SORRY TO TEXT YOU OLIVE BIT OF AN ACCIDENT CAN YOU CALL

Christ. Poor Dorothy! Sounds serious. I was looking forward to putting on my new silk pyjamas and watching Netflix, but my heart’s hammering at the thought of Dorothy in trouble. When I call her she doesn’t pick up. Hmm. I notice her lights are still on, as usual. I ring again, but nothing. So I go and knock on her front door. I knock louder and louder. Dorothy!? I can hear someone shuffling to the door, dragging their slippers along. She eventually opens it.

‘Oh Olive, thank god,’ Dorothy says. She has a bloodstained tea towel around her hand. Something is really bleeding a lot. The tea towel is practically completely red.

‘Oh my god, what’s happened?’ I feel sick at the sight of it.

‘I was cutting up an apple and my hand slipped …’

‘Can I see?’ I peel back the tea towel and all I see is a very red, bloody and messy hand. I suddenly feel light-headed. I am not good with blood. I’m worried she might have cut a vein or something. Her hands are so pale and thin. ‘Oh Dorothy! We should take you to A&E, right now. I’ll book us a cab.’

‘Really? OK dear. I’m sorry to text. When I first did it, there really was a lot of blood …’

I am starting to feel very woozy. ‘Come on, do you want to put some proper shoes on while I sort the taxi? Keep the tea towel on and keep pressing down on it.’

I hate the fact that Dorothy lives on her own. I mean, she might like it. But the fact that I’m the first person she contacted makes me wonder if she has any family or if anyone ever calls her. I shudder, as though a cold wind has suddenly blown over me. Maybe that could be me one day – living all alone? It can be fun now, but what about in fifty years’ time?

The cab pulls up outside and it’s a young woman driver. I wonder how that must be for her – on the nights when she picks up drunken louts from East London pubs and clubs. She seems relieved to see me and Dorothy. An odd, unintimidating pair.

‘Hi. The closest A&E please. Think the nearest one is Homerton,’ I say to the driver.

‘No problem,’ she replies.

Luckily she doesn’t pick up on the likely chance we might get blood on her car.

‘Do you have any family, Dorothy?’ I ask.

‘My late husband Benjamin and I, we have a son called Max.’

‘Oh lovely – do you see much of him?’

‘Sadly not, dear. He lives in Australia.’

‘Does he not come back and visit?’

‘Afraid not. I haven’t seen Max in twenty years.’

‘Really?’

‘It used to keep me up at night, but now I realize he’s someone who needed to go off and do his own thing. He never felt close to us, even though we felt close to him.’ Dorothy’s voice suddenly sounds hoarse and dry. ‘He never felt the need to keep in touch.’