The Lives We Touch

by Eva Woods

  ‘Lavatory seats, I believe,’ said Mr Malcolm, pointing out an example of their wares, which was propped against the wall.

  Rosie watched herself for a few moments, the blank-eyed stare and occasional twitch of her fingers as she keyed in a number. She looked miserable, drained of life. ‘Why am I seeing this memory? It’s totally boring.’ What could this have to teach her?

  She heard a discreet buzzing, and Past Rosie looked around furtively before sliding her phone out from beneath a pile of printouts. And suddenly her face lit up, all the life and joy and animation it had been missing flooding back to it. A message – but from who?

  A short fussy woman in a red wool suit – the worst possible thing to wear in this weather; it made her look like a sweaty post box – was barrelling across the floor, and Past Rosie hurriedly hid the phone again. ‘Ah, Rosie, can you print those accounts for me? Was that your phone I heard?’

  ‘It’s just the computer, Anthea,’ Past Rosie lied smoothly. ‘I’ll do them now.’

  ‘See that you do, please,’ said Anthea, narrowing her eyes. Then in a burst she said, ‘And can’t you call maintenance about the heat? It’s absolutely unbearable!’

  Past Rosie went to the printer and jiggled her foot as bits of paper spewed out. Although Rosie could not recall this exact day – it hadn’t been memorable, clearly – she knew what her past self would have been thinking. How had she ended up there, in that dingy dirty office with Anthea telling her what to do?

  A man was approaching – overweight, huffing from the short walk to the printer from his desk, his stomach spilling out from between the buttons of his short-sleeved checked shirt. ‘Hi, Rosie.’

  ‘Oh. Hi.’ She didn’t remember this man at all, let alone his name.

  ‘Printer working OK?’

  Past Rosie cast a disinterested look at the pages coming out. ‘I think so.’

  ‘Cos if you need the toner changed, or the paper put in or anything, you can ask me. Me and this printer go way back.’ He thumped the side of the machine affectionately, and it made a choking noise and the paper stopped rolling. A nasty crunching sound came out and the machine began to beep. ‘Oh, crap. Sorry, Rosie.’

  ‘Please … clear … paper jam,’ said the machine in a mechanical voice.

  ‘Can you fix it?’ Rosie’s happy expression was fading. ‘Anthea wants these for her meeting.’

  ‘Um … um … let me see.’ Frantically, the man – what had his name been? – was opening flaps, pulling at bits of crumpled paper, getting ink all over his shirt and hands. ‘Oh God, sorry, Rosie.’

  Past Rosie’s eyes strayed to the window, at the heavy gold sunshine that lay over London, the cool green shades of the trees in the park outside. She seemed to make some kind of decision. She laid a hand on the man’s arm – he jumped – and said, ‘Listen, it’s OK. I’ll send it to the desktop one, OK?’

  ‘But Anthea—’

  ‘She can wait. It can’t be helped, can it?’ Rosie remembered now that she had decided in that very moment to quit this job. That she wouldn’t be spending another day there. This thought – plus whatever the message had been – had left her feeling unusually generous and relaxed. ‘You know,’ she said to the man, ‘you can do a lot better than junior salesman. You’re, like, the best person here. Don’t let Anthea bully you, OK?’ She moved off, gracing the man – Derek! That was his name! – with a smile. He sagged, a ball of anxiety and confusion, and slowly wiped his hand over his face, leaving an inky print.

  Past Rosie went back to her desk, printed the documents on another machine, and picked up her phone. She smiled. Present-day Rosie craned over to see who the message was from. Luke, it said.

  ‘I’m still in touch with him?’ She turned to Mr Malcolm.

  ‘That’s what it looks like.’

  ‘But … did he not get married after all then?’

  ‘I’m sorry, cherie, I don’t know.’

  Her past self keyed out a message – Actually I’ve managed to get out early, fancy a drink in the park?? – then picked up her cheap Primark bag and marched confidently to the door and out onto the street. No one stopped her. Once there she ducked into the first shop she found, a branch of Monsoon, and quickly selected a blue and white print dress with wide straps and a swishy skirt. She couldn’t afford it, but had decided that didn’t matter. In the changing rooms she peeled off her boring sweaty work clothes, shoved them in her bag, then almost danced out in the dress and asked the sales assistant to cut off the tag, taking out her Visa card with what Rosie now remembered had been over-optimistic confidence. But fate was on her side. The sale went through, the tag was removed and she was out into the sunshine in her new dress, undoing her sensible plait so her red hair rippled over her pale shoulders.

