Every Colour of You

by Amelia Mandeville

Genres: Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

What happens when someone who lives every day to the full meets someone who can only see reasons to stop living?

We had a story — short, but not a simple one. I couldn't stay here and explain it all to you. If you really want to know, you'll have to take time out of your day.

You'll have to listen to it....

Zoe's life is full of colour. A fan of impromptu yoga, inspirational quotes and experimenting with hair dye, she's on a mission to make the most of each and every day — even if she is currently spending most of her time behind a checkout till.

Then she meets Tristan. The rumour is that since his dad died, Tristan's life has fallen apart. No one has seen him for months. But now he's reappeared, does that mean he's back to 'normal'?

Zoe soon realises Tristan is struggling with a sadness that she can't possibly understand and becomes determined to bring a world of colour back into his life. But the harder she tries, the more she realises it's something she can't fix — and in trying to put him back together, a part of her is beginning to fall apart....

Heartbreaking, heart-healing and a story you won't want to end, Amelia Mandeville's unforgettable debut is a love story with a difference, for fans of Me Before You, The Summer of Impossible Things and Giovanna Fletcher.

Release date: November 15, 2018

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 384

Sample

I turn towards Lucy. I’m having to look down at her because she’s about five foot nothing. Lucy is pretty, so I can only imagine how pretty she looks when she’s out of the nurse’s uniform. She stops by the door, opens it and stares up at me. ‘You got everything?’ she says. ‘These past few weeks have gone so quickly. It feels like just yesterday we were celebrating your birthday.’

I feel my forehead crease. I wish she wouldn’t remind me of my age. It’s safe to say that turning twenty-two here was not a personal highlight. How many twenty-two-year-olds are in a situation like mine?

I was allowed out on my birthday. Luke and I went to Winter Wonderland. It’s something we used to do every year, with Dad – that’s what happens when you have a December birthday. It was okay, if a bit strange. I grew out of it, years ago.

But today, I don’t know how I feel about leaving. This time, I won’t be coming back. I’ve had my assessment – Luke and I had a meeting with Dr Lawn a couple of days ago – so it’s real, and has been for a couple of days; but somehow it’s only just hit me, and now I feel strange. I don’t like it.

‘We’re going to miss you,’ Lucy says with another soft smile.

I wonder how many times she has said that to the other mentally unstable dickheads like me. ‘Yeah,’ I reply. I’m not going to say, ‘I’ll miss you, too’ because, honestly, I won’t. She was a good nurse, but that was her job. And now she will be a good nurse to the next guy. She’s getting paid for this shit.

‘You’ve done so well, Tristan, we’re proud of you,’ she says, reaching up and placing a hand on my shoulder. I look at her hand as she holds it there. I’m not proud. I haven’t changed. The only way that I’m different now is that I’ve learned the way to do things, the right things to say, the right way to act. I’ve got the hang of the game. Yes, I am cheating, but if it means I win, it’s okay, isn’t it?

And it’s not that I’ve given up; leaving this place doesn’t mean I’m going to jump off a bridge. This place might not have fixed me, but I still want to try to change. In fact, I’m going to change. I’m going to change for Luke, for Dad, maybe even for the people here, like Lucy, too. But I don’t want to be in this place any more. I can’t be in this place any more.

Lucy’s attention is diverted at the sound of an alarm. It’s coming from her waistband, where a small plastic device is flashing. Her pager. ‘Shit,’ she mutters as she looks down at it to see which room is calling for her help. ‘Not again.’ She looks at the door in front of us that leads towards reception, which she’d just started to open, then back at me, then at her fob, and then at me again. ‘I bet that’s Russ. Okay, I’ve got to run, Tristan,’ she says, already heading back the way we came, down the corridor to the ward. ‘I will be back, I promise. Just stay here.’ She motions to the plastic seats lining the wall.

‘But I’ve got to—’

‘I’ll be right back to sign you out. I promise. I just really need to help with this,’ she says, as the door in front of me swings shut again. My freedom being slammed in my face.

