‘If anything happens, you call, right?’ said Tim gruffly.

She could stop him, she should stop him, but somehow her arms and mouth weren’t working. She watched as he picked up his bag. He hesitated for a moment, but still she said nothing, just remained in a sort of stunned, immobilized state. He leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. Then he walked out of the room.

A few seconds later she heard the front door shut.

FIFTY-THREE

Kate looked across the help desk at the bald, fat man in front of her and tried to remain patient.

‘You need fifteen-millimetre compression olives,’ she said.

He looked downright scornful. ‘Are you sure, darlin’?’

‘No. I just made it up because I wanted you to get drenched in water.’

‘Really?’

She sighed. ‘No.’

‘I’d like to see you drenched in water,’ he said, his eyes making a beeline for her breasts, clad in the company T-shirt.

‘Oh, you’re irresistible.’

He grinned.

‘Not. Do you think that is even the remotest bit appealing? You making suggestive comments? Because it’s not. It’s sexist and rude and makes me want to puke up all over this desk,’ she snapped.

‘All right, keep your hair on,’ he said, clearly annoyed and a little alarmed. ‘You’re a bit too thin for me, anyways.’

‘That’s lucky, because you’re a bit too thick for me.’

His face puckered in indignation and then he walked away, rolling his shoulders in an attempt to appear manly and unfazed.

Kate gritted her teeth and forced herself not to throw something at the back of his head. She didn’t want to be at work today. In fact, she hadn’t been herself ever since Tim had left. Her first boyfriend had come full circle and become her first break-up. And it bloody hurt. It was hard to get up in the mornings and stand at this desk talking to partially evolved human beings like the one she’d just encountered.

Tim had texted a couple of times since he’d moved out, to check she was OK, that no more unpleasant deliveries had arrived, that she was locking the door at night. But each of his messages had been to the point: practical, functional missives that were signed off simply with his name. She missed his warmth and easy humour. God, she missed him. She pulled her new phone from her trouser pocket again, to give it a sneaky check, just to see if he’d been in touch. They weren’t allowed phones on the shop floor, but Kate had taken to breaking the rules. She was feeling mutinous.

Her heart leapt as she saw there was a message, but it was from Grace, not Tim. Kate had sent one to her a couple of days ago, asking how Arnie was doing. She quickly opened the reply.

‘Not so great. He’s got severe graft vs. host disease. Grafted cells attacking his liver. He’s back in critical care.’

Kate stared at the screen, reeling. Critical care? When had that happened? Everything had been fine – fine. Surely, he’d be OK? Wouldn’t he? Wasn’t the match a nine out of ten or something? People didn’t die from a transplant as good as a nine out of ten.