I roll my eyes at her, and order a coffee. I am keen to get away from this subject, because I suspect it might make me blush. And if I blush, she will assume I am embarrassed, and if I am embarrassed, she will assume it is because I am hiding something. Like wild sex in the snug.
Jake is, without a shadow of a doubt, drop-dead gorgeous – but I am not in the market for a new man, even if he was interested in me, which I’d never be arrogant enough to think. There have been moments – accidental touches, brief encounters, a high-five that lasted slightly longer than it should have lasted – but nothing more than that. Nothing that would, in fact, make me blush.
The blushing part comes from something else entirely. The blushing part comes from the dreams. I seem to have replaced my usual rollercoaster REM of anxiety for something far more enjoyable. Jake has appeared in my nocturnal wanderings several times now, in a variety of circumstances – next to me in my car; in the sparkling cave; at Baker Street Tube station. Even, on one especially strange occasion, at the back of the crowd at an Alanis Morissette gig – dreams are weird. The one thing they all had in common, though, was that they ended with a kiss – a long, lingering, knee-buckling kiss that left me breathless and out of control and desperate for more. This dream-kiss is so vivid that I can smell his aftershave, feel my fingers curled into his hair, still remember the strength of his arms wrapped around me and his chest pressed against mine.
Each time, I have woken up hot, bothered, and mortified – to the point that I even spent half an hour on the slow wi-fi looking at dodgy websites about dream analysis, desperate to find some meaning other than the obvious one. Eventually I found an article that claimed sexy dreams aren’t about sex at all, which is why you can sometimes have them about random people you don’t even fancy – it’s actually your dream state telling you that you’re intrigued by that person, and want to get to know them better. Phew, I thought. Thank God for that.
I hide all of this from Connie of course, because she’d enjoy it just a bit too much. Instead, I glance around the café, seeing that most of the blonde-wood tables are full, that everyone seems content, that even the toddlers are sitting quietly with colouring books and crayons, babies are asleep in pushchairs, dogs are snoozing, people are reading and chatting. It is entirely possible that the village council have funded some kind of social experiment where they pump happy drugs into the water supply. Or maybe it’s as simple as there not being wi-fi, and nobody getting enraged about the news on their phones, or seeing pictures of other people’s holidays that look even better than theirs.
As I take my visual survey, Connie and George bantering in the background, I see one man, though, who doesn’t look quite right. He appears to be in his 50s, and is sitting at a table for four with a woman I presume is his wife, and a boy of about 12. The wife and the boy have empty plates in front of them; the man has clearly just pushed his ice-cream sundae around in its tall glass, and it’s now a puddle of pink liquid and halved strawberries and bobbing chocolate curls.
There’s something in his posture, something about the way he is holding himself, that tells me he is in pain. It’s the kind of thing you see in waiting rooms – people trying to be brave, trying to hide their hurts around others, trying not to show how worried they are. His skin carries a sheen of sweat, which nobody else in the air-conditioned room has, and his eyes are staring into the distance.
His wife says something to him, and he doesn’t reply until she waves her hands in front of his face. I can almost imagine what she says – something jokey about him being on another planet or away with the fairies. I see him try to smile, and then his right hand goes to his chest. He pats it firmly, like he’s trying to burp a baby, and I see him sucking in air way too rapidly.
He starts to flex his left hand into a fist, opening and closing it and staring at it as though it belongs to someone else, and without even knowing I plan to do it, I am off my stool and walking briskly towards the table. I have seen these signs before, and it often does not end well – and if I am wrong, then all that happens is that I cause a bit of a scene and apologise to them and feel a bit embarrassed. I can live with that.
I’m aware of Connie saying my name as I leave the counter, and of Larry jumping up and following me. I ignore them both and head quickly in his direction, weaving between tables and prams and excuse-me-ing my way through. I keep an eye on the man, who by this time has started to lean alarmingly to one side, his face contorted in pain. Just as I reach him, he slumps, crashes to the floor, his flailing arms sweeping the sundae glass down with him.
His wife and son jump up in shock, scraping their chairs back with a squeal, the woman shouting: “Geoff! Geoff! What’s wrong?” as she falls to her knees at his side. The boy backs up, wide-eyed and scared, the hand-held video game he was playing dropping to the floor, where it lands in a slick of melted strawberry ice cream.
