Me Before You: A Novel

boss you could find for your girlfriend, eh, Patrick?’
    Across the table, Patrick smiled. He was busy refusing potatoes, despite Mum’s best efforts. He was having a non-carb month, ready for a marathon in early March.
    ‘You know, I was thinking, will you have to learn sign language? I mean, if he can’t communicate, how will you know what he wants?’
    ‘She didn’t say he couldn’t talk, Mum.’ I couldn’t actually remember
what
Mrs Traynor had said. I was still vaguely in shock at actually having been given a job.
    ‘Maybe he talks through one of those devices. Like that scientist bloke. The one on
The Simpsons
.’
    ‘Bugger,’ said Thomas.
    ‘Nope,’ said Bernard.
    ‘Stephen Hawking,’ said Patrick.
    ‘That’s you, that is,’ Mum said, looking accusingly from Thomas to Dad. She could cut steak with that look. ‘Teaching him bad language.’
    ‘It is not. I don’t know where he’s getting it from.’
    ‘Bugger,’ said Thomas, looking directly at his grandfather.
    Treena made a face. ‘I think it would freak me out, if he talked through one of those voice boxes. Can you imagine?
Get-me-a-drink-of-water
,’ she mimicked.
    Bright – but not bright enough not to get herself up the duff, as Dad occasionally muttered. She had been the first member of our family to go to university, until Thomas’s arrival had caused her to drop out during her final year. Mum and Dad still held out hopes that one day she would bring the family a fortune. Or possibly work in a place with a reception desk that didn’t have a security screen around it. Either would do.
    ‘Why would being in a wheelchair mean he had to speak like a Dalek?’ I said.
    ‘But you’re going to have to get up close and personal to him. At the very least you’ll have to wipe his mouth and give him drinks and stuff.’
    ‘So? It’s hardly rocket science.’
    ‘Says the woman who used to put Thomas’s nappy on inside out.’
    ‘That was once.’
    ‘Twice. And you only changed him three times.’
    I helped myself to green beans, trying to look more sanguine than I felt.
    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? What if I couldn’t understand what it was he wanted? I was legendarily bad at caring for things; we no longer had houseplants at home, or pets, after the disasters that were the hamster, the stick insects and Randolph the goldfish. And how often was that stiff mother of his going to be around? I didn’t like the thought of being watched all the time. Mrs Traynor seemed like the kind of woman whose gaze turned capable hands into fingers and thumbs.
    ‘Patrick, what do you think of it all, then?’
    Patrick took a long slug of water, and shrugged.
    Outside, the rain beat on the windowpanes, just audible over the clatter of plates and cutlery.
    ‘It’s good money, Bernard. Better than working nights at the chicken factory, anyway.’
    There was a general murmur of agreement around the table.
    ‘Well, it comes to something when the best you can all say about my new career is that it’s better than hauling chicken carcasses around the inside of an aircraft hangar,’ I said.
    ‘Well, you could always get fit in the meantime and go and do some of your personal training stuff with Patrick here.’
    ‘Get fit. Thanks, Dad.’ I had been about to reach for another potato, and now changed my mind.
    ‘Well, why not?’ Mum looked as if she might actually sit down – everyone paused briefly, but no, she was up again, helping Granddad to some gravy. ‘It might be worth bearing in mind for the future. You’ve certainly got the gift of the gab.’
    ‘She has the gift of the flab.’ Dad snorted.
    ‘I’ve just
got
myself a job,’ I said. ‘Paying more than the last one too, if you don’t mind.’
    ‘But it is only temporary,’ Patrick interjected. ‘Your Dad’s right. You might want to start getting in shape while you do it. You could be a good personal trainer, if you put in a bit of effort.’
    ‘I don’t
want
to be a personal trainer. I don’t fancy … all that … bouncing.’ I mouthed an insult at Patrick, who grinned.
    ‘What Lou wants is a job where she can put her feet up and watch daytime telly while feeding old Ironside there through a straw,’ said Treena.
    ‘Yes. Because rearranging limp dahlias into buckets of water requires