I didn’t see much more of you during that first day. Not as much as I’d hoped, anyway. Most of Dr Williams’s patients cancelled, and I went to your room only twice. Once with the cup of coffee you requested, which had taken three attempts to get right. I was unsure what was meant by ‘strong but milky’. I’d made the first too weak, so chucked it down the sink. The second, I was certain I’d overdone the sugar, so remade it with a level spoonful. After placing the third version in front of you, I loitered at the door, waiting for the verdict, which judging by your expression, wasn’t very good at all. I was so annoyed at myself for not sticking with the sweeter one.
The second time was with a file you’d requested. You were busy sorting out your desk.
‘Hey, Constance. Come in. I’m just trying to make myself feel more at home.’
I’d already noticed that your hand was ring-free, but I still feared that the following day you’d be displaying a photograph of your own.
With the last patient gone, Alison and I tidied reception and prepared to finish for the day. I was hoping you’d leave at the same time. Prayed you got the Tube. But your door remained closed.
Outside, I stopped at the bottom of the entrance steps, breathed in the fresh air before digging in my bag for a desperately needed cigarette.
‘You shouldn’t be smoking, Constance. Not when working at a doctor’s surgery,’ said Alison.
Luckily, with the fag now hanging from my mouth, it was too awkward to tell her to fuck off. She lingered as I struggled to get a spark from my near-empty lighter. But thank God, she didn’t want to be late for her sewing class, so fucked off on her own accord.
Still determined to get the ciggie lit, I huddled into the adjacent wall and cupped my hand to shield it from the warm breeze. Finally it took. I turned back round and leant against the rough bricks. Closed my eyes. Thought about you as the chemicals performed their tricks.
When I reopened them, there was a face in front of mine that I wasn’t expecting.
We never talked about Dale much, I know. I never wanted you to think there was . . . that I had any romantic feelings towards him. I didn’t. Whatever I share with you from this point, you must believe that. I’d avoided discussing him to prevent you from enduring unnecessary jealousy. Regardless of what you did, I’d never want to put you through that.
‘I’ve been calling and texting you all day. Nearly forgot to process the payment run, I was getting so worried . . . Would have given Jean yet another reason not to give me the account-manager job.’
‘Oh, have you? I’m sorry.’ I removed my phone from my bag. Although we had to keep them on silent at work, I would usually check and reply to his messages, which were generally asking if I wanted to share a pizza or go for a drink at Connolly’s. There were nine missed calls. Numerous blocks of blue text. I looked up at his concerned face. ‘Sorry. I . . . It’s been . . . Dr Williams died.’
‘Shit, man, you’re joking. Which one’s he? How?’
‘Run over.’
‘Run over? Jesus, who gets run over?’
‘At the weekend. It’s weird . . . He’s the nice one. The Man U supporter.’
‘Still, he didn’t deserve to die.’
I didn’t fake-laugh as I usually would, which forced him to back-pedal.
‘That sucks. It’s always the nice ones, isn’t it? You’ve remembered about tonight, though, right?’ My blankness must have shown. ‘The film? I knew you’d—’
‘Of course. I have . . . remembered. I thought you meant something else when you said . . . The film I have. I’m looking forward to it.’
‘Well, we need to get a move on, then. You know I get all angsty being late and that.’
As I flicked the rest of the cigarette to the ground and we headed off, I heard the surgery door open. I stopped, turned to look. You were oblivious to us. Chatting with Dr Harris as he locked up. You laughed. Forced. I understood. You were holding your linen jacket in one hand and your doctor’s bag in the other. Car keys dangled from your fingers, quashing my wish of us ever getting the Tube together.
‘Constance, for fuck’s sake. What are you doing?’
‘Sorry . . . I—’
‘Who is that?’
‘It’s just Dr Harris. And the new doctor.’
‘Right. Well, can we go, please?’ He tugged my arm to encourage me to move again, causing me to trip on a raised corner of pavement. ‘Why are you so clumsy?’
After walking for a few seconds, he said, ‘The new doctor looks a right dickhead. Where does he get his hair cut – 1995?’
I wanted to glance back at you once more. I didn’t. But noticed that Dale did.
