He switches to loudspeaker, drowns a tea bag, then pulps it in the peaty water.
A series of clicks then a low hum.
‘Thank you for waiting. Your call is important to us. We are experiencing a high volume of calls at the moment. You are currently eighty-seven in the queue. Please note that you may find the answer to your query on our website www.cavendishbanking.com. Alternatively, please hold.’ The irritating sound of Vivaldi’s ‘Four Seasons.’
‘Oh, fuck off!’ The phone glances off the granite worktop.
An irksome itch under his wedding ring forces him to scratch at his skin like a rodent. Soon, pink weals spiral across his hands and wrists.
‘Enough!’ he wails, flinging his arm out and knocking over his tea. An insidious stain creeps over the list, blurring the words. Enough for today. No more. One out of four is an achievement. The rest can wait until tomorrow.
He takes an antihistamine tablet, then stretches out on the sofa. Balancing a cushion behind his head, and working his shoulder blades against the linen ticking, he shifts around from side to side so that his neck curves round one armrest and his smooth, bare feet jut out over the other. Feathery contrails are just visible through the casement windows and he can feel the slanting sun on his face. Shifting shadows migrate across the wall and quilt the carpet, the heat under his skin abates and his eyelids feel heavy.
When he wakes his feet are freezing. The room is a haze of grey. Leaden walls, ashen cabinets, tungsten mirror. The cold breath of the winter afternoon whispers through the cracks in the windowsills, nagging him out of his inertia. Fuzzy outlines become three-dimensional. The hands on the wall clock tell him he has been lying there for at least three hours. Grimacing at the ache in his shoulders and neck, he sits up. Acid sours his palate. He needs a drink and a shower. The bottle of tonic in the fridge door is three-quarters empty so he drains it, the last drops fizzing over his chin, then he drags himself upstairs and runs the taps.
Jets of hot water pepper his chest. He lathers the hair on his arms into soapy meringues. The heat seeps into the atrophied musculature of his right forearm and soothes his tethered scars. His left hand moves in firm, circular movements across his chest, over his thighs, between his legs, coaxing energy back into his body. He emerges from the verbena-scented fug and cocoons himself in a downy bath towel. Gradually the mist clears.
There are three new messages on his voicemail.
‘Hi, Dominic, it’s Carla. We’ve been held up a bit. Back by four thirty-ish, thanks.’
‘Hi, Mate, it’s Mike. Table’s booked. Rose and Crown tomorrow. Twelve thirty. That’ll fit in with our appointment. Let me know if that’s okay. Cheers.’
‘Hello, Mr. Peterson? My name is Fleur Kinsman. I’m from the Gazette. We have met before, you may not remember. I hope you don’t mind me ringing. It’s Multiple Sclerosis Week next week and we’re doing a piece to raise awareness. I wondered if you’d be interested in contributing your thoughts. Apologies if you’re not up to it and quite understand. But do let me know on this number if you are. Thank you so much.’
He turns on the radio. Someone is talking about the origins of colloquial expressions. The familiar accent makes him smile. ‘Don’t get mardy with me,’ Madeleine would say, deliberately reverting to her northern slang whenever he was feeling moody. They hardly ever had an argument.
The words from the radio flow over him, dispersing at the sound of the doorbell. Its tone is prolonged, intrusive. He wants to ignore it but the buzzing persists, so he descends the stairs two at a time and sees a blotch of blue behind the frosted glass of the front door.
‘I hope I didn’t wake you up,’ says Priya, with a smile that fills her face. Her pristine uniform exudes order and calm. ‘I’m off duty soon and I really wanted to catch you today.’ She follows him down to the kitchen.
‘I’d offer you coffee,’ says Dominic, ‘but I was just–’
‘Thanks for the offer, but I haven’t got time today.’
‘And before you ask, -shit- that’s how I’m feeling.’
‘That’s okay, Dominic. I wouldn’t expect anything else.’ Priya deposits her shoulder bag on the floor, bends down to extract something from the pocket, and sits down at the kitchen table. ‘What about Bella? How’s she doing?’
He shrugs. ‘Just the usual coughs and colds. We’re managing.’
