Page 125 of While I’m Still Here

I stare at him for a moment, wondering whether the lack of breakfast has somehow affected my ability to understand basic English. “All three of you?”

Colin nods, and when I turn towards Marcus for confirmation, he has the decency to look faintly embarrassed. Danny, on the other hand, has apparently decided that if the conspiracy is going to be exposed, he might as well take control of the narrative.

“It was supposed to be a nice thing,” he explains, gesturing towards the toaster. “Nobody eating or drinking while you're not allowed anything. Bit of solidarity. Very wholesome. Unfortunately, I woke up starving and forgot about the entire fucking arrangement until Marcus came downstairs.”

“You were making toast, literally less than eight hours after agreeing to not eat”, Marcus points out.

I look at the plate in Marcus's hands, then at Danny, who is still holding the butter knife he apparently used to spread an alarming amount of Lurpak onto something that now resembles a roof tile. “Hang on. You actually buttered it?”

Danny glances down at the knife as though it has materialised in his hand without his knowledge. “Apparently I did to the first piece, yes.”

“You forgot you weren't allowed to eat, made yourself breakfast, burned it, buttered it anyway and then remembered you weren’t suppsed to be eating?”

“When you say it like that, it sounds considerably worse than it was.”

I start laughing before he even finishes, and Colin immediately joins in when Danny tries to demonstrate how the toaster must have malfunctioned. Marcus, still holding the evidence, looks as though he would very much like to return to a life where he lived alone, owned nice things, and never had to discuss the operational capabilities of a fucking toaster before six in the morning. “I'm surrounded by idiots,” he mutters, tipping the toast into the bin.

“Three very attractive idiots,” Danny corrects him.

“I'm not including myself in that equation.”

“A bit arrogant, but I respect the confidence,” Danny mutters, nodding his head at him.

I have to sit down at the kitchen table because my stomach hurts and I am dangerously close to wetting myself. Danny is now explaining that his toast was actually intended as an act of service because he was going to make breakfast for everybody else, which is an interesting defence considering nobody was supposed to be eating anything in the first place. Marcus points this out, prompting Danny to accuse him of being deliberately obstructive during an already difficult morning.

“Right,” I announce, wiping beneath my eyes. “Everybody shut up. I need to understand exactly how fucking stupid this situation is.”

Danny pulls out the chair beside mine and sits down, apparently delighted that we're finally giving his side of the story the attention it deserves. Colin leans against the counter while Marcus opens the kitchen window a little wider, presumably hoping to remove both the smoke and Danny from the premises.

“You three have decided to fast with me,” I begin, looking pointedly at each of them. “Even though none of you is having surgery, none of you has been told to fast, and all three of you could quite happily have a bacon sandwich while I sit here contemplating whether cannibalism is technically against NHS policy.”

“Correct,” Colin says.

“And Danny forgot?”

“Also correct.”

Danny raises a finger. “I'd like it noted that I remembered before actually eating the toast.”

“Because Marcus caught you.”

“An irrelevant technicality.”

I look towards Marcus, who is now checking the time on his phone. “And you're doing this voluntarily? Because you look like the sort of man who has breakfast at precisely six fifteen every morning and reports anybody who interferes with the schedule.”

“Six thirty,” Marcus replies without looking up.

I gape at him. “Of course it fucking is.”

He slips his phone into his pocket and finally gives me his full attention. “We thought it might be nicer if you weren't the only one sitting here hungry. That's all.”

For some reason, I look down at the table. There is a small burn mark near my elbow from the time I attempted to light a candle while spectacularly drunk, a pile of hospital paperwork beneath the fruit bowl and my overnight bag sitting beside the front door. I can see the corner of my pink folder sticking out of it, which is particularly offensive considering I have spent the better part of three months attempting to rid my life of that fucking colour.

I look back at the three men in my kitchen. “You're all fucking idiots,” I tell them, although it comes out considerably softer than intended.

Colin smiles and pulls out the chair beside me. “Yeah, well. You've chosen some questionable boyfriends.”

“Three of them,” Marcus adds.