A buttercup bends with the ballast of a bumblebee; a bluebottle iridescent, like a blue piece of glass.

Beetles, like articles of cast-off jewellery, scuttle in the grass.

She takes some sips from her shift ration, holding the water in the funny space under her tongue.

Last time she saw a bumblebee she caught it in a cup. Rescued it from the fake daisies pattern of the staff room tablecloth.

It kept trying to come back in, after she had set it free, bumping on the window.

~

In the glasshouses the heat is stifling and rich. The lights are open in the roof, but she is sure that if she wished she could part the air with her hands.

The shock of a cactus flower. A bright cerise pink.

She rolls the names of labelled plants round on her tongue, the way she does with chemicals. Coloured pills in paper cups.

Gymnocalycium mihanovichii.

Astrophytum capricorne.

Delosperma cooperi.

Not knowing whether or not she speaks the Latin properly.

You don’t know unless you’re told, she thinks.

You don’t know unless you try it . . .

A cactus stands taller than herself, skeletal and branching. Naked with your arms up in the air . . .

Succulent.

The word feels succulent itself.

This cactus, says a sign, can store a tonne of water fully grown.

When she sees the insect-eating plants, the sticky drops on some of them make her purse her lips.

~

In the orchid house, as if hair clips have been used, there are plants held on branches with thin wires. A sense of moisture in the air.

The flowers bold and blatant. Vivid. Seem fake. The paper flowers on the patients’ tables more real-seeming than these.

Loosed and partly sunken in the soft moss bed, a gorgeously puckered bloom.

She feels a rush, a heady indecision as she softly tunnels her finger to it. The confident intricacy it has. Her blue uniform reflected in the glass of a display case. The sense she steps towards herself.

She’s still thinking of the cactus flower. It’s daring garishness. What underwear she should put on tonight.

As she leaves the room she sees the plaque. The collection sponsored by the media company that owns the newspaper Colin works for.

And it’s as if he’s seen her. As if she has been caught.

~

Seeing the name of Colin’s company has invaded. Told her somehow that he knows. That brings her don’t-be-silly voice again.

‘You can’t.’

The soft electric recklessness that’s set in beneath her skin seems suddenly chased away. A hollow left.

A slight sick feeling.

The liquorice, always in the end, disappearing on her tongue.

~

She sits outside the Grand Pavilion at a white table on a patio, before a meadow of longer grass.