It was a foreign-film festival at the South Bank and they were showing the only Almodóvar Dale hadn’t seen: Talk to Her. The last thing I wanted to do was to sit through some subtitled arty bollocks.
We were informed that the trailers had already started. This was, of course, my fault and he slipped seamlessly into a sullen mood. Before he could argue, I rushed towards the bar and stood on my tippy-toes to get served as quickly as possible. He followed me, once again gripping on to my arm, pulling me away.
‘I need a Coke . . . and a snack or something. I’m starving.’
In silence, he escorted me to the corner of the foyer. His eyes flicked from side to side, paranoid and spy-like. Two triangles of blush appeared on each cheek, and his signature stress-sweat seeped from his upper lip. He lifted the flap of his record bag to reveal two small Lidl apple-juice cartons with attached straws and a stack of cling-filmed cheese-and-piccalilli sandwiches that were as sweaty as he was.
‘Oh right,’ I said.
He dropped the flap back down, wiped his mouth with his sleeve. ‘Well, you don’t have to.’
‘No, that’s . . . Cheese and piccalilli is my favourite. Thank you.’
The cinema was fairly empty. Dale marched us to his desired spot – centre middle – then stood back against his chair to let me in. ‘Is that OK? I prefer the other person to be on my right.’
I felt him, smelt him, as I squeezed past. We’d never been to the cinema together before. Our hanging-out had mainly taken place at the house or at Connelly’s. An awkwardness rose between us. We smiled in unison.
I’d only known Dale for three months at that point. He was already a tenant of the house on Lynton Road when I’d moved in. I’d gone to the viewing in a state of desperation. Dale was at work, but Mr Papadopoulos, the breathless, fleshy landlord, showed me round.
‘This would be your bedsit . . . You share bathroom and kitchen with nice young man who live in room opposite. I’m in flat upstairs . . . Very quiet. You can come straight away. Anna, the other girl . . . nice girl . . . left one night and never come back . . . Left me up the shit’s creek.’
I wanted to cry as I stared into the damp-smelling room, decorated with greying woodchip, double bed on one side, brown velour sofa on the other. A torn paper lantern hanging from the ceiling. The only thing brightening the place was a lurid green dreamcatcher with dangling pink feathers hanging from the bedhead that I knew I’d be immediately throwing out. Dreamcatchers scared me. My dreams were something I’d never want to be caught. But after the horrors of the previous places I’d viewed that day, and the fact it was available immediately, I was relieved to accept.
I’d not long left Manchester behind, it all behind, and moved into my first London abode. A room in a house belonging to a middle-aged actor called Rupert James. It was ‘bijou yet airy’, aka minuscule with a window. But Rupert was interesting – colourful, let’s say, and I presumed gay. The roll-top bath had sold me. I’d only seen the likes of it in magazines. Above it was a shelf on which sat a skull. I hoped it was a prop from a Hamlet production and not his previous tenant.
All went well for a couple of weeks until one day I returned from work to find my bedroom had been cleaned and tidied. Bed made. Dirty clothes picked up. Dirtier knickers ditto. And Blusha, my one-eyed elephant, tucked up neatly under
the covers with only her trunk on show. I was uncertain who was being the weirdo, him or me. But I didn’t like it. Inside.
Then one evening I went into the kitchen and there he was, smoking an enormous joint and holding an even more enormous glass of red wine, which explained his eyeballs and skin always having a matching crimson hue.
‘Constance.’ He removed a glass from the draining board, filled it with wine to a level higher than his own and handed it to me.
‘Constance, my dear, I need to ask you something.’
It was clear he’d noticed my change since Tidygate. I decided I’d be brave, tell him, politely.
Then it came. ‘Constance. Dear Constance. Would you like to fuck?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Would you like to fuck?’
Floored, scared and unable to think of a more repulsive prospect, I didn’t want to make him feel uncomfortable, so I said, ‘I’m really very tired, Rupert, but thanks anyway,’ then went to my room, locking the door behind me.
