Hens Reunited by Lucy Diamond Page A

you would call a bedside manner. Still, that was the NHS for you. She began mentally planning a journalistic exposé of NHS failings as he went over to her nan and held her wrist, checking her pulse against his watch. Oh, she could ruin this place if she wanted to, Georgia thought, gazing around for signs of dirt or dust. Any cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling? Any spillages on the floor? Super-hack Georgia would spot them. She’d lay the place bare with some scornful, insightful prose.
    Damn. The area around her nan’s bed seemed to be spotless. The curtains that stretched on rails around the bed were rather aged, but well-washed at least. And the floor looked clean enough to eat your breakfast off. Still, she could try and get some swabs, couldn’t she, and get them tested for MRSA and other nasties. This could be a new direction for her journalism – campaigning and political. She might even get taken seriously at the Press Awards for a change.
    The man – a nurse, she guessed – set Nan’s hand gently down on the bed and made a note in a file he was carrying.
    ‘Her pulse is fine, so that’s good,’ he said. ‘I’ll just take her temperature, then I’ll leave you in peace.’ And he smiled at Georgia’s parents – a proper, sincere smile like he meant it, like he actually cared.
    Georgia’s anti-NHS rantings melted away suddenly and she felt a rare prickle of shame. He was only doing his job, she supposed, old Grumpy Guts. And he was being nice enough to the rest of the family. Just me he has to have a pop at , she thought petulantly.
    ‘I’ll go and get us some coffee,’ she announced. ‘Back in a minute.’
    She stuck her nose in the air and walked out of the ward. How long was Nan going to sleep for? she wondered. She felt she had to stay long enough to speak to her, and for Nan to see that she’d come, that she’d made the effort to visit. That was the main thing, wasn’t it? As long as Nan knew she cared, then . . .
    Georgia froze. Her heart thudded painfully and she felt her face flood with sudden heat and colour. Oh my God.
    No. No way.
    It was her. The stuff of Georgia’s nightmares.
    Michelle Jones, high-school bitch, coming down the corridor towards her in a nurse’s uniform.
    Michelle Jones, who’d ruined Georgia’s teenage years, who’d crushed her spirit to a pulp, who’d made life unbearable. Of course, she was Michelle Finchley now – if the marriage had lasted, that was.
    She had to get away. She had to run, fast. This was exactly what she’d been dreading, the person who’d haunted her childhood memories for all these years. But it was hard to breathe, suddenly. She leaned against the wall, shielding her face so that the woman wouldn’t see her. Oh God, she could hardly breathe. Her heart was racing, the corridor seemed to be spinning.
    She clutched at the wall beside her, her palms slick with sweat. She couldn’t hear anything. Her chest felt so tight she thought she might faint. Was this it? Was she dying, right here in a hospital corridor?
    ‘Are you okay?’
    Someone was speaking to her, but she couldn’t register who. Everything blurred and swayed in her field of vision. She wanted to say, Help me! , but couldn’t get the words out. Not enough air . . .
    ‘Okay, I think you’re having a panic attack,’ the voice said, calm and measured, somewhere in her vicinity. ‘I’m going to cup your hands around your mouth to help you breathe, all right?’
    Michelle Jones! Michelle Jones had just walked right past her!
    Someone was lifting her hands up, positioning them in front of her face. She could smell the alcohol gel she’d cleaned them with. Sharp and acid, it made her nostrils tingle unpleasantly.
    ‘You’re okay,’ the voice said. ‘Keep breathing into your hands, that’s it. I’m right here next to you.’
    The world around her swung back into focus. She felt hot and cold all over, sweaty and damp. ‘Oh,’ she managed to say. It was all she could