by Fiona Neill
‘Present,’ he says, pushing a furry replica of a sperm cell into my hand. ‘To say sorry. It seemed appropriate.’
I don’t say anything but I do think how much I will miss the way he looks at me, all seductive tease, and the way he makes me feel when he fixes me with those grey-green eyes. The best is always left unsaid.
‘Come on, Rosie. Not everyone uses their real name on Tinder,’ he gripes. ‘You don’t.’
‘Rankin is my married name and I’m called Rosie in real life.’
‘Shit,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘I thought you might be married. I’d noticed your Caesarean scar. But then I saw you don’t have that white line where you’ve taken your ring off so I couldn’t work it out. But your skin is so pale everywhere. Especially your gorgeous arse.’
He slips his hand in the back pocket of my jeans and starts tracing circles. I allow it to stay there because I am about to end our relationship and I’d like to squeeze out one last moment of pleasure. He leans over to kiss me. I sit back in my chair.
‘You’ve noticed this with other women?’ I ask. ‘The white line?’
‘We’re not exactly in an exclusive relationship, are we? So of course I’m seeing other women, and I guess some of them are in other more, er, formal kinds of relationships. You’ve got a husband, for God’s sake.’ He pauses. ‘Now I have to feel bad for him. It’s one thing suspecting but it’s another knowing.’
‘Don’t,’ I say, putting up my hand. ‘Really don’t. We’re divorced and he moved in with my former best friend after he left me.’
‘Grubby,’ he says. ‘So why do you use your married name?’
‘I don’t want any of my patients coming across me.’
‘Why would your patients stalk you on Tinder?’
‘I mean their husbands. If I came across their husbands then I would know something my patient doesn’t know and I would feel really sorry for her, and pity takes away dignity. I learnt that one the hard way.’
‘You’ve thought this through a lot, haven’t you?’ he says.
‘I read a fascinating piece of research,’ I say. ‘Twenty per cent of men leave their wives when they are sick, whereas only two per cent of women leave their husbands. It’s a big problem.’
‘God, I wish I’d realized you were a medic earlier. There are so many things I could have asked you. You could have helped me revise for my exams. That’s why I was late sometimes. I’ve had a big struggle with haematology.’
‘In that case, I’m glad I didn’t,’ I say, deadpan.
There is a lull in conversation. We have learnt more about each other in the past ten minutes than we have in the previous five months. It’s a lot to absorb. We catch each other’s eye, which is always dangerous.
‘What did we use to talk about?’ I ask, without looking away.
‘We didn’t do too much talking, Rosie. You seemed keener on the fucking part, and given my time constraints I was pretty happy to avoid the preamble.’
Harsh but true.
‘So are you trying to get revenge on the male species by sleeping with as many men as possible without forming a lasting bond with any of them?’ he asks, sounding curious.
‘I don’t feel vengeful towards you,’ I say, pondering this idea. ‘In fact, I feel quite grateful. It wasn’t that well thought out. I want uncomplicated relationships with people without getting attached to anyone in particular. After what happened with Nick, I don’t trust my judgement any more.’
I don’t tell him that my daughter was so ill with an anxiety disorder that for the best part of two years I didn’t dare go out at night.
‘Do you have any other regulars?’ he asks.
‘No,’ I lie.
‘And are you really forty?’ he asks.
‘Forty-six,’ I answer. ‘You?’
‘Twenty-eight,’ he says. ‘You’re the oldest woman I’ve ever slept with.’ Then he realizes what he has said and attempts to backtrack. ‘I mean you don’t look the oldest. You’re in pretty good shape.’
‘Do you have many points of comparison?’ I ask. ‘You need a pretty big cohort to draw that kind of scientific conclusion.’ Now he is completely on the back foot.
‘My mum,’ he says. ‘But she’s had four children.’
I burst out laughing. It is a ridiculous situation. I get up to go to the toilet. When I try to take my bag, he removes his hand from my pocket and puts it on top.
‘I want this as collateral. You might do a runner.’
I allow him to keep the bag but take my phone. As soon as I am alone in the cubicle I log on to Tinder to see what’s going on. Someone has messaged me. He’s more age appropriate but I reject him because he uses emoticons. My phone beeps. There’s a message from Ed: Hope u not right swiping.