  Rosie was able to follow her past self down Oxford Street towards Marble Arch and Hyde Park, and there, in one of the striped deckchairs you could hire, was a fair-haired man in sunglasses and cargo shorts, reading a paperback copy of Shantaram. Luke. It was Luke! Her heart soared to see him and she suddenly remembered exactly how it had felt to walk out of that office and see him there waiting for her, knowing they had the whole day to sit and talk, drink the gin-in-acan he’d bought from Marks & Spencer. When he saw her he jumped up, a smile that matched hers spreading over his face. His T-shirt was an old, faded Radiohead one, and he had faint blond stubble on his cheeks. He held his hands wide in a ta-da gesture, indicating his cleverness in securing the chairs.

  Past Rosie, who had stopped walking out of sheer happiness, began to move towards him, and she opened her mouth and said—

  ‘Time to go back,’ said Mr Malcolm. ‘I’m afraid Gary’s trying to talk to you.’

  ‘Oh God, not him. Can’t we stay here? I think something important might be about to …’ Her and Luke. This was important, surely? Was this her memory trying to tell her they were together after all, that he loved her as much as she felt she loved him? But then why did her family not know who he was? ‘Can we just stay, just a second? Please? I just … Look at me, I was happy!’

  ‘Sorry, dear. Time to resurface.’

  The park, and the sunshine, and her and Luke and the deckchairs were all fading. The sound of voices was rising. The lights above her head were coming into focus. ‘No … wait …’ Rosie tried. ‘But Luke. Luke!’

  She was back in the room.

  Daisy

  Daisy craned over Rosie’s pale, slack face. ‘Did she just say something!’

  ‘I don’t know. I maybe heard a noise. It didn’t sound like a word.’ Gary had already given up trying to talk to Rosie and was flicking through the magazines on her bedside locker, tossing grapes into his mouth.

  Daisy was panicking. She was sure she’d heard a garbled hiss from her sister’s throat. Was that a good sign or a bad one? If Rosie had spoken, did that mean she might wake up? Or did it mean she was hurting in there, unable to ask for help? ‘I thought I heard her say “Luke”.’

  ‘Look? Look at what?’ Gary gazed round at the small room. ‘Not much to look at here, I must say. Still, Rosie never did make much sense.’

  ‘Not look, Luke. You know, the name? Rosie? Rosie, did you try to say something? Talk to me, if you can, or move your hand, or just blink or something? If you know I’m here? Rosie?’ She hooked her fingers into Rosie’s cold ones, hoping to feel a squeeze or a touch or a flicker of some kind. Nothing. Her sister lay, utterly unmoving. Daisy wasn’t sure if she’d heard anything at all. Was it just wishful thinking, desperately willing Rosie to wake up, or move or speak or anything at all? ‘She said it earlier, in the ambulance. Or so the doctors said. Luke.’

  He frowned. ‘Who’s Luke? Does she know anyone called that?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Daisy, still watching Rosie’s white, blank face. ‘I really wish I did.’

  Rosie

  A conversation was going on over her body between her mother and her almost-brother-in-law. Urgh. The idea of being permanently related to Gary was
unbearable. Maybe if she woke up she could tell Daisy she’d had some kind of vision that if she married him, he’d end up killing and eating her, or he’d get really fat and she’d have to crane-lift him out of the house one day, or … But no. Her sister knew what he was like, and she had still, freely and deliberately, chosen to get engaged to him. To a man who insisted on re-balling his socks when she hadn’t put them away in the manner he liked. To a man who always called his boss by his full name, ‘my boss, Philip Cardew ACA’, any time he mentioned his job; a man who insisted on going to sleep by nine p.m. every night and got annoyed if Rosie ever phoned after that. Daisy genuinely wanted to be this man’s wife and have his horrible square-faced babies. She didn’t know her sister at all. Now he seemed to be appointing himself as a medical authority on comas.

  ‘I’ve been chatting to her for ages, Alison, and I can’t see any change. I’m not convinced they’re right about that.’

