She grabs hold of my lame joke, and laughs at it, grateful for the diversion.
‘But anyway … while I was busy being grumpy and monosyllabic and angry and trying not to engage with my own family, I did a lot of people-watching. I watched you, and I watched Harry, and I watched Alex.’
‘You do realise that sounds creepy?’
‘I do. I desperately wanted to be older. I desperately wanted to be independent, and have my own life, and maybe a hot boyfriend who looked a bit like Hugh Grant. To be the sort of woman who dared speak to the mysterious, but equally hot, Swedish guy. You seemed so … together. I was kind of crushing on you, I think.’
‘That’s really weird,’ I say. ‘Thinking of me as together. I was anything but.’
‘Well, you were my hero. In the hospital, after … I think I wished myself invisible. I was so messed up. Dad was gone. Mum was hurt, my brother Matt was only a kid, and … Iwantedto be invisible, you know? I did a lot of skulking around. A lot of sitting on my own in corridors, willing people to ignore me, but at the same time wishing someone would make everything better. I wanted someone to give me a hug and reassure me, but I was so traumatised and covered in prickles that I scared everyone off.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say quietly. ‘It must have been awful for you. I’m sorry I wasn’t any use. I wish I’d noticed you more. I wish I’d given you that hug.’
‘Don’t be silly – you had your own drama unfolding. And anyway, you did help, kind of. You bought me a hot chocolate one day, from the vending machine.’
‘I don’t think I’m going to win humanitarian-of-the-year award for that, Em. I can’t imagine how lonely you must have felt.’
‘Don’t underestimate the power of a hot chocolate.’ She pats my hand very briefly. ‘It wasn’t the drink anyway … it was the act of kindness. So, to repay you, I basically started stalking you. I eavesdropped on conversations, and followed you and Alex around, and generally behaved like a horribly nosy brat. It might even have planted the seeds of what I do for a living now – which is get paid to be nosy.’
‘You probably remember more than I do, in that case,’ I reply, feeling slightly unnerved. Part of me is wondering how she managed to do so much creeping around and still remain hidden – especially with hair like hers.
‘Were you there the whole time? At the hospital?’ I frown as I try and piece it together. ‘Or did you leave before us?’
‘We were there until you left. Mum had two broken arms and a head injury, and I had a broken elbow, and we were there for what seemed like for ever. And it’s okay that you don’t really remember me. I know it was hard for you. Your whole life got thrown on a spin cycle.’
I nod, pick up my cup, notice that my hands are trembling.
‘Yes. It was, I suppose. It feels so long ago now … and like it happened to a different person. I remember sensations more than anything – the way the hospital air conditioning made a funny noise at night. The pink trainers a lot of the nurses wore. The canteen with the pop music.’
‘And the smell,’ Em replies. ‘That hospital smell. I’ve not been in one since. Not sure how I’d react if I needed my appendix out or anything. Do you remember the balcony, though, on the top floor of the tower block? That was nice.’
I nod. Of course I remember. I remember the honking horns and wailing sirens and the brouhaha of urban life. I remember the highways lit up like neon rivers, the sky an indigo blanket of stars. The winking lights of distant houses and apartment buildings; a glittering vista stretched to infinity.
Mainly, I remember the time I spent there with him. With Alex.
‘Are you all right?’ Em asks. ‘Do you want another coffee?’
I had disappeared, I realise. Just a little. Retreated into a different part of my mind, one I keep safely tucked away. A bizarrely happy part of my mind, considering the circumstances.
‘I’m fine, Em. It’s just …well. You know how it is. So. How would it work then? If I was to agree to this? What would you need from me?’
‘Just time, and conversation, on and off camera.’
‘What if I was unhappy with what you were asking? What if it was … too difficult?’
‘Then we could stop. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. I’m not setting out to trick anyone, or deliberately dig up deep, dark secrets, or expose unpleasant truths.’
‘But what if they did?’ I ask. ‘Get exposed. Secrets, truths. What if you find stuff out that isn’t … easy. That doesn’t fit. That feels … dangerous.’
I can tell she is intrigued now, and wonder if perhaps I have said exactly the wrong thing to someone who is, by her own description, professionally nosy.
‘Is there anything?’ she asks, eyebrows raised. ‘Anything you’d be scared of revealing? Skeletons swinging in closets? I mean, we all have things we’d prefer the world not to know. But is there anything that would really damage you that you’re worried about?’
I ponder the question. I poke at it, and prod it, and roll it around from all angles. There are things I have never told anybody. Feelings I have never discussed. Truths that could lead to some awkward conversations. Maybe even to some changes.
That in itself sounds pretty scary, but would it be damaging? I am not sure. I don’t know what to do, whether to take the risk. I like Em. And I feel like I owe Samantha. I even agree with Olivia, and think it might be good for me – to talk about it after all these years.
But I am still fretful. Still wary of upsetting the people who matter to me, and of course myself – because nobody is that selfless. I have tried to be safe since that night, to make sensible choices, and this feels like it might not be sensible.
