put them.
Constance hated flowers. She always left them to die in their vase whenever anybody attempted to bribe her, apologise to her or simply brighten her office. Despite knowing that, buying them had been a part of Kitty’s procrastination, particularly as there had been an enticing queue before her.
‘Oh dear,’ the nurse said. ‘Security should have told you that flowers aren’t allowed in the ward.’
‘Oh. Well, that’s not a problem, I’ll get rid of them.’ Kitty tried to hide her relief as she stood up to make her escape.
‘I’ll take them,’ the nurse said. ‘I’ll leave them at reception for you so you can take them home. No point in a beautiful bouquet like that going to waste.’
‘At least I brought cupcakes.’ Kitty took a box from her bag.
The nurse and Constance looked at one another again.
‘You’re joking. No cupcakes either?’
‘The chef prefers patients to eat food which has come only from his kitchen.’
Kitty handed the contraband to the nurse.
‘You can take them home too,’ she laughed, studying the thermometer. ‘You’re fine,’ she smiled at Constance. They shared a knowing look before she left, as if those two words meant something entirely different – they must have done – because she wasn’t fine. She was eaten away by cancer. Her hair had begun to grow back, but sprouted in uneven patterns around her head, her protruding chest bones were visible above the shapeless hospital gown and she had wires and tubes connected to both arms, which were thin and bruised from injections and tube insertions.
‘I’m glad I didn’t tell her about the cocaine in my bag,’ Kitty said just as the door closed behind the nurse, and they heard her laugh heartily from the corridor. ‘I know you hate flowers but I panicked. I was going to bring you gold nail varnish, incense and a mirror, because I thought it would be funny.’
‘Why didn’t you?’ Constance’s eyes were still a sparkling blue and if Kitty could concentrate on just them, so full of life, she could almost forget the emaciated frame. Almost, but not quite.
‘Because then I realised it wasn’t funny.’
‘I would have laughed.’
‘I’ll bring them next time.’
‘It won’t be so funny then. I’ve already heard the joke. My dear …’ She reached for Kitty and they clasped hands tightly on the bed. Kitty couldn’t look at Constance’s hands, they were so sore and thin. ‘It is so good to see you.’
‘I’m sorry I’m late.’
‘It took you a while.’
‘The traffic …’ Kitty began and then gave up joking. She was over a month late.
There was a silence and Kitty realised it was a pause for her to explain why she hadn’t visited.
‘I hate hospitals.’
‘I know you do. Noscomephobia,’ said Constance.
‘What’s that?’
‘Fear of hospitals.’
‘I didn’t know there was a word for it.’
‘There’s a word for everything. I haven’t been able to poop for two weeks; they call it anismus.’
‘I should do a story on that,’ Kitty said, her mind drifting.
‘You will not. My rectal inertia is between you, me, Bob and the nice woman I allow to look at my bottom.’
‘I meant a piece on phobia of hospitals. That would make a good story.’
‘Tell me why.’
‘Imagine I found somebody who is really sick and they can’t get treatment.’
‘So they medicate at home. Big deal.’
‘Or what about a woman in labour? She’s pacing up and down on the street outside but she just can’t bring herself to go through the doors of the hospital.’
‘So she has the baby in an ambulance or at home or on the street.’ Constance shrugged. ‘I once did a story on a woman who gave birth whilst in hiding in Kosovo. She was all by herself and it was her first child. They weren’t found until two weeks after, perfectly healthy and happy together. Women in Africa have their babies while working the fields, then they go straight back to work. Tribal women dance their babies out. The Western world goes about childbirth the wrong way around,’ she said, waving her hand dismissively in the air, despite having no children herself. ‘I wrote an article on that before.’
‘A doctor who can’t go to work …’ Kitty continued to push her idea.
‘That’s ridiculous. He should lose his licence.’
Kitty laughed. ‘Thanks for your honesty, as usual.’ Then her smile faded and she concentrated on Constance’s hand wrapped around hers. ‘Or how about a selfish woman whose best friend is sick and she wouldn’t visit her?’
‘But you’re here now and I’m happy to see you.’
Kitty swallowed. ‘You haven’t mentioned anything about it.’
‘About what?’
‘You know what.’
‘I didn’t know if you wanted to talk about it.’
‘I don’t really.’
‘Well, then.’
They sat in silence.
‘I’m being torn apart in the newspapers, the radio, everywhere,’ Kitty said, bringing it up anyway.
‘I haven’t seen any papers.’
Kitty ignored the pile of papers on the windowsill. ‘Everywhere I go, all week, everyone is looking at me, pointing, whispering as if I’m the scarlet woman.’
‘That is the price of being in the limelight. You are a TV star now.’
‘I’m not a TV star, I’m an idiot who made a fool of herself on TV. There’s a distinct difference.’
Constance shrugged again as if it wasn’t a big deal.
‘You never wanted me to work on the show in the first place. Why don’t you just say “I told you so” and get it over with?’
‘They are not words that I use. They do nothing productive.’
Kitty removed her hand from Constance’s and asked quietly, ‘Do I still have a job?’
‘Haven’t you spoken to Pete?’ She looked angry with her duty editor.
‘I
