Since I'm in the States I'm keeping to the American time, which is why this is a bit later than usual. Thanks to purple-roses-words-and-love for betaing.
"Well, all I can say is that you can stay with me if you and Doctor Turner… are not the match you thought you were," Julienne said.
"It's kind of you to offer," Shelagh said, picking up a jumper and looking at its colour critically.
"But?"
Shelagh sighed, folded up the jumper, and placed it back on the shelf. "But I hope it won't be necessary."
"So do I, but I simply want you to know that you can stay with me if the need arises. God knows it is hard in London to find suitable lodgings, and nurses don't exactly make a lot of money. Say, isn't this pretty?" Julienne held up a cardigan in a soft blue colour.
Shelagh fingered one of the sleeves, then nodded. "I'll try it on." She looked at her watch. "There's not much time left for us to shop, anyway. The hospital needs me."
"Let's make haste then," Julienne said, and scooped up some of the clothes Shelagh had picked.
"Thank you for coming with me," Shelagh said as she ducked into one of the fitting rooms.
"It's my pleasure, my dear."
They had met at a church choir called 'Sisters in Christ'. Julienne was a district nurse, but had worked at the obstetrics department of the local hospital before that. She and Doctor Turner had been friends for a long time, but Shelagh felt that her friendship with Julienne was definitely the stronger one.
"Do you think he'll like this?" Shelagh asked shyly, stepping out of the cubicle to show Julienne a floral dress. She blushed a little. "Not that I dress to please anyone but myself, but…"
"You could wear a garbage bag and he'd still think you lovely, Shelagh," Julienne said.
Shelagh tugged at the sleeves of the dress, wincing as the tag dug one of its corners into her skin. Julienne was probably right. After all, Patrick had fallen in love with her even though she wore stained t-shirts, or blue jumpers that did nothing for her figure, or her uniform.
"I'll try on something different," she said, and went back into the little cubicle. She dragged the dress over her head, hung it back on its hanger. She turned to face the mirror and looked at herself. Her skin was good, and her legs toned from all the running she did. She had been told her laugh was kind, her eyes pretty.
Her eyes travelled to the scar just above her foot. It was an angry red slash. When she'd broken her leg in the car accident that killed her mother, the bone had protruded from that place.
She shivered and gooseflesh pimpled her arms.
Sometimes it felt as if that accident would never go away. It seemed always there, always lurking in the back of her mind, ready to knock her off kilter whenever she felt somewhat secure.
She took the little cross she wore around her neck in her hand. There was so much to be grateful for. She had good friends, and now a man who loved her. There was no need to always go back to that one evening of so many years ago. That was over and done with.
"It doesn't matter what you wear," she whispered to her reflection.
But Marianne was so fashionable, a sly voice purred.
She had always worn floral dresses, hadn't she?
Appalled, Shelagh turned away from the mirror and threw the dress on the pile of things she wouldn't take.
"Are you all right?" Julienne asked as soon as she emerged from the fitting room.
"Yes, perfectly," Shelagh said, but she couldn't look her in the eye.
Julienne clasped her hand in hers and gave it a firm squeeze.
Shelagh sighed, pulled her hand away, and rubbed her eyes under her glasses. "It's just… I've been thinking an awful lot these past few days, probably too much."
"Do you want to talk about it?"
Tears burned behind her eyes. She took her glasses off and wiped them with her shirt – that horrible shirt with the ketchup stain that wouldn't come out no matter how often she washed it -, studying her trembling fingers. "It's just… I can't stop thinking about my mother."
"I know this is a difficult time for you," Julienne said.
"Why can't I stop thinking about it?" Shelagh asked, raising her eyes and meeting those of her friend.
"It was a traumatising event, Shelagh. It…"
"I can't stop thinking about Marianne, either. What was she like?" Shelagh asked. She felt hot, feverish.
Julienne blinked slowly and took Shelagh's hand in hers again, caressing the back of it with a dry-skinned thumb. "Why do you want to know?"
Shelagh shrugged helplessly. "Because I was there when she died. Because I'm in love with her husband, and I'm living with him and their son. She seems to be everywhere in that house." Yet I can't grasp her. She's elusive, like smoke. Like a ghost. Yet she's so much more than a ghost.
Julienne sighed, and looked away. "She was a sweet woman. The word 'vivacious' comes to mind. She loved life. Life seemed to love her. She had an easy way with people. Her laughter was infectious. She was beautiful."
"How beautiful?"
"Oh, I don't know. I don't normally look at those things," Julienne evaded.