I go back to the table and suggest we take a walk around the permanent collection.
‘Too dangerous,’ he says. ‘You’ll try to lose me there. Although at least I know where to find you now.’
‘It’s over, Ed. It can’t go on.’
‘What’s over?’ he asks in a faux innocent tone.
‘Our relationship,’ I say, exasperated that he is making this difficult when the outcome is so self-evident.
‘If we don’t have a relationship, how can it be over? It’s an interesting philosophical question.’
‘You know what I mean,’ I say sternly, leaning towards him.
‘You mean you don’t want to fuck me any more,’ he says loudly, so the people at the table beside us mutter disapproval. ‘But we’re so good at it. We’ve passed the sexual compatibility test.’
‘That’s enough,’ I say in the same way I used to reprimand Daisy and Max in public to avoid making a scene. ‘You need to ask to be transferred to another department. I can’t have you working on my team.’
He gets up to go, and as soon as he leaves I feel a familiar sense of loneliness. Then I notice the letter that was in my bag lying on the table. He must have taken it out. The label where the address was written has been ripped off and the seal on the envelope is broken. I look inside and pull out two crumpled sheets of paper and start reading.
4
Nick
I usually prefer to write down a shopping list but I know better than most that negative emotion enhances memory function. And Lisa’s diagnosis has certainly left a big scar on my cerebral tissue. I am still reeling. So when I get to the organic food store I have no problem recalling the exact ingredients she has requested for the juicing diet she believes will make her well and I believe will kill her. Guava, Guanabana, Cassava, Curly Kale … my recall is as flawless today as it has been each day since she started this hopeless regime.
This morning Lisa announced she wants us to spend our honeymoon at a clinic in Mexico that specializes in offering false hope to the terminally ill, and it is a measure of how much I love her that I have agreed to go along with this. I won’t be telling my colleagues. So after our wedding at the end of the month we are off to Tijuana, heartland of the Sinaloa cartel, where she will undergo two weeks of intensive juicing and enemas, as recommended by Gregorio, her recently anointed spiritual healer. It’s not exactly how I imagined life as newly-weds, but then nothing with Lisa has ever been predictable.
Last night I showed her a photo of two naked bodies hanging from a bridge on the road from Tijuana airport but she said the one thing about knowing you might die is that becoming collateral damage in a drug turf war holds no fear. What about me? I wanted to ask. But I managed to resist because the question made me sound too much like myself. I’m finding it difficult to disagree with someone who is simultaneously preparing her wedding and her funeral with the same meticulous attention to detail that she applies to all areas of our life together. Lisa wants me to sing ‘Happy Ending’ by Mika at both. I have agreed because I will do anything for her and it’s a song that has special meaning for us.
I have made many mistakes but falling in love with Lisa most definitely isn’t one of them. She
is the love of my life. Everything I am now she has made me. I have told her this every day since we have been together. I have learnt a lot from my first relationship. My ex-wife once said that one of the main reasons our marriage failed was because I intellectualized emotion rather than feeling it. I have tried to prove her wrong ever since.
‘Can I help you, sir?’
I am aware that someone is trying to communicate with me. His hipster beard threatens to devour his mouth and, although I see his lips move, it is as if someone has turned down the volume and all I can hear is the voice in my head telling me that the woman I adore might die and there is nothing I can do. I wonder if this is how Daisy used to feel when the same mental flotsam kept washing up on the shores of her subconscious all day, every day. But of course this is different because my worry is real. I can’t accept this is happening to us. I am going through the stages of grief and am stuck on disbelief.
Daisy’s thoughts were about totally improbable events that most likely would never happen, like Rosie and Max being attacked by burglars wielding kitchen knives. I never featured in her obsessions, something I’ve tried not to take personally. I suddenly remember how, when she stayed with us, she used to attach a note to her pyjamas that said I only appear to be dead, because she was so afraid someone might think she had died in the night and bury her alive. Every evening before bed Max had to pledge three times that he would stick pins in her toes before allowing any undertaker to remove her body. Sometimes I wonder how Max has ended up being so well adjusted after everything Daisy has put him through.
