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I had never considered that you might miss a job like you missed a limb — a con- stant, reflexive thing. That it would be harder to get up in the morning than when you were rudely shocked into consciousness by the alarm.

That you might miss the people you worked with, no matter how little you had in common with them. Or even that you might find yourself searching for familiar faces as you walked the high street. Now this might work. This very minute. Care assistant position. He needs someone in the daylight hours to help feed and assist. Quite a lot more than the minimum wage. But we both knew the answer. I sighed, and gathered up my bag ready for the trip home.

Behind me, Granddad was laughing into his mug of tea. Everything that is sensible, or smart, Katrina did first, despite being eighteen months younger than me.

Every book I ever read she had read first, every fact I mentioned at the dinner table she already knew. She is the only person I know who actually likes exams. Her idea of smart is ironing the jeans first. I supposed I would probably marry Patrick, knock out a few kids, live a few streets away from where I had always lived. An ordinary girl, leading an ordinary life.

It actu- ally suited me fine. Just try to look like a normal person. And I could tell Dad had been instructed not to comment on my outfit as I walked out of the house, my gait awkward in the too-tight skirt. You look very … businesslike. I felt the waist- band cutting into my midriff, and pulled the double-breasted jacket across. I sat through the short bus journey feeling faintly sick. I had never had a proper job inter- view. I had walked in and simply asked Frank if he needed a spare pair of hands.

It had been his first day open and he had looked almost blinded by gratitude. What did people ask in interviews anyway? And what if they asked me to do something practical with this old man, to feed him or bath him or something?

Mum had done it all. I was pretty sure nobody had ever described me as such. Granta House was on the other side of Stort- fold Castle, close to the medieval walls, on the long unpavemented stretch that comprised only four houses and the National Trust shop, bang in the middle of the tourist area. I had passed this house a million times in my life without ever ac- tually properly seeing it. I walked up the long drive, trying not to think about whether anybody was watching out of the window.

Walking up a long drive puts you at a disadvantage; it automatically makes you feel in- ferior. I was just contemplating whether to actu- ally tug at my forelock, when the door opened and I jumped. A woman, not much older than me, stepped out into the porch. She was wearing white slacks and a medical-looking tunic and carried a coat and a folder under her arm.

As she passed me she gave a polite smile. She was wearing a trouser suit that I guessed cost more than my dad earned in a month. The young people never offered up a hand these days, my parents had agreed. This woman did not look like she would have wel- comed an air kiss. Do come in. My name is Camilla Traynor. I followed her through to a huge room with floor to ceiling French windows. Heavy curtains draped elegantly from fat mahogany curtain poles, and the floors were carpeted with intric- ately decorated Persian rugs.

It smelt of beeswax and antique furniture. There were little elegant side tables everywhere, their burnished surfaces covered with ornamental boxes. I wondered briefly where on earth the Traynors put their cups of tea. Do sit down. But this was like one of those scarily expensive ho- tels, steeped in old money, with well-loved things that looked valuable in their own right. There were silver-framed photographs on a side- board, but they were too far away for me to make out the faces.

As she scanned her pages, I shifted in my seat, to try to get a better look. And it was then that I heard it — the unmistak- able sound of stitches ripping. I glanced down to see the two pieces of material that joined at the side of my right leg had torn apart, sending frayed pieces of silk thread shooting upwards in an ungainly fringe.

I felt my face flood with col- our. There are varying degrees, but in this case we are talk- ing about complete loss of use of the legs, and very limited use of the hands and arms. Would that bother you? Camilla Traynor ticked something on her list. The rip was growing. I could see it creeping inexorably up my thigh. At this rate, by the time I stood up I would look like a Vegas showgirl. Do you mind if I take my jacket off?

You know. You should have a copy of my referen- ce. Oh hell, I thought. It was as if I were being studied. Not necessar- ily in a good way. I should just have worn my plainest trousers and a shirt. Anything but this suit. The Buttered Bun. Would this be a stepping stone to something else? Do you have a professional dream that you wish to pursue? Was this some kind of trick question? Since I lost my job. What kind of person came to an interview without even knowing what she wanted to do?

She put down her pen. The thought of going home with a ruined suit and another interview failure was beyond me. I sat up a bit. The thought of it being her son had thrown me. It would be for a maximum of six months. That is why the salary is … com- mensurate. We wanted to attract the right per- son. I bit my lip. But Mrs Traynor seemed oblivious. She closed her file.