The whole room goes initially silent, that peculiarly English thing happening where nobody quite wants to cause a scene, or intrude on something private. That only lasts for a few moments, before people dash over to try and help.
I push my way through, asking the crowd that has gathered to stand back, telling them to move the chairs and clear some space. I must do it with some authority, because everyone does exactly as they’re told, as I crouch down and examine the man.
“Geoff!” I say loudly, taking him by the shoulders and shaking him. “Are you all right, Geoff?”
There is no answer, and it is very obvious that he is not all right – but this is what we were always told to do. This looks like a heart attack, but that’s not always the case – people faint, pass out, have strange unexpected blackouts. It’s not always the bad thing.
This time, though, it is the bad thing – I can’t find a pulse, and he isn’t breathing, isn’t moving, isn’t responding to the frantic cries of his wife and child.
Connie has run over to see what she can do, and I tell her to phone an ambulance immediately and tell them it’s a category 1 condition, heart attack or cardiac arrest. She dashes away, and I shout after her: “Connie, do you have a defibrillator here?”
She shakes her head, curls flying, and yells: “Not here – in the hall!”
“Send Dan to fetch it, and make that phone call – now!”
I turn back to the man in front of me, knowing that I need to act quickly, but that I also need to stay calm, and keep everyone else around me calm. The first part isn’t too bad – I, after all, have done this before. But for this man’s family, this is terrifying.
“Does Geoff have any long-term illnesses?” I ask. “Any medical history?”
“No, nothing,” the wife mutters, throwing an arm around her son’s shoulders. “I mean, his own dad had a heart condition, and died when he was little, but…that’s not going to happen, is it? There’ve been no signs of anything wrong at all! He’s been a bit tired, but…”
I see her panic building, and see her son’s face freeze at her mention of death. I don’t have time to comfort them, so I just say: “Okay. That’s helpful. I’m going to do CPR – it might look scary, but it’s not hurting him, all right?”
They nod, and I check his airway before I place my hand on his chest, place the other on top, straighten my arms and start pumping. There was an advert a few years ago that told people to do CPR at the same beat as the song ‘Stayin’ Alive’, and that was a clever trick – but not one that I really need. I have done this too many times, and it is second nature.
It is hard work, keeping up CPR, maintaining that pace, keeping the vital blood and oxygen flowing around a human body. I count silently as I go, pausing to give him rescue breaths, remembering the times we weren’t allowed to do that during the pandemic. I’ve had Covid three times so far, and I’m willing to take the risk again.
I am working on him as Connie updates me, shouting instructions at me from the phone, telling me to do the things I’m already doing. Eventually she is quiet, obviously having told the operator what’s happening. It feels like forever, but is probably only two minutes, when Dan runs full pelt towards me clutching the defibrillator case. I carry on with the compressions while he calmly opens it up and pulls out the device, unravelling the wires and the pads.
I pause the compressions, check for breath, and pull up his T-shirt. As ever, I’m struck by the lack of dignity – this poor man started his day like any other, enjoying a holiday with his family, and now he is lying here covered in ice cream, his clothing shoved aside, surrounded by strangers. An audience for the worst day of his life.
As soon as the device is turned on, a recorded voice starts to give me instructions I don’t need, and I quickly attach the pads to Geoff’s chest. The voice tells us all that it is checking the heart rhythm, and there is a tense wait until we are told that a shock is needed. Both the defib woman and I tell people to stand clear, and I lean back on my knees as it does its business.
There is no change in Geoff’s condition, so I take up CPR again, continuing until finally, miraculously, I see signs of independent breathing. He is still not conscious, still hasn’t opened his eyes, but he is breathing. I am checking his airway again and monitoring his breath sounds when the paramedics arrive and take over, gently pushing me to one side so they can carry on. I tell them what his symptoms seemed to have been in the minutes before, and update them on what I’ve found and done since then, and I leave them to it, telling them I will be around if they need me.
They soon have him removed to the ambulance, his wife and son going with him, and I find myself standing alone by the counter of the café, blinking rapidly. There is always this insane moment after an emergency procedure like that when you feel like you might be about to have a heart attack yourself. The adrenaline is still surging through your system, and everything in your mind and body is on high alert.
