‘Are you okay?’ I ask, somewhat stupidly, really. ‘I mean, I know this… but… are you…’ She blinks. ‘I don’t generally find I’m called out to customers in situations like these.’

She blinks again. I think back to the first few times we went to her house.

‘Do you remember I tried to persuade you not to bother with all the extra work?’ I sit forward. ‘All those visits from us. You didn’t really need the new boiler, did you?’ I lean back slightly in the chair and it squeaks. ‘Were you…’ I somehow can’t bring myself to finish the sentence. If she was lonely – because that’s what I assumed at the time, and, I guess, it’s what I assume now – is it even my business to know? Is that what drove her to do whatever they think she may have done? Was David lonely too? He had me, he had Mum. A text alert sounds on my phone and I check it. It’s from Michelle. He had Michelle. I swallow. A sense of guilt catches in the back of my throat. I turn my phone off, vowing to look at the message later. Maybe. ‘I have a problem with faces…’ I say, not really sure where I’m going. ‘Terrible. I could probably describe the majority of my client’s bathroom suites. Faces though, not a chance.’ Susan stares. A gentle and welcome breeze disturbs the curtains. It cools my face and draws away eye contact. I look to her leg, trussed up and plastered. ‘Never seen this before,’ I say, nodding at the traction. ‘Thought it was only ever like this on the telly. You know, Holby or summat.’ She looks down at her leg too now, and we’re united in a newfound focus. And then a bubble of something ignites a snigger, unwelcome under the circumstances, yet I can’t dampen it. The snigger turns to a guffaw, and to my shame, I’m forced to expand on the reason for my inappropriate behaviour considering this ridiculous situation. ‘Did you ever see that sketch?’ I giggle, feeling worse between the laughter. ‘Peter Cook and Dudley Moore. In the leg division, you are deficient,’ I say, pointing. ‘Sorry.’ I try to swallow it all back, but Susan cocks her head to one side and I could swear she wants to know more. ‘He goes to this audition, for Tarzan.’ I rub my eyes. ‘He bounces in, like literally, he’s bouncing.’ For reasons known only to the god of all things wrong with this moment, I get up to demonstrate, hopping on one leg in front of her. Susan’s head moves slightly in unison with my hopping, which, frankly, doesn’t help me put a lid on this. ‘The director, Cook, tells him he is deficient. In the leg department. He says Tarzan is traditionally played by a man with two legs, and that with just one, Moore is at a disadvantage.’ God, I wish I wasn’t laughing. ‘But that he does have the edge on anyone without legs at all,’ I shriek, then completely lose it, my laughter no doubt leaking through the curtains and across the ward. But when I gather the strength to open my eyes, Susan’s resolutely straight face deflates my hop and I grind to a very slow stop. ‘Sorry. Yes. Erm… It was very funny,’ I say, resting my hands on my hips, the humour in my story fading fast. ‘You probably had to watch it for yourself.’ I clear the life-size frog in my throat. ‘Mum always says I’m useless in a crisis.’ I stuff my hands back in my pocket. ‘I got the giggles at our David’s funeral, you know.’ Susan’s eyes flip up to meet mine. Perhaps I should have mentioned this more gently? My tone softens at the memory, stemming the flow of sadness. ‘We were heading down Hutcliffe Wood Road. Me, Mum and our David’s girlfriend.’ I stuff my phone deeper into my pocket. ‘I remembered some stupid thing we’d done as kids, when we got into trouble, back in the days when life hadn’t pissed on both our bonfires, you know?’ Susan swallows. ‘He killed himself,’ I offer, more bluntly than I think I intended. I shock myself with the words. ‘In March,’ I add. ‘Not long after we last saw you.’