Page 29 of Love, Accidentally

‘I’m not suggesting that, but maybe you can look at old photo albums together or something like that. Remind yourself of the good times before your wife was ill. Share happy memories as well as sad ones. She may not be with you physically any more, but you’re both carrying her in your hearts. Acknowledge that, and let her continue to be a part of your lives.’

He stares at me again, and I worry for a moment that I’ve overstepped the mark. But then his face softens.

‘Do you know,’ he says softly, ‘I think I’d like that. You’re very wise for your years, Tilly.’

I smile ruefully. He wouldn’t think that if he knew about my rift with Tash and my doubts about my boyfriend. Thankfully, my sudden melancholy is unexpectedly lifted by the arrival of Will.

‘Oh, hello. Tilly, isn’t it?’ he says when he sees me.

‘That’s right,’ I tell him, getting to my feet. ‘I was just checking in to see how your dad was doing.’

‘Is that part of the service?’ He looks uncertain.

‘No, but I was in the area,’ I lie. ‘How are you?’

‘Oh, you know.’ He runs a hand through his hair distractedly. ‘Worried about this one, obviously.’ He indicates his father on the bed, who harrumphs dismissively.

‘I’m doing fine,’ Mr Barwell huffs. ‘In fact, Tilly was just suggesting that we might like to look through some of the old photo albums when I’m released. How do you feel about that?’

Will suddenly looks like he might be about to cry. ‘I’d love that,’ he replies.

Sensing that I’m intruding on a possible breakthrough moment for them, I start to back out of the room. ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ I tell them. ‘It’s nice to see you looking so much better, Mr Barwell.’

‘Please, call me Jonathan. And thank you for dropping by, Tilly. I’ll be here for a while longer if the urge takes you again,’ Jonathan says with a smile.

The realisation hits me as I make my way back down to reception. I know their situations are different, but Will has a genuine concern in his voice when he talks about his father, which Luke doesn’t. He talks about his mum’s frailty and the administrative hassle of sorting out carers and the like, but he never talks about how her illness has affected him. It’s almost as if she were a client rather than his mother. Maybe he’s just very good at compartmentalising, I tell myself, but I can’t shift the growing suspicion that something isn’t right here. God, I really want to talk to Tash, but am I ready to swallow my pride and admit that she might be right? My heart is pounding as I fish my phone out of my pocket and dial her number, but it goes straight to voicemail. Of course it does. She’ll be at work.

‘Tash, it’s me,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry I’ve been giving you the silent treatment. Yes, I was very cross that you went behind my back like that, but there are some things that just aren’t adding up and I’d really appreciate some of your wisdom if you’re still speaking to me. Love you.’

13

I can’t believe I’m doing this. In fact, I stop after every few steps to consider turning around and going back to the car. I can back out and nobody need ever know that I even thought about checking up on Luke’s mum. On the other hand, if I don’t do this, the doubt that’s slowly driving a wedge between Luke and me will never go away. I know he won’t be there; he’s currently at work, so all I need to do is knock on the door, establish that the person that answers is the carer, and my fears will hopefully melt away. I pull the cap I’ve borrowed from Mike further down over my face; nobody ever looks at delivery people, but I’m not taking any risks that the carer will be able to describe me.

I agonised over the parcel for ages. What would an old lady buy online? How would an old lady with dementia even buy anything online? I mean, if she were tech-savvy, there’s every likelihood she might, but there’s no way I can risk them tracing the parcel back to me, and I’d need to include some kind of shipping label with a return address inside to make it appear genuine when they opened it, which opened a whole separate can of worms. Thankfully, Mike came to my rescue when I filled him in on the details of the plan that Tash and I came up with after we’d cried and apologised to each other.

‘Don’t address it to her,’ he advised when I’d explained my dilemma. ‘You’re going to go round when Luke is at the hospital, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘OK, so address the parcel to him, and insist that it needs to be signed for by the person on the label. They obviously won’t be able to produce him, so you refuse to deliver and leave them a “sorry you were out” card. We can fake one of those easily enough, with a made-up courier company and phone number. What are they going to do? They don’t know you from Adam, or Eve in your case, so they’ll never think to track it back to you, especially if you look the part.’

‘Genius,’ Sarah commented from the sofa. ‘At times like this, I think you’re wasted in discharge. You should be a spy.’

‘Thanks, I think,’ Mike laughed. ‘What do you think, Tilly?’

‘Yeah, that might just work,’ I admitted.

So that’s what we’ve gone with. Mike, Sarah and I raided our wardrobes to put together an outfit that looked like it would pass for the kind of outfit a courier would wear, even down to the hi-vis vest that Mike found lurking at the back of one of his drawers, and we’ve faked up a card in suitably corporate colours for me to leave behind. I’ve also been working on an Eastern European accent, as Mike helpfully pointed out that most delivery drivers these days either come from Eastern Europe or the Indian subcontinent, and there’s no way I’d be able to pull off the latter.

I can see the front door of the flat now, and my heart is racing. I don’t think I’ve been this nervous since my first job interview at the hospital, when I was so anxious I was worried I was going to faint. Once again, I hesitate.

‘Last chance to back out, Tilly,’ I murmur under my breath, before sighing and muttering, ‘Fuck it.’ My heart is hammering so hard as I press the doorbell that I’m sure you’d be able to see it, even through the puffa gilet thing I’m wearing and the hi-vis vest. I’m in full fight-or-flight mode now, and I can feel the sweat on my back as I seriously consider running away before anyone answers. A glance in either direction is enough to make me realise that’s not a viable plan. These flats are in a long, curved line and there’s nowhere I’d be able to hide quickly enough.

I’m rooted to the spot, still wracked with indecision when the door opens and I’m confronted by a smartly dressed woman with white hair pulled neatly back into a bun. She’s looking at me curiously through stylish frameless glasses.

‘I haff delivery,’ I tell her in my best accent. ‘Needs sigi-nature from Luke Mil-nay.’ I deliberately mispronounce it to emphasise my unfamiliarity with the English language.

She looks momentarily confused before her face clears. ‘I’m sorry. Did you mean Luke Milne?’

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