Free Will You Remember Me? by Amanda Prowse Page A

with Max, who had been sleeping soundly on his beanbag when she left. He would only have been grumpy if woken. She was also thankful to be by herself. Alone, she was able to keep her emotions in check, stay calm. With someone she loved by her side, she would have been concerned about them and unable to concentrate on what was being said, unable to freely ask the many questions that filled her mind.
    She looked at the wooden-framed photo on the desk. His wife, she assumed. A beautiful woman with a dark, glossy ponytail that Poppy was sure would swish this way and that as she sauntered – this stunning lady could rarely have cause to hurry, after all. Looking like that, she must surely lead a charmed life. The woman beamed into the lens, revealing perfect white teeth behind the full cupid’s bow of her top lip. Two boys of similar ages, maybe three and four, each with a thick dark cap of hair, stood behind her. They were wearing matching stiff white shirts and had her mouth, but smaller, and studious eyes, maybe the eyes of their dad. Poppy wondered why the picture was facing out and not towards the chair that would shortly be occupied by the consultant she had come to see, Mr Ramasingh.
    Perhaps it was a reminder to those whom he addressed that he too was a family man; perhaps it was meant to show that he understood and recognised that his words, casually issued, had far greater implications than the mere explanation of numbers and ticks on the charts to which he referred. Maybe. Or maybe a previous nosey patient had turned it round for a gander and forgotten to turn it back. This filled her with instant dread: supposing he thought she had done it? She toyed with the idea of repositioning it, but then the door opened and she heard his voice in the corridor behind her, and that of a female.
    ‘What can I get you?’ The woman sounded chirpy, a little flirty and familiar.
    Mr Ramasingh’s reply was thoughtful; he was in no hurry to get to Poppy, who sat counting the seconds, clasping and unclasping her hands as she sat in front of his desk.
    ‘Oh, the usual please, Gill. Chicken or tuna on wholewheat or whatever and if they have them, a couple of those little blueberry muffins, or cranberry, and a coffee, large.’
    ‘Coming right up!’ Gill laughed.
    Poppy heard the soft tread of Gill’s shoes as she walked along the corridor. Mr Ramasingh pushed the door wide and Poppy saw his mouth straighten into a thin line and the crinkle leave the outer edges of his eyes as his smile slipped into something closer to a frown.
    ‘Hello, Poppy. Sorry to have kept you.’
    She blushed, feeling strangely shy in front of this man who was probably, in some corner of his mind, thinking about his tuna on wholewheat and his blueberry muffin.
    ‘How are you?’ he asked as he took up his seat and placed a file upside down on the table in front of her.
    Poppy considered her answer. Gone were the days when she casually offered ‘Fine’ in response to everything. ‘Fine. I’m fine.’ She had recited the phrase throughout her childhood, even when it was far from the truth. Her memory was peppered with the avoidance of honesty when it came to enquiries about how she was faring. Embarrassment and fear were equal partners, forcing her to skirt around the issues.
    But not any more. It was one of the freedoms afforded her by her new situation. She could be honest, she had nothing to lose and she was far, far from fine.
    She took a deep breath. ‘It’s hard to describe how I’m feeling; it changes throughout the day and night. Most of the time I feel frightened and a bit sick, but I might only be feeling sick because I’m so frightened and not because of the erm… you know.’
    Mr Ramasingh nodded. ‘That’s understandable. Take another deep breath: it’s a good thing to do. You’ll be surprised how much it helps. Just getting your breathing under control can make you feel a lot better, less afraid. It’s okay.’
    Poppy felt a flicker