Pierre. Primula Bond

absolutely exhausted. He’s a little more communicative, but mostly to grumble. Dr Venska and I are concerned that all this attention might set him back.’

      ‘You look pretty knackered yourself,’ I tell her, flicking the magazine into my basket of clean towels. I busy myself lifting a pile of Dr Venska’s files off the spare chair. ‘Why don’t you take the weight off for a moment?’

      ‘Between you and me, I’m quite high on all the excitement.’ Nurse Jeannie eyes the chair longingly, but remains leaning across the shelf above me. ‘But yes, I am tired. So, as most of the others are on other duties this morning, how about you help me get him ready for the day?’

      I sit upright, still holding the files. They still feel suspiciously flimsy. ‘Really? I’m going to meet the mysterious man in room 202 at last?’

      ‘Not so mysterious, Rosa. Don’t deny you’ve managed a few sneaky peeks at him during your night shifts.’

      My mouth drops open. ‘How do you know that?’

      Nurse Jeannie points up at a neat little camera screwed to the ceiling. At the series of identical cameras, angled at intervals down the corridor.

      ‘Our clients pay a premium for guaranteed security, Rosa. Which is why we try to call them clients, or guests, rather than patients. So we make it our business to know pretty much everything that goes on within these walls.’

      Heat spreads up my throat and into my cheeks. At least the CCTV cameras aren’t inside the rooms. At least they can’t read my mind. Can’t read the thoughts I have of awakening that particular client, like the Sleeping Beauty, with love’s first kiss on those firmly closed lips.

      ‘I’ve just, I’ve just been checking on him, Nurse. These summer nights –’

      Nurse Jeannie smirks. ‘You about to break into that song from Grease?’

      I hesitate. I have to prove that I’m trustworthy.

      ‘He often requests the garden doors to his room be left open. Sometimes when I’m taking a break outside he calls out.’

      ‘Don’t look so anxious, Rosa. You’re not doing any harm. But it’s best you put away any ministering-angel notions. He’ll more than likely ignore you.’ Nurse Jeannie rubs at her closely cropped hair. ‘By the way, you had the right to know the bare facts about his history but remember, discretion is our priority, even for part-timers.’ She leans closer over the desk. ‘Unless they’re having a baby, or dying, it’s top secret why our clients come here.’

      ‘Understood, Nurse Jeannie.’ I tug at the white plastic belt I have buckled round my waist to try to make the sack-like uniform fit me better, but all it does is bunch the fabric and make my breasts and hips look enormous. ‘So what’s our mission?’

      ‘Well, as you’ve undergone the appropriate training, we’ll give him a wash. Most of them look forward to being bathed like babies, but our man in room 202 doesn’t like it. He’s obsessive about hiding his old scars, which is odd, as he doesn’t seem to care about his new injuries. However, as you know, cleanliness and hygiene are essential for every resident, no matter how grand they are. It’s the one time when we can treat them all the same. No arguments.’ Nurse Jeannie raises her arm to knock at the door. ‘Oh, and take the belt off, Rosa. It’s not a regulation accessory.’

      I undo the belt, leave it on my chair. I smooth down the frumpy uniform, but it’s wrinkled and sweaty where it’s been cinched round my waist. No time to sort it out, or change. I pick up the basket of towels, slide the magazine under the top one.

      Jeannie opens the door and pushes me in ahead of her.

      ‘Mr Levi? I’d like to introduce you to our newest recruit, Rosa Cavalieri. She joined us about the same time as you did. Before that she was living in Rome. Not sure why she would leave such a beautiful city but – well, between you and me I’m guessing it’s to do with a broken heart.’

      ‘Nurse Jeannie, I told you that in confidence! Mr Levi doesn’t want to hear a load of crap about me!’ I put the basket of towels down and fiddle with the metal tab of my zip. ‘I thought you said discretion was our top priority?’

      There’s a creak from the shadowy bed and what sounds like a snuffle of laughter. But somehow I doubt that’s possible. Not after Nurse Jeannie has painted a picture of this patient as a cross between the Elephant Man and Hannibal Lecter.

      ‘Just trying to inject some personal touches into the proceedings, Rosa.’ Nurse Jeannie steps over to the other side of the bed. ‘I believe you’re earning some extra pennies here two or three days a week while you – what’s your other job, Rosa? Waitressing, was it?’

      ‘Something like that. I do evening work. In a bar.’ I run the zip up and down beneath my throat. ‘I don’t want to tempt fate by telling you any more about it, if you don’t mind.’

      ‘See? She’s perfect for our purposes. A hard worker. And discreet to the death.’ Nurse Jeannie’s brusque Scottish accent melts a little. ‘So we decided to throw her in the deep end and give you a lovely scrub down, Mr Levi. I hope you don’t mind.’

      There’s no answer. Maybe he’s passed out. It’s boiling in here. It’s one of the hottest July days we’ve had but the occupant of room 202 has the curtains pulled and, from the lack of traffic noise, the windows shut. Perspiration prickles along my scalp but at least my hair isn’t catching in my eyes and sticking in tendrils to my neck.

      Nurse Jeannie might not have got my vital statistics right but before every shift she has taken to pinning my unruly curls into a knot because I’m useless at fixing my own coiffure.

      ‘Part of the dress code’, she declares, stroking my hair. ‘You shouldn’t hide those Bambi eyes. The patients need to see your expression.’

      Since I last tiptoed into this room the bed has been pushed into the furthest corner, as far from the window as possible. Pierre Levi couldn’t have done it himself. He must have specifically ordered someone to move the bed for him. It’s as if he’s retreating from the summer heat. Trying to put off any more visitors. Or he’s sussed out my midnight flits.

      All I can see is a huddle of white sheets beneath the hillock of a metal frame placed under the duvet to protect his legs.

      ‘Good morning, Mr Levi,’ I say, drawing closer. ‘How are you today?’

      I pull at the zip but it has stuck. My fingers meet the warm skin of my throat and chest. The already loose top is gaping right down to my cleavage.

      ‘Do what you have to do, whatever your name is. But please. As little speaking as possible.’

      Maybe it’s from conducting those newspaper interviews after weeks of silence, but Pierre Levi’s voice is rough and gravelly. Gruff with temper and sleepiness, and lack of use. I try to imagine that voice in happier, stronger times. Calling out directions on set, congratulating those dancers for a successful show, or giving thanks for an award.

      Charming the pants off those hot dancers, fluttering around him, pecking like parakeets.

      ‘The minimum of disturbance, I promise, Mr Levi, but as you know I am the senior Matron and I have the right to speak when I deem fit,’ Nurse Jeannie murmurs, pulling back the curtains and kicking open the French doors to let in the air. ‘And as it’s the first time you’ve met Rosa, I must be allowed to instruct her on what’s required.’

      The sunlight floods hungrily into the room, painting the plain furniture with its determined golden energy and giving everything shape and dimension.

      The Aura Clinic is halfway between Kensington High Street and Cromwell Road and it’s good to hear the London noises. I’m a city girl, used to the honking of car horns and squealing tyres bouncing off old stone walls, the yelling and gesticulating of Roman drivers. I actively dislike the silence of the countryside. Cars and lorries, buses and bikes are the familiar hum of comfort for me. The backing track of