I have recently re- turned to work, and the carer would be required to be here throughout the day to keep him com- pany, help him with food and drink, generally provide an extra pair of hands, and make sure that he comes to no harm. Payment will be weekly.

There is no lunch break as such, although when Nathan, his daily nurse, comes in at lunchtime to attend to him, there should be a free half an hour.

What we want for him is somebody ro- bust … and upbeat. Finally, she turned back to me. Do you understand? Would I … wear a uniform? Definitely no uniform. It ripped. Will is not the easiest person to be around at the moment, Miss Clark. This job is going to be about mental attitude as much as any … professional skills you might have.

We will see you tomorrow? Thank you. She put two on, he parried, lifting a third and fourth from the serving dish. She blocked him, steering them back on to the serving dish, finally rapping him on the knuckles with the serving spoon when he made for them again. Around the little table sat my parents, my sister and Thomas, my granddad, and Patrick — who always came for dinner on Wednesdays. On the other side she had already done the same for Thomas.

Behind me, the television was on so that Dad and Patrick could watch the football. For a good family. Are they posh, love? What was he like? Nine hours.

Probably the best boss you could find for your girlfriend, eh, Patrick? He was having a non-carb month, ready for a mara- thon in early March. I was still vaguely in shock at actually having been given a job.

Like that scientist bloke. The one on The Simpsons. She could cut steak with that look. Treena made a face. Can you imagine? Bright — but not bright enough not to get her- self up the duff, as Dad occasionally muttered. Mum and Dad still held out hopes that one day she would bring the family a fortune. Either would do. And you only changed him three times. But even as I had ridden the bus home, the same thoughts had already started buzzing around my head.

What would we talk about? What if he just stared at me, head lolling, all day? Would I be freaked out? I was le- gendarily bad at caring for things; we no longer had houseplants at home, or pets, after the disas- ters that were the hamster, the stick insects and Randolph the goldfish.

And how often was that stiff mother of his going to be around? Mrs Traynor seemed like the kind of woman whose gaze turned capable hands into fingers and thumbs. Outside, the rain beat on the windowpanes, just audible over the clatter of plates and cutlery.

Better than work- ing nights at the chicken factory, anyway. Thanks, Dad. You might want to start get- ting in shape while you do it. You could be a good personal trainer, if you put in a bit of ef- fort. This is the spare room so that Nathan can stay over if necessary. We needed someone quite often in the early days. There seemed to be an expectation that I would keep up. Nathan should be able to show you how the ramp works.

I keep the cupboards stocked. There was an open wet area under the shower, with a folded wheelchair beside it. In the corner a glass-fronted cabinet revealed neat stacks of shrink-wrapped bales. Mrs Traynor closed the door, and turned briefly to face me. If something unavoidable comes up either ring the intercom, as my husband, Steven, may be home, or call my mobile number.

If you do need to take any time off, I would appreciate as much notice as possible. It is not always easy finding cover. She spoke like someone reciting a well-rehearsed speech. I wondered briefly how many carers there had been before me. The cleaning equipment is under the sink. He may not want you around him all the time. You and he will have to work out your level of interaction for yourselves. I was wearing the very shaggy waist- coat thing that Dad says makes me look like an emu.

I tried to smile. It seemed like an effort. It would be nice if he could think of you as a friend rather than a paid professional. What does he … um … like to do? Sometimes he listens to the radio, or to music. He has one of those digital things. If you position it near his hand, he can usually manipulate it himself. He has some movement in his fingers, although he finds it hard to grip. I had a sudden picture of myself and this man laughing at some Hollywood comedy, me running the Hoover around the bedroom while he listened to his music.

Perhaps this was going to be okay. Perhaps we might end up as friends. I have Miss Clark to meet you, Will. A wood burner glowed quietly in the corner, and a low beige sofa faced a huge flat-screen television, its seats covered by a wool throw.

The mood of the room was taste- ful, and peaceful — a Scandinavian bachelor pad. In the centre of the room stood a black wheel- chair, its seat and back cushioned by sheepskin. As we stepped into the room, the man in the wheelchair looked up from under shaggy, unkempt hair. His eyes met mine and after a pause, he let out a blood- curdling groan.