"But you noticed her."
"Well, it was impossible not to notice her."
"Doctor Turner loved her very much, didn't he?"
"Yes."
"How did they meet?"
"Shouldn't you be asking him, Shelagh?"
Shelagh turned away to gather up the clothes she wanted to buy. There were not many of them; she didn't have a huge amount of money to spend, not even when it was as necessary as now. Patrick had offered to pay for them, but she didn't want to take his money; their relationship was so new, so young, that it felt wrong to assume too much. Already she was living in his home, eating his food, taking care of him and his son. If she were to take his money, were to sleep in his bed, then surely all of this would burst apart like a soap bubble and leave her alone and hurting.
"I have to go and pay for these, and then go to the hospital," she said, trying to move past Julienne.
The older woman would have none of it, and grabbed Shelagh's arm. "Stop thinking too much, my dear Shelagh. It doesn't do anybody any good."
"I know," Shelagh said, and forced a smile on her face. "Don't worry about me."
"Call me when you need me, all right?"
"All right. I really need to go now, though. It was lovely seeing you." Shelagh gave her a swift kiss on the cheek, then marched away to the counter to go and pay for her clothes.
She was beautiful and friendly and stylish, she thought, and felt very low.
She was in the storage room at the hospital when Patrick came to her. He slipped in and closed the door in a heartbeat. In another one, he had taken her in his arms and pressed their foreheads together.
"I had to see you," he whispered.
Her hand clawed at his lab coat as she steadied herself. "Did you?"
"Yes. I'll be working all night here. I won't see you at all when you go home as soon as your shift is done. I'll miss you." He kissed her tenderly.
She smiled against his mouth. "I'll miss you too."
"Did you buy some clothes?"
"Only a few."
"A few is better than none."
"Did Marianne… did she have a lot of clothes?"
He gave her a frown. "I suppose. Does it matter?"
"No." Yes.
He let go of her and rubbed his eyes, giving a deep sigh. "I have to go back. Mrs Andersen is close to the second stage of labour." He kissed her mouth quickly. It was a dry peck.
"I… I love you," she said. He smiled at her and gave her a wink as he left her in the dark, dusty room.
Did he give Marianne such a cold kiss as he left her? Did he wink at her and smile when she told him she loved him, or did he say he loved her, too?
"You've got to stop this, this… this feverish obsession," she whispered. She pressed her palms against her burning eyes. "You've got to stop, Shelagh. You'll lose everything if you don't." The scar at the base of her leg throbbed in agreement.
A pale hand touching her foot.
Blood dripping on her naked skin.
The winter wind whistling through the twisted metal.
What's it saying? What is it whispering?
"Think about something else, anything else. Don't let guilt rip you apart again."
A blood-flecked pink coat.
Two leather belts, one slim, one thick.
No feet.
"Not that. Stop it," she whispered.
But she couldn't.
She couldn't sleep that night, so she stalked into the living room, opened a window, and lit a cigarette. She smoked it down to the filter, then lit another one. She took one drag, then left it in the ashtray and watched how it burned down. It illuminated a little china dog that sat on the coffee table. Certainly only Marianne could have picked it out; it was a pretty little thing, dainty.
She sat watching for a very long time. She was snapped out of her reverie when the light was switched on.
"Shelagh?" Patrick whispered. He looked tired. His hair was ruffled by the wind. She wanted to drag her hand through it, touch his scalp with her fingertips.
"I'm sorry. I couldn't sleep," she murmured.
"It's freezing in here," Patrick said, and went to close the window.
"I'm sorry." She shivered, even though she didn't feel cold.
"Are you all right, darling? You're looking pale." He sat down on the couch next to her and felt her forehead with a large, dry hand. Her eyelids fluttered closed.
"I feel slightly out of sorts," she whispered.
"You're a bit feverish." He took her hands in his. "Your hands are cold." He took off his coat and put it around her shoulders. Being enveloped in his warmth and scent was enough to almost reduce her to tears. She leaned her head against his shoulder.
"I'm not feeling very well," she murmured.
"You silly creature, opening a window in January. How long have you been sitting here? What if you had fallen asleep?"
He thinks me a child.
"I don't know, Patrick."
He slung his arm around her and pressed a kiss to her forehead.
"I love you," she whispered, or thought, or dreamed.
"I'll warm you up and then take you to bed. You need your rest."
But they sat on the couch till the darkness dispelled in the east, his arm strong and reassuring around her, his hand intertwined with hers.