‘Well, look, I just wanted to give you this card from the hospice. It’s our twenty-four-hour helpline. Just because we’re not going to be popping in to see you anymore, it doesn’t mean we’ve forgotten about you. You know there’s plenty of support available to help you through the next stage of your journey.’
Dominic bites his lip. He wants to tell her he’s not on a fucking train, admiring the scenery. ‘I’m not sure what to say,’ he utters, his voice trailing off. ‘I guess, in a funny kind of way I’m going to miss you. When I say funny, I don’t mean funny. I mean, I’m sorry that you had to come here in the first place. Oh, that sounds awful. It’s not that I’m ungrateful or anything. I am really grateful for everything you’ve done.’
She smiles and leans over to place her hand on top of his. ‘That’s okay. My privilege. I hope, as time goes on, you’ll find strength in knowing that, when the end came, Madeleine was at home, with you by her side.’
Her touch is gentle. It occurs to Dominic that, throughout the course of her frequent visits over the past month, he doesn’t know the first thing about Priya, beyond the spotless uniform, the scrubbed nails, the calm efficiency. He wonders if she’s ever reached out in the middle of the night to a cold hollow on the opposite side of the bed.
‘Well I better be going now,’ she says, gathering her notes into a blue plastic wallet. ‘Oh, I nearly forgot,’ she adds. There’s a hesitation in her voice. It occurs to Dominic later that the split-second pause, no doubt, reflected her years of dealing with the bereaved, and was probably the real reason for her visit. ‘I can take the rest of the equipment today. I know the OT came to collect the large items, so it’s just the small bits and bobs we left behind. Shall I go up to Madeleine’s room? I’m happy to do it on my own if it upsets you.’
‘No need. The district nurse came last Wednesday.’
Priya raises an eyebrow.
‘She took three boxes away. The unused drugs we bagged up and I took them to the pharmacist for disposal.’
‘The district nurse?’
‘Yes. I think she said her name was Pauline.’
‘Pauline?’
‘Yeah, I hadn’t met her before. She said she was one of the agency nurses.’
‘Agency?’ Priya’s expression relaxes. ‘Oh, of course, Rosie’s on holiday at the moment. That would explain it. Okay, that’s fine.’ She stumbles as she stands up, the twisted strap of her holdall catching on the chair leg. Dominic stoops to untangle the bag, a light floral scent stopping him momentarily in his tracks.
‘Take care, my friend,’ she says, giving him a hug, and he feels a genuine warmth in the embrace. ‘You know where we are.’
He watches her walking out to her car, then shrinks back against the curtain as he spots Carla Maitland barrelling along the street with two little girls in tow.
Carla breezes past him when he opens the front door, her arms filled with an assortment of kids’ paraphernalia: jackets, wellies, plastic containers, all of which she dumps in a heap on the hall floor.
‘Show your daddy what we’ve been making today, Isabella,’ she says, looking at his daughter who has followed behind. Bella is clutching a pink plastic container to her chest. A section of her hair has come adrift from her ponytail, and hangs over her face in a matted mess. She sways from side to side and looks at the floor.
The sound of rustling prompts Carla to swing round. ‘Chloe, come out of there, please,’ she says to her daughter, who has tramped muddy footprints across the hallway, and now has her hand in a large gl
ass vase of dried flowers. ‘We’ve been making gingerbread men haven’t we, Isabella,’ she continues, ‘and we made a special one for your daddy.’
Bella sucks her thumb.
‘How have you been today, Dom?’ Carla leans forward, and Dom recoils at the smell of chip fat.
‘Oh, fine, you know.’
He leaves the front door open, despite the invasion of wintry air.
‘Come on then, Chloe, we better get going.’ She gathers her things and guides Chloe out of the door with her. ‘You know, Bella’s no trouble. I’ll have her any time. Chloe’s having her birthday party on Saturday. Hopefully, Bella can come. See how you feel.’
‘Thanks.’
She marches out, along the short path and onto the street, then turns. ‘Just remember, call if you need anything!’
In the kitchen Dominic picks up the gingerbread biscuit, sniffs it and places it back in its pink plastic coffin.
