Page 101 of The Art of Loving You

While Christine tightened the band around my arm I told her that no, I wasn’t diabetic, I hadn’t had episodes of fainting, I didn’t have a history of cardiac problems. I was adamant I didn’t want to go to hospital. I was exhausted. Stressed. Not eating properly. That was all.

Mum had told Christine that I’d completely zoned out. That it had been terrifying to watch. She’d told Christine I hadn’t been ‘right’ for ages. Was there really something wrong with me?

In the corner, Mum sniffed into a tissue while Alice wrapped a comforting arm around her. I had caused them so much stress these past few months.

‘It’s best we get you checked out properly, Libby,’ Christine said.

‘Do you think it’s something serious?’ Mum was alarmed.

‘I’m not saying that,’ Christine said carefully. ‘It could be a multitude of things or it could be absolutely nothing. But if we take Libby to A & E her symptoms will be investigated straight away.’

‘The doctor said Libby needed a blood test. She’s waiting for an appointment with the nurse.’

‘I’m okay now. There’s other people who need you more than me.’ I didn’t feel okay at all but all I wanted to do was to flop into bed. Sleep it off.

‘Better to be safe than sorry?’ Christine formed it as a question. She squeezed my hand. ‘Will you come with me?’

I nodded, feeling very small and very scared.

Christine’s promise that with an A & E admittance I’d be investigated straight away was horribly inaccurate. Initially I was left in the corridor on a trolley, Mum and Alice acting like bookends, standing stiffly at my head and feet, protecting me from the sheer volume of traffic passing through; porters briskly pushing wheelchairs, nurses walking with purpose, patients shuffling past in slippers and dressing gowns, cigarettes and lighters clutched in hands, visitors with furrowed brows and downturned mouths. I felt self-conscious lying down. I wasn’t really sick. I had asked if I could sit up but had been told no wheelchairs were available and there still wasn’t a cubicle free which would have had a proper seat.

Alice let out a soft groan. Rubbed the small of her back with both hands.

‘Alice, please go home. You shouldn’t be standing.’

‘I’m not leaving you.’ She shifted her weight uncomfortably from foot to foot.

‘Mum. Tell her to go home.’

‘I can’t make either of you do anything,’ she muttered.

‘You made me see the GP, twice,’ I said.

‘Fat lot of good they both were.Stress. The man who works at the newsagents had a—’

‘Libby?’ A kind voice. A hand on my arm.

‘Angela.’

‘I was just on my way back to the ward and I thought it was you. What have you been doing to yourself, lovey?’ Her voice was just as reassuring as it had been when Jack had been admitted to her ward.

‘Nothing. I had a … thing. I was brought in as a precaution.’

‘How long have you been here?’ she asked.

‘A couple of hours,’ Alice said flatly, rubbing her bump.

‘I’ll be back in a sec.’

When Angela came back she wheeled me out of the corridor into a cubicle. ‘I’m going to give you my mobile number in case you need anything else.’ Alice had already sunk down onto the chair squeezed into the corner. Mum sat on the edge of the trolley her legs tucked under her to avoid Alice’s in the small space.

‘Alice, you should go home. Get some rest.’ My sister’s eyes were closed.

‘No. I’ll stay.’

‘She’s right,’ Mum said. ‘We could be here for ages, Alice. You should—’

‘You should go too, Mum. Mabel won’t have eaten and—’

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