Then his mouth twisted, and he let out another unearthly cry. I felt his mother stiffen. Another prehistoric sound emerged from somewhere near his chest. It was a terrible, agonizing noise. I tried not to flinch. The man was grimacing, his head tilted and sunk into his shoulders as he stared at me through contorted features. He looked grotesque, and vaguely angry. I realized that where I held my bag, my knuckles had turned white. I swal- lowed, hard. The man was still staring at me.

He seemed to be waiting for me to do something. Will Traynor gazed at me steadily, the faintest of smiles flickering across his face. He shook his head as he stood up. Very bad. Nathan ex- uded an air of unflappability. His bark is worse than his bite. She moved it backwards and forwards along its thin gold chain, a nervous habit.

Her face was rigid. You can call through using the intercom if you need any help. She kept her gaze about ten feet away on the floor. Mrs Traynor disappeared. We were silent while we listened to her clipped footsteps disap- pearing down the hall towards the main house. Then Nathan broke the silence. You want the television? Some music? This lot is mostly my bag, but you do need to know where everything is in case of emergen- cies.

He mostly knows what he needs. But he might need a little help getting them down. We tend to use this beaker here. So he has two meds for blood pres- sure, this to lower it at bedtime, this one to raise it when he gets out of bed. These he needs fairly often to control his muscular spasms — you will need to give him one mid-morning, and again at mid-afternoon.

These are for bladder spasms, and these here are for acid reflux. He sometimes needs these after eating if he gets uncomfortable.

There are the boxes of rubber gloves, if you need to clean him up at all. Not even Will, okay? Guard it with your life. All you need to remem- ber for today are his anti-spasm meds. Those ones. Nathan shook his head. His catheter takes care of that. Understandable, given … the cir- cumstances. That little skit this morning is his way of getting you off balance.

No such thing as a free lunch, eh? I felt my body reverberate with it. I followed him back into the living room. You want anything be- fore I go? Thank you, Nathan. See you lunchtime, mate.

I stood in the middle of the room, hands thrust in my pockets, unsure what to do. The girl who makes tea for a living. I wondered how long it would be before you wanted to show off your skills. No, thank you. I closed it. Dad always said it made me look more stupid than I actually was. His jaw was covered in several weeks of stubble, and his eyes were unreadable. He turned away. From the safety of the kitchen I pulled out my mobile phone and thumped out a message to my sister.

This is awful. He hates me. The reply came back within seconds. You have only been there an hour, you wuss! X I snapped my mobile phone shut, and blew out my cheeks. I went through the laundry basket in the bathroom, managing to raise a paltry quarter load of washing, and spent some minutes check- ing the instructions to the machine.

I pulled the vacuum clean- er from the hall cupboard and ran it up and down the corridor and into the two bedrooms, thinking all the while that if my parents could see me they would have insisted on taking a commemorative photograph.

The spare bedroom was almost empty, like a hotel room. I suspected Nathan did not stay over often. There was a built-in shelf unit along one side, upon which sat around twenty framed photographs. As I vacuumed around the bed, I allowed my- self a quick peek at them. There was a man bun- gee jumping from a cliff, his arms outstretched like a statue of Christ.

There was a man who might have been Will in what looked like jungle, and him again in the midst of a group of drunken friends. There he was on a ski slope, beside a girl with dark glasses and long blonde hair. I stooped, to get a better view of him in his ski goggles.

He was clean-shaven in the photograph, and even in the bright light his face had that expensive sheen to it that moneyed people get through going on holiday three times a year. He had broad, muscu- lar shoulders visible even through his ski jacket.

I put the photograph carefully back on the table and continued to vacuum around the back of the bed. Finally, I turned the vacuum cleaner off, and began to wind the cord up. As I reached down to unplug it, I caught a movement in the corner of my eye and jumped, letting out a small shriek. Will Traynor was in the doorway, watch- ing me. Two and a half years ago. Wondering how awful it must be to live like that and then turn into a cripple.

And then with a low hum the wheelchair turned to the right, and he disappeared. The morning sagged and decided to last for sev- eral years. I tried to find as many jobs to occupy myself as I could, and went into the living room as seldom as possible, knowing I was being cowardly, but not really caring. At eleven I brought Will Traynor a beaker of water and his anti-spasm medication, as Nathan had requested.

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