  ‘Oh Gary, I know they said it might help, but … I just feel silly. I don’t think she can hear us.’

  ‘That’s what I think too, Alison. I’m sorry.’

  Who died and made you Doogie Howser, M.D., thought Rosie, irritated. Being in a coma really made it hard to give snarky put-downs.

  ‘Maybe she just wasn’t interested in what you were saying,’ said Daisy quietly.

  Gary frowned. ‘What did you say, Daise?’

  ‘Nothing. I still think we should try to find out who Luke is. You know, the name she said.’

  ‘Oh, darling. We don’t even know if that’s what she said. Have you ever heard her mention a Luke?’

  ‘Well … no.’

  But I do, Rosie thought. I do. I only wish I could remember exactly how.

  ‘You’ll find out soon,’ said Mel’s voice in her ear. ‘Ready for another memory?’

  ‘Do I have any choice?’

  ‘Not if you ever want to wake up.’

  ‘Then lead on, Macduff. Not that that’s the actual line.’

  ‘Ooh, Macbeth. We were doing that at school before I died. Never did get to find out how it ended.’

  ‘Not well,’ said Rosie, as the world began to fade. ‘About as well as my life, by the looks of things.’

  21 May 2005 (Twelve years ago)

  A small, grotty university kitchen. A chipped and stained table. Two students sitting on either side of it, elbows up, mugs of tea cupped in their hands, talking intently. One of them was Rosie, aged twenty-one, with purple streaks in her wild red hair, in a stripy sweater-dress and green tights. The other was her university friend Ingrid, who had shiny blonde hair and a Ralph Lauren jumper knotted over her shoulders. On the radio, the Darkness were singing about a Thing Called Love. They believed in it – at this time Rosie had not been sure that she did. Ingrid, she saw, was crying.

  ‘Jeez, Rosie, this place is filthy too,’ said Mel, looking about. ‘There seems to be some kind of new species of mould growing in that saucepan.’

  ‘Oh yeah, that was when we tried to make spinach vodka. We thought it would be healthy or something. What are we talking about?’

  ‘Just listen.’

  Ingrid was saying, ‘I just can’t believe it, Ro. Everything’s booked for the holiday and then he just dumps me! I mean, what’s wrong with me?’

  ‘Literally nothing.’ Rosie was remembering now. Her friend was blonde, pretty, confident, smart, and had impeccable manners. ‘Sebastian’s an idiot. As soon as he starts his job in the City he’ll realise the only women he meets are lap-dancers and then he’ll be sorry.’

  ‘But I loved him!’ Ingrid wailed. ‘Whenever I looked at him my heart did flip-flops. I mean, you feel that way about Jack, don’t you?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Past Rosie uncertainly. ‘I mean … sometimes he does irritate me. When he insists on calling people “chap” or he gets upset about having mayonnaise in a sandwich.’

  Ingrid sniffed. ‘Ro, Jack loves you. He’s a good one, believe me. Not like bloody Sebastian and his ski-instructor harlot.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right. I mean, we have been together two years, maybe this is normal.’ Rosie remembered. Two whole years of university, when she could have been drinking shots and snogging random boys, had been spent in virtual cohabitation with her boyfriend, doing joint shops, watching pirated films on his laptop, and even visiting IKEA … Oh, of course. That was who Jack was. Her university boyfriend. Clearly, he wasn’t on the scene in the present day, so what had happened? Maybe this memory would show her.

  Past Rosie was watching her friend sob prettily into a hanky. ‘And I was so looking forward to our trip. I can’t go now, I’d just cramp your style. I’ll have to get a job in Daddy’s firm and, and, spend the summer in Surrey.’

  ‘Listen, Ing … you should still come. Come travelling.’

  Ingrid’s head shot up. ‘You mean it?’

  ‘Of course. You and Jack get on, and it’s not fair you can’t go just because of bloody Sebastian. It’s all paid for, isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh, Ro. You’re such a good friend. But I couldn’t! I’d just get in your way.’

  ‘No, no.’ Rosie could see her past self warming to this impulsive decision. ‘To be honest, me and Jack might get on each other’s nerves if it’s just the two of us. It’d be good to have someone else there.’

  Ingrid was sobbing again, this time with gratitude. ‘I’ll be the best travelling companion ever! Daddy knows someone with a yacht on Cos, maybe we can use that.’