There’s no point arguing. I nod my head.

So with one more smile, Lucy legs it down the corridor to help restrain whichever poor sod is losing it right now.

I turn back towards the door in front of me, and my stomach jolts as I notice a green light. The door didn’t lock this time. Lucy didn’t fully close it. And now that the option is there, it’s tempting. I can get to the reception by myself, can’t I? The decision to send me home has been made and it’s not like I need to be chaperoned. I don’t need to be looked after.

I look back to the green light again. What does green mean? Surely green means good, as in, Good idea, Tristan. No, wait – green means go.

Let’s play a game. How many differences can we find between a private hospital and an NHS hospital? According to Jerry, the reason he pays for private health care is because of the major differences. It’s all about the differences, Zoe, he says, they could be life-saving.

Personally, I didn’t notice the differences last time I was here. Or the time before that. Or the time before that. So concentrate this time, Zoe. Really concentrate!

I walk through the doors. (Revolving doors, might I add. Do they have revolving doors in NHS hospitals? Probably.) I stride through the usual bustle of people in the waiting room and inhale the same sterile smell that always burns my nose. My phone pings; I know without looking it’ll be Jerry – eyeroll time – checking I’m okay again. It was all I could do to stop him coming with me.

I glide up to the outpatient’s desk, leaning my arms on the table, before beaming a toothy smile at the receptionist. She doesn’t smile back. Reception desk, leaflets, moody lady – the NHS have these too, you know.

‘Yes?’ the receptionist says, her lips still pursed tight.

Okay. A smile doesn’t hurt anybody, lady.

‘I have a reason to be here,’ I say. I don’t say why, and I don’t say who I’m seeing, nor do I say what my name is. Let’s see if she can work it out from my very vague sentence. Because maybe the private factor is that the receptionists are mind readers. Now that would be worth paying extra for.

‘And that is?’ the lady replies with an exaggerated sigh.

Okay, she’s not a mind reader. Slightly disappointed, but good to get it clarified early.

I form another smile, sickly sweet this time. ‘My name is Zoe Miller, and I’m here to see my—’

‘Are you in the system?’ She cuts me off as her eyes move to her computer.

‘Erm … yeah, I guess so, but last time I just told them my name and—’

‘I need to check you’re on the system first.’

Jesus. She won’t let me get a word in edgeways. ‘Okay,’ I start, ‘but I’m pretty sure I go to floor three. I always do, and I’m here quite a lot—’

‘Madam, as I was saying, I need to check you’re on the system first.’ Did she just call me madam? She gives me a wad of paper and a pen. ‘In the meantime, fill this in,’ she says.

I look down at the paper, it’s some standard new patient form. ‘I don’t think I need to fill this in. I’m seeing—’

‘Madam,’ she says, cutting me off again. Since when have I been a madam? ‘Take a seat and I’ll call you.’

She turns away and I lower my eyebrows in defeat. I’m not one for conflict, so I sigh, turn around, walk towards the waiting area and sit down next to some twitchy bald guy.

I look at the form and start writing my name, but I know it’s pointless. So I drop the form on the floor, ungracefully flick off my flip-flops, cross my legs, and then throw a smile at the twitching guy. It’s safe to say he has other things on his mind. Bless him.

I glance around. So this is the waiting room of a private hospital, eh? I never pay much attention when I’m here, as I usually glide on upstairs, but I have to say it is a lot quieter, calmer and cleaner than other hospitals I’ve been to. I shuffle my bum in the seat. Hmmm. The seats are pretty comfortable, too. Okay, private hospital, I’ll give you that, you have comfy seats. But still, these aren’t life-changing differences, for sure. What is Jerry chatting about? Jerry is my dad, by the way. I call him Jerry because, well, it’s his name – and I like to keep things simple in life. I rarely call him ‘Dad’ because that would just confuse things. So, Jerry it is.