‘How can you be absolutely sure the watermelon is organic?’ I ask the beard, wondering if my voice sounds as muffled to him as it does to me. People talk of having out-of-body experiences when they are in shock but I am pretty sure I am having an inner-body experience.
‘We source everything directly from producers,’ he explains.
It strikes me as curious that parallel to a world where women are required to be as hairless as pre-pubescent girls, the men they date now all look like cavemen. I’m transfixed by his womanly lips. They are as full and purple as the organic plums he is putting into my recyclable bag.
‘We know each one by name.’ He looks down at a label. ‘This one is produced by Angel Gurria on a finca near Tijuana in Mexico.’
‘What a coincidence! I’m going there on my honeymoon at the end of the month,’ I say. ‘Maybe I should go and check him out.’
‘Cool,’ he smiles. ‘Congratulations.’
‘Do you have any idea how much water there is in the average watermelon?’ I persist.
He looks a little surprised. His mouth puckers into a perfect ‘o’ as if he is about to whistle.
‘Ninety-three per cent,’ I reply.
He whistles. ‘That is a whole lot of agua,’ he says. ‘I guess Señor Gurria must have a good irrigation system.’
‘So to be truly organic, the water used for irrigation would have to be fucking Evian,’ I continue. The beard quivers. I feel bad immediately because he is good-natured, like Max. Simpático, I say to myself, irritated that he has infected me with his habit of peppering the conversation with Spanish words. I lean over the exotic fruit section, elbows resting on a couple of watermelons. ‘Did you realize that human excrement is one of the most widely used fertilizers in Latin America?’
‘Maybe the excrement is organic?’ he suggests.
I assume he’s joking. But we live in a culture where people believe in total quackery so it’s possible he might think eating shit is healthy. When I laugh he takes a step back and says something else that sounds like birds whispering. People aren’t used to even low-level aggression in organic food shops. Lisa would probably say it’s down to all the yoga and meditation but I would argue that the mostly female customers look too carbohydrate deficient to protest about anything. Anorexia has been rebranded as clean eating. I doubt they consume the food they buy, apart from the seaweed. Frankly it all makes me want to eat a rare steak and chips cooked in goose fat.
A woman appears. She’s his manager but she could be the same age as Daisy. Or Lisa. I find it difficult to tell how old anyone is nowadays.
‘Can I help?’ she asks.
‘I need to know whether the watermelon is properly organic,’ I say. ‘My fiancée has cancer and is on a very restrictive juicing diet. She can’t afford to pick up a stomach infection from a bad one.’
The girl leans towards me across the counter. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she whispers.
I feel like crying and close my eyes to crush the pinpricks threatening behind my lids. She puts her hand on top of mine and squeezes my fingers. And yes, for a split second, I can see how a different man might exploit this situation to his advantage. I wonder fleetingly how that hand might feel around my cock but, contrary to what she later claimed, I wasn’t trying to pick her up. Nor did I act in a threatening manner to her colleague. There is nothing more attractive to a woman than a man in extremis. After Rosie turfed me out women literally threw themselves at me.
‘You realize no one recovers from cancer through juicing,’ she says.
‘I do,’ I nod. ‘But I guess everyone is entitled to hope.’
I walk with purposeful aimlessness for a while after this. The watermelons are so heavy that my arms feel as though they are being pulled out of their sockets and I hear myself panting like an old Labrador. I figure the exertion and stretching might help with the repetitive strain injury I’m getting in my wrist from chopping up nine kilos of fruit and vegetables every day. At least when we go to Mexico someone else will do the grunt work for us. I wonder whether we should go into the desert and try mescaline while we are there? Cactuses must be organic. And as Lisa keeps saying, she has nothing to lose.