He looks at his daughter, who has followed him downstairs. Her spindly legs, longer than those of most four-year-olds, are splayed as she sits on the kitchen floor. She’s picking at a scab on her knee. Her blonde hair is dusted with flour. Spots of cinnamon-coloured dough smatter her corduroy dress like an infectious rash.
‘Come here,’ he says, pulling her onto his lap. He cradles her, smelling her warm gingery scent. ‘I expect you’re not hungry now, are you?’
Bella looks up. Dominic finds himself gazing into deep pools of blue.
‘Daddy?’
‘Yes, love?’
‘Can I go to Chloe’s party?’
‘Let’s wait and see, shall we?’ He strokes the back of her hair, picking out little pieces of biscuit.
‘Daddy?’
‘What, darling?’
‘Mummy would say yes.’
4
Ruth
February 2005
It’s too late to go to the gym after work, and besides, Ruth feels no inclination. She’s exhausted. The house, silent in the darkness, has a rank quality, like water in a vase of wilted flowers. She pushes the remains of the microwaved curry dinner to one side. Topping up her glass of Sauvignon Blanc, she reaches over for her laptop. It blinks into action, raining scarlet shapes across the screen which morph into hearts. Ruth groans. ‘Valentine’s Day. Of course. How could I forget?’ The comforting warmth of Tilly swishes against her legs.
‘Well, Tilly,’ she says, with an edge of sourness that she knows borders on sarcasm, ‘let’s see what delights are on offer tonight.’ She scrolls down a cliché-ridden list of potential matches on alikemind.com. Row upon row of company directors appear, their ‘glasses half-full’, all brimming with excitement at the prospect of ‘curling up in front of a roaring log fire’. None catch her attention. God, this is so tedious. She can’t fathom it. Thirty-two-years-old, with a good job. Financially secure yet zero social life. She craves someone to share a meal, a laugh, a bed. Only two encounters since re-joining the dating site six months ago. What’s wrong with her? The first resulted in an evening of stilted conversation, the second had potential, until she received a text the following day saying, ‘Sorry the chemistry just wasn’t there.’ Loser. Should she cancel her subscription?
She takes a swig of wine. Perhaps she should bale out of computer dating and be more sociable. Maybe join Priya and her friends at the hospice Ball? She picks at a fingernail. Maybe not. At least web browsing offers her some degree of anonymity.
Ten months she’d been with Mark. The tangle of pain twists tighter in her stomach. It was so unfair. They’d been so good together. If it hadn’t been for his careless text messages, how long would it have taken her to realise he was already married? Why hadn’t he told her? ‘Separated not married, Ruth. There is a difference,’ was his riposte. No. Married. With children. And even when confronted, he still wanted to carry on their relationship. But not with kids. For him that was a deal breaker. She buries her face in her hands, as anxiety knots her emotions. How could she be so naïve? Is she really such a bad judge of character?
She drains the glass. An after-taste sours her mouth. He was a liar. She wasn’t to blame, for Christ’s sake. He led a double life. She mustn’t beat herself up about hitching with such a dud. Tugging at the cuticle of her forefinger, a bead of blood appears. There’s still time. Take today, for example. Hadn’t she seen someone who was a first-time mum at thirty-nine?
No, she must learn to trust again. Have faith in the opposite sex. To hell with it, she thinks, as she clicks on the computer mouse and sends winky faces to half a dozen potential lovers.
She watches the closing headlines of the midnight news from her bed. Uncurling her toes against the warmth of the electric blanket, she feels relaxed. Despite her misgivings, today had gone well: the grateful mother of the little boy with asthma, the anxious young guy who was able to look her in the eye on leaving, and give her a smile. Suddenly fear spirals in her stomach. Hell. She didn’t call back Margaret Tremayne, the gallstone patient, as promised. She runs through her symptoms, recalling the first time she presented with biliary colic, subsequently confirmed on ultrasound. As far as she was aware, Margaret hadn’t called back again. Surely that was good news? She looks at the clock. Ten to one. She can’t ring her now. She hesitates, remembering the time she called on a patient at three in the morning just to check they were all right. They’d been grateful, sure, but their bemusement had left her feeling embarrassed. No, it would have to wait until morning surgery. Cursing her forgetfulness she switches off the light. Another sleepless night beckons.