I’m still scanning the waiting room, trying to find the thing that makes it extra special, when, boom. Pow. Whack. I find it.

A coffee machine.

Yes, people, there’s a coffee machine in this waiting room – a fancy barista-style one, no less. Move over Starbucks, private health care has got our backs. I’m not entirely sure why I’m getting so excited about this when I don’t even drink coffee any more. But still, my past inner-coffee-addict is jumping up and down. Flat white, please. In fact, let’s add an extra shot to that.

Resisting that dark, velvety espresso-urge inside me, I turn my eyes back to the receptionist, wondering when she is going to call me. I know for a fact that I’m not supposed to be chilling here, and I’m so bored that I have now entered into a staring contest with her. She’s staring at her computer, I’m staring at her – which of us will blink first? Well, my friends, only time will tell. And I’ll let you in on a secret: I’m amazing at staring competitions. Call me cocky, but I always win. And you know what? It was going pretty well until some guy walked in front of the desk, blocking my line of sight. The unexpected movement distracts me, getting me all flustered, and I blink. Great. Thanks for ruining the game, man. I was only going to win. No big deal.

The guy turns, his eyes narrowed, towards the nurse who led him in, like he’s unsure of himself. Or maybe he needs glasses. ‘Thanks,’ he mumbles. ‘I’m sorry … I just … I got lost.’

‘No problem,’ the nurse says with a kind smile, before walking away.

I shuffle on to the seat next to me to get back my view of the receptionist. She is typing away on her computer but once she sees the guy standing in front of her she lifts her head up and smiles. Yes, I said that right, people, she smiles at this random boy. Well, I feel slightly offended now.

‘One minute, hon,’ she says.

Hon? Seriously? I get madam, and he gets hon. Not fair. The guy looks nervously around the waiting room, his eyes scanning from face to face, door to door. I think he’s looking for someone, and the longer he searches, the more panicked he’s seeming to get. He quickly turns back to the lady at reception. She’s focused on her computer screen, and it looks like he wants to say something, but then he whips his head back to us coffee-lovers in the waiting room. I can practically see his chest pumping underneath his ragged, grey denim jacket. He glances back at the receptionist one last time before hesitantly shuffling away and slumping himself down in one of the chairs opposite me.

I watch him as he continues to survey the room. He’s definitely looking for someone, and getting impatient with it as well.

He’s an odd-looking one. I’m not saying he’s the worst-looking, but he’s not typically beautiful either. He has a very distinctive face. I’d say he’s probably about my age, maybe older, with dark hair and dark eyes to match his clothes. Hmm, nothing like a bit of colour, hey? He looks like the love child of Green Day and Nirvana. Stick some eyeliner on him and he’ll be an American Idiot. Wait. Is he wearing eyeliner? I squint at his face. No. I think he just has rather impressive eyelashes, and if that’s the case, I’m jealous. Though I’m definitely not jealous of this dude’s eye bags; he looks a whole other level of tired. Maybe he’s older than I thought, because how can a twenty-year-old have bags like that? He looks like he hasn’t been outside in a while either. All in all, he looks a little bit ill. Maybe he’s a vampire, because his sweaty white skin seems to be shivering under the white hospital lights.

As I cup my head in my hands and continue to watch him, I exhale a happy sigh. I love people-watching. I can’t work out what sort of guy he is. I wouldn’t say he’s purposely trying to be punk rock, more like his genes have just made him fall into that sort of category. His hair might be dark, but I highly doubt it’s dyed.

A plump woman, who reminds me of an overgrown peach, shuffles her way past me, reeking of smoke, and sits herself down to Mr Billie Joe Armstrong Jr. She smiles at him, he tries to smile back, but his mouth gets twisted on his face. It looks painful. He glances around at the spare seats, probably wondering why she chose to sit right next to him. Then the woman looks over at the desk and stands up, placing her handbag on the seat.

‘Will you watch my bag for me, dear?’ she says to him. He got a hon earlier and a dear now, lucky boy.