  Rosie patted her hand. ‘Sure. And I bet you meet some sexy backpacker on the way, who’ll help you forget all about stupid Sebastian. Shall I make us some hot chocolate with marshmallows?’

  She was stirring the pan when a young man walked in, with floppy hair and his hands shoved into the pockets of a gilet. ‘All right, ladies. Just scored a bloody great try.’ Of course. This was Jack. Strange how she’d forgotten him, when she’d spent two years sleeping beside him in a single university bed. Why had they split up?

  ‘Change of plan,’ said Rosie. ‘Ingrid and Sebastian are on the skids, so it’s just the three of us travelling. That’s OK, isn’t it, babe? You didn’t really like him anyway, after he sat on your head on the rugby pitch that time.’

  She watched a strange expression pass over Jack’s face, which at the time she hadn’t really taken in or understood. ‘Sure!’ he said heartily, after a brief pause. ‘Need me to punch him in the nuts for you, Ing?’

  ‘Bless you, he’d grind you to a pulp,’ she said, smiling. She raised her mug, which had the Fifteen to One logo on it – they were all massive fans, never missing an episode. ‘Here’s to our travels!’

  ‘Our travels,’ echoed Past Rosie and Jack.

  ‘I asked her along,’ said Rosie now. ‘We went together, the three of us.’ In hindsight, perhaps it was a bad sign that she and Jack were both so keen to have a buffer between them. ‘But … what happened next?’

  ‘You’ll see. Gosh, I wish I’d got to go to uni. Boys! Drinks with umbrellas in! Intellectual debate! It must have been so sophisticated.’

  ‘Er, yeah, if you mean Sambuca shots and dancing to S Club 7.’

  It was coming back to Rosie now, those university years, falling asleep in lectures and dancing all night, curling up on Ingrid’s bed with her collection of Winnie the Pooh soft toys. Halfway between children and adults. They’d been so close, despite the fact that Ingrid was a hundred times posher than Rosie and her mother was a Swiss countess. Another thing lost along the way. Had she fallen out with all her friends? Angie, and Melissa, and Caz, and Ingrid too? What was wrong with her? ‘Am I …? Are the memories trying to show me all the mistakes I made, so I can try to fix them? If I wake up?’

  Melissa was non-committal. ‘Only you know the answer, Ro-Ro.’

  ‘But how will I know if I’m close, if none of you will tell me anything? It’s kind of frustrating. Did I want to die? Have I messed my life up so much I don’t even want it any more?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘
Well, neither do I! And it’s already day two and I’m no closer to understanding – all I know is I’ve made so many mistakes. What if I can’t figure it out, and I never wake up? Please, will you help me?’ Tears were pooling in her dry eyes. Real or imaginary, she didn’t know. ‘What if I never remember?’

  ‘Come on, Ro-Ro, don’t get upset. Let’s go back.’

  Daisy

  Daisy stared at the laptop she’d asked Gary to bring her from work. She was in the café over the road from the hospital, the one she’d had her mini-breakdown in front of, which had Wi-Fi, having muttered something about checking work emails. Gary did not seem to find anything strange about working while your sister was in a coma, but her mother had raised her well-groomed eyebrows. ‘Surely they won’t expect you to, darling, in the circumstances?’

  ‘They have a big pitch coming up, Alison,’ Gary had said seriously, and her mother deferred to him, as always. She did feel terrible leaving Rosie’s bedside, but she also knew she had to. Maybe, if she could find out what had happened to her sister, she could help her wake up somehow.

  The café was called Brief Encounters, and was mocked up as a 1940s train station buffet, complete with old-fashioned booths and chalk boards, retro condiments, and classic British snacks. She hadn’t been able to face the hospital canteen, so she’d just walked out the door until this place appeared, its windows warm and steamy, its lights welcoming. Daisy had connected to the Wi-Fi, but she wasn’t going anywhere near her work emails. A large coffee and cheese sandwich sat beside her, both still untouched, as she Googled comas, and had learned that in over half of cases like Rosie’s, the person never woke up. Even if they did, many were never the same again. Terrified, she switched out of it and went through her sister’s Facebook friends, comparing them with the scribbled list of names she’d found in Rosie’s flat. Maybe one of these people would know what she’d been doing on that bridge.