Lisa has always been up for new experiences. It is one of the characteristics I find most attractive about her. She makes everything seem possible. Weekend in Copenhagen. Booked. Dinner for twelve. Cooked. Therapist for Daisy. Not that she gets any credit, but Lisa was the one who found the first therapist, even if he didn’t work out. This is why I’m finding it so hard to come to terms with her decision not to have any proper treatment. Usually she has a solution to every problem. Rosie was always more conservative, someone who limited possibilities and saw problems where there were none. She’s the kind of person who does things like unsubscribe from unwanted emails in the unlikely event she has any free time. She couldn’t cook without following a recipe, and she applied the same methodical approach to love-making. Although I only ever mentioned this to Daisy’s therapist, sometimes I think her illness might have been exacerbated by Rosie’s uptightness and desire for control.
I pick up my pace and veer right down a side street. The early-morning light makes everything unnaturally vivid. I lurch from finding hope in the blood-red leaves of the Japanese maple to despair as I realize this might be the last time Lisa will experience autumn. The unseasonably warm sun shines in my eyes, making them water, and I don’t see the small boy on a scooter careering towards me. He crashes headlong into the bag. There is a dull thud as his head hits a watermelon, which bounces into the road. I notice the white stuffing leaching out of the boy’s torn blue anorak; the red blood from the cut on his hand as it hits the pavement; the choking noise as he tries not to cry. There is a drumbeat of wings flapping as a gang of pigeons comes to fight over a bright pink piece of fatty bacon. I get down on one knee to brush dirt and dust from the boy’s coat and offer him a prickly pear from my bag. He takes it, turns it in his hands a couple of times, and scoots away as fast as he can.
The watermelon lies on the road. It has split open. Its inside is as fleshy as the lips of the man in the organic store. For the second time that day I scrunch up my eyes to stem the tears. In the space of a month everything has turned from hope to fear.
When I recover, I realize that I am outside the main door of the hospital where Rosie works. It’s years since I’ve been here and I’m confused about whether this is where I was heading all
the time. But it is obvious that Rosie is the person I need to see more than anyone right now. I tell myself that I have to let her know in person about Lisa’s diagnosis and our decision to get married. It has to be in that order because the first piece of news will soften the blow of the second.
I still carry the internal rhythms of Rosie’s life and I calculate that she will be coming to the end of her morning clinic. I can no longer recall her mobile number but soon find it in my phone. I dial but it occurs to me that if I announce my presence she might say she’s too busy to see me. No one can compete for attention with Rosie’s work. That’s why she’s so good at her job and so bad at relationships.
I try to remember the last time we saw each other and am chastened to realize it was Max’s last day at school, almost two years ago. We stopped doing family events together as soon as we split up. Her decision. Not mine.
When Daisy was ill, we communicated almost every day. We were at our best back then. Now it’s months since we’ve even spoken on the phone. I think about the man at my memory clinic last week who had been married to the same woman for forty-five years but ended up moving back in with his first wife when he got dementia because she was the only one he could remember. Then it dawns on me that I won’t ever be like this man because Lisa won’t be around.
I go up the stairs into the old Victorian red-brick building and head towards the lift to take me up to the oncology department, checking the list on the whiteboard to confirm Rosie is the senior consultant on duty. I sit down and wait. It’s less than five weeks since I sat with Lisa in a similar clinic in Norwich, trying to work out the prognosis from the expression on the doctor’s face when our turn came. I called it wrong. The cancer had already spread into Lisa’s bones, one lung, and there was something they didn’t like on her liver. Aggressive seemed like an understatement. But it was manageable, if only she would accept their advice.
No one gives me a second glance. Everyone is too involved in the drama of their own lives to wonder why a solitary man carrying bags of exotic fruit and vegetables has appeared from nowhere at the end of clinic. I wait until every patient has been seen and head for the room with Rosie’s name on the door. I have a brief internal debate about whether to knock, decide against it in case she says I can’t come in, and then burst into the room with unintended strength to find that she isn’t alone. Judging by the expression on the face of the red-faced young man sitting on the edge of her desk, he has recently borne the brunt of one of Rosie’s searing put-downs. I still remember some of the things she said during our brief flirtation with mediation while we split up. (‘It helps if I think of Nick as a collection of slowly deteriorating cells.’ ‘He intellectualizes emotion because he is incapable of feeling it.’) There is a file on the floor with papers spewing everywhere. Seizing the initiative, I put down my shopping and hold out my hand to him.