Mr Eyeliner forces a short uncomfortable nod, and his eyes stay glued to her as she shuffles her way up to the desk again. He’s gripping on to either side of his chair, and his foot is tapping on the floor. This guy needs to calm down, it’s only a handbag. Have some herbal tea or something, I’m sure it’s on offer here.

Mr Eyeliner slowly and carefully moves his eyes from the woman waiting at the desk towards her bag. Oh, now things are getting interesting. Get the popcorn out. As he glances back to the lady, he swiftly slips his hand in her bag. He rummages for a few seconds before taking out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. He looks down, analysing them, and must be content with his findings because he shoves them into his pocket. His eyes quickly dart around the room to check that no one saw him.

But, oh.

His eyes catch mine and his face falls.

Yes, dude. I saw what you did there. I caught you red-handed. As he stares at me, I can’t help but feel my mouth turn up at the corners. I start smiling. I’m evil, I know, but I continue to smile as the lady sits back down next to him. He doesn’t let his eyes leave me.

‘Thanks, love,’ the lady says, moving the bag back on to her lap. He shuffles in his chair in response, not letting his eyes stray from mine. I stick my tongue out at him. He registers it – his mouth tightens and his eyebrows lowers – but he doesn’t seem to know how to react. So I cross my eyes. But again he just exhales and sits up straighter in his chair.

Ooh. Wait till you see my monkey impression, friend. Things are going to get fun here.

I decided I could find my own way to the waiting room, but I ended up getting lost, stopped by a nurse and chaperoned here anyway. There’s no sign of Luke. And now there is this girl staring at me. Not just staring, but pulling faces. I don’t like it. She saw me steal a woman’s fags, and I thought she was going to call me out for it, but then she just started pulling faces. I have a feeling she knows she is making me uncomfortable, but she’s still not stopping. Right now, she is jutting her chin out, creating a bizarre shape with her mouth.

Even if it wasn’t for the stupid faces she’s pulling, I’d have noticed this girl anyway. For starters, she has purple hair. Her hair is actual bright purple. It looks like she’s been photoshopped. She has it tied up into a messy bun, and is wearing giant bright pink hoops in her ears. But that doesn’t even compare to the rest of her outfit. She’s got these blue high-waisted trousers on, pulled in with an overly tight belt around her waist, into which she’s tucked a giant multicoloured sweater. It’s like she’s from the eighties or something. She is sitting cross-legged on the chair with bare feet, her flip-flops discarded nearby on the floor. Do I need to remind you it’s February?

The girl is still staring. What is she doing? Does she even have a reason to be here, or does she visit hospital waiting rooms to pull faces at people?

Talking about people, where is Luke? Please let today be one of the days that he behaves like an older brother. Please. I’m scared he won’t show up at all, and then Lucy will find me and ask why I took off. Then she’ll say she doesn’t think I’ve changed, and she’ll take me to Dr Lawn, and they will tell me I need to stay.

No. I don’t want that to happen. I can’t let that happen.

Breathe, Tristan.

I should ask the receptionist if Luke has shown up, but what if she calls Lucy, or Dr Lawn? What if I get in trouble for leaving? Lucy is probably looking for me already.

I stroke the cigarette packet in my pocket. They let me smoke here, though they weren’t keen on it. Only a few times a day in the designated area outside, and sometimes it wasn’t even that. Luke always used to get annoyed about me smoking when he visited. He complained about it to them, but he didn’t realise he had no control over it. Even if he did send me away, he needs to realise I’m an adult, not a teenager, not a kid.

I look down at my bag, which I thought would have been fuller. It has all my belongings in it, as well as my prescription, letters about the follow-up meetings and some leaflets. I say belongings, but it’s hardly even that. I wasn’t allowed anything of mine in the ward. The amount of times Luke used to bring me stuff from home and they’d say it broke the rules in some way. So eventually he stopped bringing my things, and brought Nando’s takeaways instead, which I didn’t complain about. So, basically, what I’m saying is that after a six-month stay my bag is pretty empty, considering. I have nothing to take away from these past six months, nothing to show for it.

