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really want to
stay in touch.”
    “Me too,” I said, pleased.
    We hugged, and said
goodbye.
    I pushed open the front door and walked into the living
room, hoping irrationally for the habitually irritating sight of Larsen's
jacket dumped on the stairs and his trainers under the coffee table. But - nothing.
The room was empty and the magnolia and fawn-flecked carpet stretched ahead,
unspoilt. I poked my head round the door to the kitchen. Instead of the usual
sink full of plates and cups and the crumby work surfaces I'd been half
expecting, the sink was empty and every surface still gleamed and sparkled,
just as I'd left it that morning. I checked the answer phone machine. There
were no messages from Larsen.
    I shrugged off my coat and began to heave myself
shakily up the stairs. Half way up I became afraid I was going to fall back
down. I decided it would be easier to leave the crutches behind and go up
backwards on my bottom. Once or twice my foot thudded against the stair and a
spasm of pain shot through me, causing me to squeal and stop and gasp for breath.
At last I reached the top and, hauling myself up with the aid of the banister,
I hopped heavily and slowly into the bedroom. I would have to get in to work
somehow in the morning, I decided. Grab a taxi. I really didn’t want to miss my
first chance at presenting on prime-time radio. In any event it was too late
now to call and line up someone else. I shrugged my bag off my shoulders, set
my alarm for 3.00 a.m., and pulled out the bottle of painkillers they'd given
me at the hospital. The label said I should take one or two, with food. I
swallowed three, undressed, and crawled under the duvet where I lay, cold and
dejected, until sleep overcame me.
    When I woke it was daylight and the sun was
streaming in through the window. I felt a fleeting, random burst of happiness;
then I tried to move my legs and the gentle throbbing started up again. The
memory of last night’s events crept over me. With a start, I remembered that it
wasn’t supposed to be daylight; it was supposed to be 3.00 a.m. I reached out
and pulled my alarm clock from off the bedside table. I groaned, and flopped
back down onto the pillow. It was ten past eleven on Tuesday, as far as I could
tell. I had slept through the Breakfast Programme. Not only had I missed my
moment of glory, I was going to be in big trouble with my boss.
    I lay motionless on my back for a few moments. My
arms and legs felt like lead weights. Eventually, I lifted my head. It felt
heavy too. I flung myself sideways out of bed and landed on the floor with a
thud. Pain shot and burned its way through my ankle and up into my shinbone. My
entire body felt bruised and stiff. I crawled to the top of the stairs, and
peered through the banisters, where I could see the answer phone machine
flashing like crazy.
    Going downstairs was easier than going up. I could
either hang onto the banister and hop, or slide all the way down on my bottom
with my good leg as a lever and my bad leg in the air. I tried both. Sliding
down won in the end, because it was quicker. I crawled frantically to the
telephone and pressed the button on the answer machine. There were three
messages, two from Phil, the station manager, and one that was just nothing
except white noise and what sounded like music and people talking in the
background. Phil wanted to know what had happened to me, and why I hadn’t turned
up for work. He sounded concerned the second time. I deleted the messages and
dialled Phil’s direct line number. It went to answer phone. I left an
apologetic message and then spent the rest of the day sitting on the sofa,
watching daytime TV, going over and over everything in my head and waiting for
the phone to ring.
    At six I heard the sound of a key wriggling
noisily in the door lock and the front door opening. I leapt up from the settee
and hopped across the room. Larsen stood in the doorway, looking drunk and
dishevelled. His eyes were cloudy and