In bed, I pulled my knees to my chest, foetal, and squeezed Blusha with more intensity than ever before. Not only because of Rupert but because it hit me. The gradual drip, drip, drip from which I was running. As I bit Blusha’s ear to transfer my pain onto her, I realized I was completely alone. Unprotected. Unloved. If Rupert had added me to his skull collection, no one would have noticed. No one would have cared. That was my new reality. Immersed under the covers, I allowed myself to cry for the first time since I’d left home. This must have somehow carried me into a deep sleep because the clock said 03.07 when I woke to the rattle of my doorknob turning frantically, followed by the thud of a foot kicking against the wood. By 03.09 this stopped. By 04.30 my case was packed, and by 05.00, when I could hear definite snoring from the next room, I left. By 14.00 that day I’d moved into Lynton Road, and by 20.00 Dale and I were friends.
It’s hard being friends with someone who doesn’t truly know you. What you really are. But he was the only person in the world I had. The only person who cared.
Dale thoroughly enjoyed the film. I thought it was pretentious crap.
We were still arguing about it on the bus home.
‘But he loved her,’ he repeated for the hundredth time.
‘So?’ I repeated for my hundredth time, each one increasing in volume, intensity. For that last one I half stood up to say it. ‘He was just some nutter who sat watching her, obsessed. She didn’t even know him.’
‘Not all men can tell a girl he likes her, you know.’
‘Then the poor cow is in a coma and he shags her. No, no, rapes her.’
‘But he did love her.’
The cycle began again until I broke it with ‘Loving someone doesn’t excuse everything, you know.’
‘You’ve never even been in love, Constance.’
‘So?’ This ‘So?’ was considerably quieter than my previous ones, and I remained firmly seated to say it. ‘You haven’t either. You told me.’
He turned away. His usually soft marshmallow face stony in the window’s reflection.
I sat back and looked out towards the insane, lit-up London that I’d never feel part of. And as I did, against my will, your face strobed my mind.
The next morning it was still you who occupied my thoughts.
Not Dale. Not even poor Dr Williams.
Instead of swiping snooze on my alarm with increasing despair, I woke immediately. Facing the wall, for once I wasn’t irritated by the tear in the woodchip that exposed a rainbow from wallpaper of times gone by. My mind wasn’t darkly drawn downwards, through the mattress springs, beyond the wooden slats, to the suitcase below filled with realities I couldn’t face. Once out of bed, I wasn’t crestfallen by the disarray of my room. Or the mould that clung to the tiles round the bath when I showered. I even washed my hair and shaved my pits.
I wore a silk blouse that had only ever had an outing for my cousin Margot’s wedding. Applied a lick of make-up. Nothing obvious. I didn’t want it to be noticeable to everyone, to Dale.
As I snuck out of my room, Dale exited his, feigning surprise at my being there, smiling as if the night before he hadn’t slammed his door without saying a word.
I went along with the charade and we left the house, chatting about needing milk and bin day. At the end of Lynton Road, when we were about to part ways, he said, ‘You look weird today,’ then ran for his bus.
On the hot, stifling Tube, my blouse now ruined by ink blots spreading under my arms, I dwelt on Dale’s words. My single atom of confidence melted, I rubbed at my cheeks and stripped the lipstick with the back of my hand.
By the time I’d reached the surgery, I looked more bedraggled than usual. And when Linda glanced up at me, bemused, I was unsure if it was because of my appearance or the fact I was on time. Something I hadn’t managed since my first day.
‘Are you feeling better today, Linda?’
‘Not really. I’m . . . I’m just very sad, to be honest. He was a great man.’
‘Yes . . . Yes, he was.’ I dropped my head.
The moment hung like smog until Linda broke the silence. ‘When you’ve settled, can you take these files into Dr Stevens for me, please? I find it quite distressing going in there.’
‘Of course. No problem. You know, I . . . I can do all Dr Stevens’s stuff if you want. It’s no trouble. You mustn’t upset yourself, Linda.’
She mouthed the words ‘Thank you’, then performed a succession of fast little nods before running into the back room. I suppose I was expected to follow her, comfort her, but I took the file and headed to your office.
After calling me in, I realized you were on the phone. ‘Look, I can’t talk about it now,’ you said to the caller. I sensed it was personal. A woman. You bit the end of your weighty silver pen. After placing the file on your desk, I went to leave, but you raised your hand to stop me.
