Next to him: Yvie.
My best friend of eleven years. The one who used to sit in my kitchen and tell me he would come round.
She was holding a bottle and her hands were not steady, and she was fussing with a blanket over a little boy with pale hair who was trying to get hold of a stuffed giraffe.
I had my coat on. The badge says Dr P. Sandell**. I had a tablet full of clinic letters under my arm and a meeting in twelve minutes and absolutely no intention of stopping.**
And then he saw me.
“Well,” he said, at a volume chosen for the waiting area. “Look who it is.”
Four or five people looked up.