It probably didn’t help the situation when I lashed out and smashed my room up. They had to restrain me, pinning me to the floor, even harder than they had any other time. Do you know what it feels like to have people pinning you to the ground in order to calm you down? Well, it doesn’t calm you down, I’ll tell you that.

After that ‘episode’ I wasn’t allowed anything. And it’s not like I brought a whole load with me initially. When I first came here, I wasn’t planning to stay long. In fact, I wasn’t planning to stay full stop.

I stroke the cigarette box in my pocket again. I wonder how many cigarettes you’d have to smoke in one sitting to die.

‘Zoe Miller,’ the receptionist calls. The girl with purple hair stands up, and I’m not sure what name I was expecting her to have, but something like ‘Rainbow’ would have made much more sense than Zoe. She nods her head, before dashing towards the lifts. I look back to her seat. Her multicoloured flip-flops are still on the floor.

I pick my flip-flops up on my way out, not without getting some stink eye from the receptionist. She definitely didn’t like me. Maybe she’s jealous of the hair. Did I tell you that I forgot my flip-flops? I noticed once I got upstairs but I wasn’t going to run downstairs and get them. Anyway, I quite like being bare-footed. It’s good for you. Not necessarily in a hospital, but outside it is so good. You connect more to the earth when you’re bare-footed, your skin making contact with the ground, you know? It’s the way it’s supposed to be. The best thing is walking through dirt, feeling it beneath your toes, smelling it in the air. Ah man, it’s just great.

Once I get outside I text Jerry to let him know I’m making my way home, ignoring his five messages from earlier. If you can’t tell … he worries. Whereas Paul, even if he didn’t hear from me again for two weeks, would be as chilled as cucumber. Well maybe not quite. Jerry and Paul are both my dads, but Jerry is definitely the mother-dad, while Paul is the father-dad. Ask my little sister Leia (Jerry was, and still is, a huge Star Wars fan) and she will totally agree.

Jerry has a motherly nature – he’s over-protective, nosy and highly controlling, but he’s also understanding. I think that’s a decent description of a mother, right? I don’t actually know because I’ve never had one, so I’m making my best guess here. Paul couldn’t be more different from Jerry – he’s much more relaxed, as well as quieter, but also very serious when he wants to be.

I’m walking towards the bus stop right outside the hospital but I come to a sudden stop when I see a certain someone already standing there. Yes, it’s Mr Eyeliner, the Jesus of Suburbia himself. He’s leant up against the brick wall, smoking one of his stolen cigarettes. He’s in a world of his own, and hasn’t seen me. Unlucky for him. He puts the cigarette in his mouth again. He is sucking on that thing like it’s an inhaler, with his other hand tapping against the wooden side of the bus shelter, and he’s muttering quietly. It’s like he’s having a silent argument with himself. But hey, I’m not judging. After all, it’s not any of my business …

I’m about to keep walking when in one smooth movement he lifts one of his hands up, clenches it into a fist, and … smack.

Oh.

Okay.

He just smashed his hand into the wood of the bus shelter. This guy just punched the wall.

He turns around, and his eyes catch mine. Yet again, mystery man, I think, I’ve caught you in the act of something you probably shouldn’t be doing.

I can’t work out what he’s thinking, but I know he doesn’t waste any time in leaving. He frowns, drops his cigarette and walks away. As he quickly shuffles off, the cigarette box falls delicately out of his trouser pocket. Almost as if it’s calling out to me. He doesn’t notice, of course; he’s too worried about leaving.

Once he’s rounded the next corner, I glide towards the spot he was standing and peer at the wood. There is a faint smear of red – it’s blood. Why would he choose to do that to his own hand? I look down at the cigarette box on the floor and pick it up, feeling a small . . .