‘It’s nearly two months . . . Well, just get them, then . . . Look, I’ve really got to go. I’ll see you later.’
My stomach churned.
You ended the call, placed the pen in your inside jacket pocket, then smiled as you patted the file. ‘Sorry about that. Thank you, Constance. How are you feeling today?’
‘I’m . . . I’m fine. Much better, thank you. Dr Stevens, Linda’s asked if I can do all your work from now on. She feels too upset to keep coming into Dr Williams’s office. So if . . . if you need anything, just ask me. Not Linda . . . or Alison.’
‘Oh right. OK. You’ve not been sick again, then?’
‘No. No, I’m fine now.’ You looked directly at me, squinted, ensuring I was telling the truth. You cared. ‘Can I get you a coffee, Dr Stevens?’
Sitting back in your chair, you pushed your fingers through your hair. ‘Constance, do you think they’ll ever accept me?’
‘Of course. Of course they will. It’s just very early days, isn’t it?’
‘Because I like it here, you know. I do. I prefer it to Harley Street. I can tell already. For a start, I live less than a ten-minute walk away. Not that I’ve walked it yet, mind. Lazy bastard . . . Sorry.’
‘It’s OK. You can say “bastard”. I don’t mind.’
You laughed. I laughed too. Although I wasn’t sure what was funny.
‘I’m glad, anyway . . . that you’ll be doing my stuff.’
You have no idea of the overwhelming delight I felt at you saying this and forced a cough to conceal the evidence of blood surging to my face.
‘You really should give up the fags, you know.’
My surprise at you saying that transformed the fake cough into a genuine one, and you handed me a small half-empty Evian bottle from your desk. I unscrewed the lid. Aware I’d be placing my lips directly on top of where yours had been, I sipped. And while doing so, my blouse draped open and I was certain you glanced at my chest.
‘I noticed you smoking . . . with your friend yesterday.’
‘Oh . . . I . . . He’s not my boyfriend . . . just a . . . I will.’ I took more wa
ter. ‘I know I should . . . give up smoking.’
‘You OK now?’
I nodded, handing him back the bottle.
‘Good. Anyway, Constance, tell me – what are you doing for lunch?’
You probably noticed the sharp intake of breath. I couldn’t believe you were already inviting me to lunch.
‘Well . . . I . . . It depends . . .’
‘Do you ever go out for a sandwich or something?’
‘Yes, well, I’m sure I will . . . I mean, I usually do.’
‘Excellent. If I give you the money, will you pick something up for me as well? I’ve got all these patients to swot up on.’ You handed me a tenner. ‘Something chicken would be great. I’ll let you decide.’
Outside your office, deflated, I noticed Dr Franco bounding down the hallway. ‘Well, hello, young Constance.’
‘Hey, Dr Franco. Are you all better now?’
‘I am. I am, indeed. Thank you. Lost a couple of pounds in the process too,’ he said, patting his belly. ‘But it’s truly terrible about dear Dr Williams. I was so shocked. You must all be terribly shocked.’
‘Yes . . . yes, we are. It’s very sad.’
His tearfulness was magnified under the convex of his glasses and he rested his hand upon my shoulder. ‘It is indeed.’ He paused, then said, ‘Though, sadly, as life goes on, I must get going. I have a patient.’ And off he went up the stairs.
I liked Dr Franco. Still do. Despite everything he now knows about me.
The hours up until lunch went quickly. We were extra busy due to the patients who’d cancelled the previous day now deciding they wanted to be seen. Apparently, being rich permits such things.
Finally, able to escape, I headed to M&S. Tesco was closer, but I thought I’d get a higher-quality sandwich for you in Marks.
Once there, I grabbed a basket and within seconds had thrown in Alison’s requested tuna sarnie (Linda was on SlimFast) and my egg and tomato. Allowing me time to study the chicken selection.
After much stress, I opted for the last remaining chicken salad sandwich, in a bag rather than a plastic packet, but the lettuce looked decidedly ragged. I asked the acnefied boy filling the crisp stand if there were any more in the back, and after some resistance, he relented, returning with a much perkier one that I was happy to give you.
If I Can't Have You Page 2