The surgery is deserted as Ruth crosses the glass-domed atrium at seven thirty the next morning.
‘Ruth, can I have a quick word with you before you start surgery?’ says a voice echoing through the empty waiting room.
Paul Franklin, senior partner, stands in the corridor, gesturing her towards the open door of his consulting room. His avuncular smile makes her feel like one of his patients.
She nods and crosses the threshold. It’s not often she has the occasion to come into his room. Taking a seat next to the mahogany desk, curiosity gets the better of her as she looks at the framed photographs gracing its embossed leather top. Smiling happy families. Predictable, of course.
He sits opposite, his arms crossed, and leans forward.
‘I’ve had Margaret Tremayne’s son on the phone this morning.’
‘Margaret Tremayne’s son?’
‘Yes. Margaret’s in Intensive Care.’
Cold shudders through Ruth’s taut frame, her heart constricts. She glances at Paul, seeking reassurance. His expression remains calm.
‘Apparently she rang in with pain yesterday. You advised her to double her painkillers.’
There’s a fluttering in Ruth’s chest, like a moth trapped under a lampshade.
‘Yes. It was a really busy emergency surgery. What’s happened? Is she okay?’
Paul sits back in his chair and studies her. Heat suffuses her cheeks.
‘She is now. She was defibrillated twice in the ambulance. Anterior myocardial infarction. Don’t worry about it, Ruth. I’m just marking your card in case he rings back later. We’ll put in on the agenda for the next practice meeting.’
The words form in her mouth, but are barely audible. ‘She’s going to be okay though, isn’t she?’ What a redundant question, she realises. It’s probably too early to tell.
‘I think so. From what the son was saying it sounds like she was stented shortly after admission. Anyway if I hear any more I’ll let you know. Try not to stress about it. I just thought you ought to know in case you see any of the family.’ He turns his attention to the pile of unsigned prescriptions on his desk. ‘We can talk about it later, if you like.’
Ruth shrinks out of his room, just making it to her desk before she feels her knees give way. She takes a gulp of tea from the mug on her desk. It tastes rancid.<
br />
Anterior myocardial infarction? How the hell could she have missed that? Thank God Margaret had survived. She racks her brain for a few minutes, then checks her computer entries for the previous day, conscious of the loud pulsing in her ears. At least she’d done the safety-netting bit. But had she? She hadn’t even examined her. And she’d forgotten to ring her back. A heart attack? What an unbelievably stupid mistake to make. She chews on a thumbnail. A near miss. But it could have been worse.
She’d have to think about it later. Soon her waiting room would be full of hopeful patients.
Val sounds very upbeat on the phone that evening. The sound of Mike shouting a greeting over the background television noise reminds her that the world hasn’t stopped. She feels encouraged.
‘Look, Ruth, it goes with the job. Don’t be too hard on yourself, it could happen to any of us. How many times since our house jobs have we said that?’
‘But how could I have missed that? It’s so obvious when I think of it now.’
‘Ah yes, the bloody retrospectoscope, that most useful of surgical instruments,’ says Val. ‘There but for the grace of God go I. It’s going to be okay, Ruth, honestly.’
‘Look, I know you’re trying to reassure me, Val. Believe me, I’m grateful, but the pressure is really getting to me. I wish I was on maternity leave like you.’
A throaty laugh down the line. ‘It’s not all plain sailing for me, I can tell you. And the time’s flying past so quickly. I can’t bear to think about going back to work at the moment. Just don’t know how I’m going to cope. Anyway, listen, you and I need to go out on the lash again, before then. What do you say?’
‘Yeah.’ Even to Ruth’s ears her own voice sounds feeble. ‘Just let me know when it suits.’
‘Well, while I remember,’ says Val, her voice breathy with excitement. ‘I’ve got a babysitter for the twenty fifth of March. Mike and I are going to the hospice Ball. He’s very keen on getting a table together. I’m not sure about the company he’s invited, but it would be a chance for you and I to catch up.’
Love Until It Hurts Page 2
