amused by my line of questioning. ‘I’ve got some good old mates and the people at the hospital have been amazing too. I’ve had a lot of support and of course there’s my key worker who’s been there every step of the way.’
I must look non-plussed because he goes on to explain.
‘You get assigned a key worker when you find out you’ve got cancer. They’re basically a nurse who makes sure you’re dealing with everything all right, keeps an eye on you. Mine’s called Matt. He’s a top bloke as it goes.’
I don’t know why I’m surprised his key worker’s a man. I’m pleased he’s got someone looking out for him though. Equally I feel saddened and angry because if only he’d thought to find us years ago maybe some of that support could have come from me, his own flesh and blood.
‘Anyway, I didn’t come here to talk about all of that,’ says Ray, determinedly upbeat all of a sudden. ‘I want to know about you Marianne. Tell me everything. What you like, what you don’t like. Have you got a boyfriend?’
I shake my head and stare fixedly into my coffee, which I still haven’t touched.
‘I’m surprised, you’re a pretty girl.’
I blush flame red at this.
‘You should see Hayley. She’s the pretty one out of the two of us,’ I mutter.
Ray suddenly looks a bit sheepish and I guess then that he probably has seen her. I don’t ask. It’s all quite unnerving.
‘So how come you’re still living with your mother then? I would have thought you’d have wanted your own place by now. What are you now? Thirty-one?’
I nod. ‘Let’s just say it’s not really out of choice.’
‘Oh. Right.’
There’s a long silence, which I’m probably expected to fill, but don’t. Eventually he says, ‘So, you’re single, living with your mum, anything else? What do you do? What makes you, you?’
I shrug. I know I’m being very wooden but in reality I don’t know whether I’m ready to have such a personal chat yet. I’m here for answers, not for a heart to heart.
‘Are you gonna help me out a bit here or what?’ jokes Ray nervously.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘It’s not that I don’t want to tell you about myself, it’s just … there’s not really a huge amount to say.’ I sigh heavily before eventually giving in. ‘I’m a hairdresser, I live at home because I can’t afford to move out and I’m sort of seeing someone but it’s extremely early days. That’s about it really,’ I mumble, uncomfortable in this odd, interview-like scenario. Doubts over my ability to cope with the situation are creeping in. There’s just so much to absorb and it’s all so … strange.
‘So you are seeing someone then?’ says Ray, leaping on this titbit of information, eager to engage in more of a two-way conversation and displaying over-the-top levels of interest as a result.
‘Well, sort of. I met an Australian guy in Thailand and hopefully he’s coming to London soon.’
‘An Aussie, eh,’ he says in a tone that irritates me. It’s ever so slightly mocking. ‘And Thailand, when did you go there then?’
‘Last year. That’s kind of what I do. I travel. Then, when I’ve run out of money, I come home, work again … at the salon, then I save up until I have enough to go off again.’
‘Right,’ says Ray, still nodding, only I can’t help but notice, he looks a bit bemused.
‘What?’ I say, feeling defensive.
‘No nothing. It’s just … you know, I’ve never really heard of anyone describing “going on holiday” as what they do.’
There’s so much I could say back to this. I have to sort of wrinkle my entire face in an effort not to reply back too forcibly, though what I say still packs a bit of a punch. ‘Well, it’s probably more worthwhile than spending half your life in prison.’
‘Fair point,’ Ray agrees, fists planted squarely on the table. He’s wearing the same black leather coat he was wearing the other day and his shoulders are so broad in it, he’s practically the same width as the table. He’s slim though. Despite his big build he certainly couldn’t be described as a fat bloke. He’s just very tall. He’s wearing a gold cygnet ring on the little finger of his right hand and everything about his presence is big, in a way that could be reassuring or menacing, depending on how you viewed him I suppose.
Another silence follows, one that definitely couldn’t be described as comfortable. Feeling deflated I start fiddling with the packets of sugar that are on the table in an aluminium pot. I realise in that moment that I want so much from this man, want him to be so much, the reality can’t possibly measure up. Then he says, ‘You like your music then?’
I nod, feeling immediately defensive and inexplicably like I might be about to cry. This is so much harder than I thought it would be. I swallow hard and stare at the table.
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