Page 6 of Love, Accidentally

Unlike Lena, Mike does work at the hospital, as a discharge manager. That’s not his proper job title, but it’s what I call him because it amuses me and winds him up. His role is to coordinate patients who are leaving the hospital, getting them moved to the discharge lounge (its actual name), and notifying admissions of the beds that will be vacant. It’s actually a lot more complicated than that, as he frequently reminds me when I’m teasing him, but that’s the gist of it. The joy, for him, is that he gets to work reasonably regular hours.

I’ve never quite understood how Mike manages to attract the opposite sex as easily as he does; he’s a nice enough guy, but I wouldn’t rank him as any more than average in the looks department. In my less charitable moments, I sometimes wonder whether his decision to work at the hospital was less to do with a desire to help people in their hour of need, and more because of the smorgasbord of young women that would surround him. There are certainly a few people I can no longer look in the eye if I bump into them at work, having come across them barely clothed in the kitchen of our flat after spending the night with Mike. In the spirit of total honesty, I should probably confess that I’ve also slept with Mike, but it was just the once, a year or so after we’d moved into the flat. We’d both had a fair amount to drink and I was curious to find out what his secret was. He didn’t take a lot of persuading, and the sex was OK if my slightly hazy memory serves me right but, after an extremely awkward conversation the following morning, we both agreed that we worked better as friends and we’ve never mentioned it since.

‘So, tell me more about the lecherous doctor,’ Mike prompts as I settle myself on the sofa next to him with my plate of lasagne. The best thing about living with him is that he’s a superb cook and is fairly territorial about the tiny kitchen, so I rarely have to worry about food.

‘His name is Luke,’ I tell him as I load my fork and bring it to my mouth. The pasta may be a little crispy at the edges, but there’s nothing wrong with the flavour. ‘He’s moved down from Milton Keynes to look after his mother, who sounds like she’s probably suffering from dementia.’

‘Altruistic of him.’

‘I’m not sure he has a choice. He told me in the pub that he’s an only child.’

I regret the words as soon as I’ve said them, but it’s too late; Mike is already pursing his lips in disapproval. As the youngest of five, he thinks only children are unnatural, growing up with no concept of hand-me-downs and an inherent inability to share because they’re not used to it. We’ve spent many a booze-fuelled evening hotly debating this point, as there’s absolutely no empirical evidence to support his theory, but he won’t be moved.

‘I know, I know,’ I tell him soothingly. ‘Let’s not do this again.’

‘I’d steer clear, if I were you,’ he says, undeterred. ‘He’s probably as selfish in bed as his type are about everything else,’ Mike snorts. ‘The problem with your only child is they think the world revolves completely around them. My advice would be to give him the brush-off and chalk it up as a lucky escape.’

‘There’s nothing to brush off,’ I say, more firmly than I meant to. ‘I think he’s just lonely and wanted to make some new friends.’

‘That’s bollocks,’ Mike scoffs. ‘He didn’t want new friends, he wanted a specific new more-than-friend. Also, only children have no concept of loneliness. It’s literally their idea of heaven. He’s up to no good, mark my words.’

‘I think you’re being a little over-suspicious.’

‘I don’t know. His mum lives in town, you say?’

‘Yes. Monson Road.’

‘Hmm. And did he grow up locally, or has she recently moved here?’

‘He grew up here before moving to Milton Keynes.’

‘My point exactly!’ he says triumphantly.

‘You haven’t made a point,’ I retort.

‘I may not have articulated it to you, but it was there in my head all along. The point is this. If he grew up here, and he’s not a narcissistic weirdo like all the other only children in the world, where are all his friends, eh?’

‘Right. Enough,’ I say firmly. ‘I know you don’t like only children because of Caroline?—’

‘Evil cow,’ he interjects.

‘—because she’s the only woman you ever seem to have genuinely cared about and she dumped you, but you can’t extrapolate your experiences with her to every single other person who happens to have the same family structure. It’s nonsense, Mike. And, while we’re on the subject, it could be said that your one-man crusade to sleep with every woman under forty at the hospital is also a little narcissistic. What do you say to that?’

He smiles. ‘Firstly, I’d argue that Kim was forty-two, and secondly I’m not being narcissistic. I’m doing what every well-adjusted young man who’s grown up in a normal family would do. I’m sharing the love.’

I stare at him in disbelief.

‘Oh my God. You actually believe that, don’t you?’

‘Naturally. Anyway, we’re getting off the subject, which is lonely Luke. Do you like him?’

I consider for a moment before giving my answer. ‘Yes. He’s very good-looking. I’ll admit to fancying him and he seems like a really nice person. He stares at me though, which I find a bit disconcerting.’

‘What, eyeing you up on the job? You could probably file a sexual harassment complaint.’

‘No, nothing pervy. It’s only when he’s talking to me. He looks at me really intensely.’

Mike grins. ‘That’s a new one for the book. Only child, lack of social skills because no siblings to practise on.’

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