‘I just don’t really like foreign films.’
‘Everything after Local Bloody Hero has been a foreign film. D’you think Hollywood is a suburb of Birmingham?’
‘Funny.’
He couldn’t believe it when I admitted I’d never actually watched a film with subtitles. But my parents tended to stake ownership of the remote control in the evenings, and Patrick would be about as likely to watch a foreign film as he would be to suggest we take night classes in crochet. The multiplex in our nearest town only showed the latest shoot’em ups or romantic comedies and was so infested with catcalling kids in hoodies that most people around the town rarely bothered.
‘You have to watch this film, Louisa. In fact, I order you to watch this film.’ Will moved his chair back, and nodded towards the armchair. ‘There. You sit there. Don’t move until it’s over. Never watched a foreign film. For Christ’s sake,’ he muttered.
It was an old film, about a hunchback who inherits a house in the French countryside, and Will said it was based on a famous book, but I can’t say I’d ever heard of it. I spent the first twenty minutes feeling a bit fidgety, irritated by the subtitles and wondering if Will was going to get shirty if I told him I needed the loo.
And then something happened. I stopped thinking about how hard it was listening and reading at the same time, forgot Will’s pill timetable, and whether Mrs Traynor would think I was slacking, and I started to get anxious about the poor man and his family, who were being tricked by unscrupulous neighbours. By the time Hunchback Man died, I was sobbing silently, snot running into my sleeve.
‘So,’ Will said, appearing at my side. He glanced at me slyly. ‘You didn’t enjoy that at all.’
I looked up and found to my surprise that it was dark outside. ‘You’re going to gloat now, aren’t you?’ I muttered, reaching for the box of tissues.
‘A bit. I’m just amazed that you can have reached the ripe old age of – what was it?’
‘Twenty-six.’
‘Twenty-six, and never have watched a film with subtitles.’ He watched me mop my eyes.
I glanced down at the tissue and realized I had no mascara left. ‘I hadn’t realized it was compulsory,’ I grumbled.
‘Okay. So what do you do with yourself, Louisa Clark, if you don’t watch films?’
I balled my tissue in my fist. ‘You want to know what I do when I’m not here?’
‘You were the one who wanted us to get to know each other. So come on, tell me about yourself.’
He had this way of talking where you could never quite be sure that he wasn’t mocking you. I was waiting for the pay-off. ‘Why?’ I said. ‘Why do you want to know all of a sudden?’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake. It’s hardly a state secret, your social life, is it?’ He had begun to look irritated.
‘I don’t know … ’ I said. ‘I go for a drink at the pub. I watch a bit of telly. I go and watch my boyfriend when he does his running. Nothing unusual.’
‘You watch your boyfriend running.’
‘Yes.’
‘But you don’t run yourself.’
‘No. I’m not really –’ I glanced down at my chest ‘– built for it.’
That made him smile.
‘And what else?’
‘What do you mean, what else?’
‘Hobbies? Travelling? Places you like to go?’
He was beginning to sound like my old careers teacher.
I tried to think. ‘I don’t really have any hobbies. I read a bit. I like clothes.’
‘Handy,’ he said, dryly.
‘You asked. I’m not really a hobby person.’ My voice had become strangely defensive. ‘I don’t do much, okay? I work and then I go home.’
‘Where do you live?’
‘On the other side of the castle. Renfrew Road.’
He looked blank. Of course he did. There was little human traffic between the two sides of the castle. ‘It’s off the dual carriageway. Near the McDonald’s.’
He nodded, although I’m not sure he really knew where I was talking about.
‘Holidays?’
‘I’ve been to Spain, with Patrick. My boyfriend,’ I added. ‘When I was a kid we only really went to Dorset. Or Tenby. My aunt lives in Tenby.’
‘And what do you want?’
‘What do I want what?’
‘From your life?’
I blinked. ‘That’s a bit deep, isn’t it?’
‘Only generally. I’m not asking you to psychoanalyse yourself. I’m just asking, what do you want? Get married? Pop out some ankle biters? Dream career? Travel the world?’
There was a long pause.
I think I knew my answer would disappoint him even before I said the words aloud. ‘I don’t know. I’ve never really thought about it.’
On Friday we went to the hospital. I’m glad I hadn’t known about Will’s appointment before I arrived that morning, as I would have lain awake all night fretting about having to drive him there. I can drive, yes. But I say I can drive in the same way that I say I can speak French. Yes, I took the relevant exam and passed. But I haven’t used that particular skill more than once a year since I did so. The thought of loading Will and his chair into the adapted minivan and carting him safely to and from the next town filled me with utter terror.
For weeks I had wished that my working day involved some escape from that house. Now I would have done anything just to stay indoors. I located his hospital card amongst the folders of stuff to do with his health – great fat binders divided into ‘transport’, ‘insurance’, ‘living with disability’ and ‘appointments’. I grabbed the card and checked that it had today’s date. A little bit of me was hoping that Will had been wrong.
‘Is your mother coming?’
‘No. She doesn’t come to my appointments.’
I couldn’t hide my surprise. I had thought she would want to oversee every aspect of his treatment.
‘She used to,’ Will said. ‘Now we have an agreement.’
‘Is Nathan coming?’
I was kneeling in front of him. I had been so nervous that I had dropped some of his lunch down his lap and was now trying in vain to mop it up, so that a good patch of his trousers was sopping wet. Will hadn’t said anything, except to tell me to please stop apologizing, but it hadn’t helped my general sense of jitteriness.