended up in that tackle. Everything you're not supposed to do. It happened so quickly, and there was some confusion but I knew it was me. I knew as soon as it happened, I heard the crunch right in my ear. I could have got away with it, but …' He shook his head slowly, side to side.

‘What happened?'

‘I broke the opposition flanker's back.'

I sat up. God almighty. I hadn't been expecting that. I noted the way he phrased it. I would probably have said, ‘The opposition flanker broke his back.'

‘But it was an accident, right? You didn't mean to hurt him?'

‘Of course not. But ultimately … my anger made it happen. I was out of control.'

We didn't speak for a moment. I was shocked. I couldn't imagine a violent, angry Jim, capable of paralysing someone. And yet he was. I thought of his strong hands, the burst of strength I'd seen under the mild exterior. How close to the surface was that anger? How good an actor was he?

‘Chris – the man I hurt – was in hospital for months. He was incredibly generous about it, insisted it was one of those unlucky breaks. His family, not so much.' Jim's face twisted with shame and effort. ‘I committed to help his recovery however I could, and I still volunteer for a sports rehab charity. Patient support, fundraising, whatever they need.'

‘Is he …?' I didn't know how to phrase it. ‘Did he …?'

‘Did Chris recover? Yes, he did. Not enough to play rugby, but he's back on his feet.'

‘That must have been such a relief.'

Jim turned his head. ‘For whom?'

‘Him, I mean, good for him,' I corrected myself. Then I said, ‘And you.'

‘Totally. A huge relief for me. But that moment changed everything. I realised I didn't know myself at all. I wasn't coping, I wasn't getting good advice. I wasn't the sort of person I'd want to be around.' I heard the understatement. ‘I resigned, so I could try to fix things. Start again.'

‘Hence the cleaning?'

‘Hence the cleaning. Sorry, I don't talk about this a lot, I find it hard. That's where I was this morning, the rehab centre. I volunteer with their fundraising team, transport, whatever's needed. There's a lad there right now who looks exactly like Chris, but he won't walk again. I often think how lucky I was that I wasn't standing a centimetre to the left.'

‘But you weren't.'

Jim's eyes met mine. They were still shrewd, but I saw a vulnerability in them now. ‘And you weren't ten minutes later for Terry.'

I knew what he was getting at, but did it make me feel better? Not really.

What were you supposed to say now? I always thought I'd know, when I was ‘older'.

‘So …' Jim slapped his thighs awkwardly. ‘I guess what I'm trying to say is that is when good people do bad things, which they sometimes do, they take responsibility. I don't think you're a bad person. A bad person wouldn't feel as terrible as you do now.'

‘But I should be better,' I said.

Jim's smile was sad. ‘We could all be better, Robyn.'

His story hung between us for a moment, then he said, ‘Right, I'll be off now you've had your supper. Don't get up,' he added, as I feebly tried to push off the weighted blanket. ‘You look so comfy under that … whatever that is. I'll see myself out.'

‘Thank you,' I called, as he left, and I heard him say, ‘You're welcome,' as the door closed.

I closed my eyes and tried to empty my brain, but all I could see was Terry.