‘Yeah. He’s drop dead gorge.’
‘I think I’ll wait,’ I say. ‘Anyway, I prefer to see a woman.’
‘OK, but get it checked.’
That evening, on the Underground, I see my first public pair of carpenter pants. As soon as I surface, I phone Mark to tell him.
‘You’re too late,’ he says. ‘Jude just emailed me a photo of two guys wearing them in Comptons.’
‘Comptons? That sounds like a set-up.’
‘I know,’ Mark says. ‘But he swears it’s legit.’
As he says this, my BlackBerry beeps to tell me that I too have received the email.
‘God, if I’d had a camera-phone I could have beaten him,’ I complain, peering at the photo. ‘I need a new Blackberry.’
‘You need an iPhone, sweety,’ Mark says. ‘BlackBerries are sooo début du siécle.’
Prompted by SJ’s remarks about my being out of touch, I spend the evening channel-hopping. As she suggested, coverage of the financial crisis is back-to-back. House prices are crashing, banks worldwide are falling to their knees, usually-skint governments are falling over themselves to throw billions of pounds of my money at them (money I didn’t know I had), and the newsreaders are dribbling with excitement about the depth of the coming recession.
Whereas governments usually try to reassure the markets, our own useless chancellor (he of the crazy eyebrows) is jumping from studio to studio as fast as I can channel-hop in his efforts to convince everyone that this is going to be the end of civilisation as we know it. He clearly hasn’t read Living Lightly chapter one: Belief becomes reality.
When I see him predict, for the tenth time in less than an hour, a recession that will be the ‘worst in living memory’, I give up on TV and retire to the safety of my bed, and my reassuringly weighty self-help book.
It takes less effort tonight for me to conjure up my desired image of a brown-eyed, beard-free farming chappy. I must be getting better at it.
But tonight, the second I fall asleep, he will sadly, and somewhat unnervingly morph into a Russian gynaecologist in a green-tiled clinic in Siberia.
After a couple of failed attempts at alternatives, I do, in the end, make an appointment with SJ’s gynaecologist. My first choice couldn’t see me for two weeks, and the second was off sick (which so doesn’t work for me – I do like my medical practitioners to display perfect mastery of at least their own health).
SJ’s doctor tells me that he can see me the next morning due to a cancellation, which, because I hate pre-gynaecological stress almost as much as I hate the visit itself, is perfect.
Her spelling of course, turns out to be a little wide of the mark, and by the time I get to Doctor Ynchausty’s surgery I’m feeling not only my usual pre-stirrup anguish, but also a bit intrigued about the doctor himself.
The practice on Sloane Square is just flashy enough to be reassuring. One gets the impression that people are happy to pay to return here and yet the doctors haven’t become millionaires through unnecessary procedures. Best of all there are no green tiles.
A nurse shows me into the examination room and then leaves me to shiveringly contemplate the cold metal of the stirrups. Behind a frosted glass door, I see the doctor washing his hands.
When he steps into the room, I see that SJ wasn’t joking about his looks. I think my mouth actually drops.
If Doctor Ynchausty were in his twenties rather than his late thirties, he would – with his olive skin, jet black hair, and deep brown eyes – be perfect model material.
But just as I start to realise something more profound about the way he looks, his model smile fades and his face slips into a confused frown.
‘CC?’ he says.
‘Victor!’ I exclaim. The spell is broken.
‘The salsa lady.’
‘Twinkletoes! Right! Look, I’m sorry. I had no idea that you . . . well . . . that you were you.’ I frown at the nonsense coming from my mouth.
‘The last time I looked I was, yeah . . .’ he says drily.
‘I mean, I didn’t know your surname. A friend advised me, and . . .’
‘Darren?’
‘No! No, not at all. No, if I’d known it was you I wouldn’t have come. Obviously.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I didn’t mean . . . but . . . no, Sarah-Jane Dennis sent me. She said she thought you were Russian.’
‘Russian?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Why?’
‘The name I think. But she spelt it all wrong so . . .’
‘No, it’s Basque. From France. The south. Or the north of Spain. Take your pick. But no, not Russian, sorry.’
‘No.’
Victor smirks. ‘That must be terribly disappointing for you. Russian doctors being renowned for their bedside manner and warm hands and all.’
I pull my bag towards me. ‘This is sort of . . . inappropriate, isn’t it?’ I realise that I’m sweating with embarrassment. ‘Maybe I should make an appointment elsewhere?’
Victor shakes his head as if to wake himself from a daydream and raises his hands to indicate that I should stay seated. He takes a seat at his desk. ‘Look, now you’re here, at least let’s see if there’s something I can help with, eh?’
‘Don’t you think it’s a bit . . .’ I say.
Victor shrugs. ‘It’s not as if we see each other every day,’ he says.
‘No.’
‘When was it?’
‘When? Oh . . . March,’ I say. ‘No, February. After that photography exhibition.’
‘Of course,’ he says. ‘That was a crazy evening.’
‘It was.’
‘Anyway, I suppose we’re not here to . . . What seems to be the problem?’
I run my tongue across my top teeth. ‘I really don’t think this is . . . I mean, you know Darren, and everything and . . . I don’t really feel that comfortable . . .’
Victor shrugs. ‘It’s entirely up to you. But, well, I know lots of people. So do all doctors. But we’re very good at keeping things separate. We have to be. It’s up to you, of course, but seeing as you’re here and I’m free . . . Wouldn’t you rather just get it over and done with? I’ve never blabbed about a patient yet.’
I blow through my lips and glance out of the window, weighing it up. It’s clearly embarrassing to be examined by Victor. And then again, at least he’s a known quantity: Darren likes him, SJ trusts him. And at least he’s gay – that’s almost like being examined by a woman, isn’t it?
‘It’s your call, CC. I understand entirely if . . .’
‘OK,’ I say, settling back into my seat. ‘But I’ll probably find someone else for next time, if that’s OK.’
‘You can see my colleague next time if you prefer. If you do need to come back.’
‘I generally prefer women anyway,’ I say. ‘No offence.’
‘None taken. And she is. A woman that is. Not Russian either though, sadly.’
‘Right.’
‘Scottish.’
‘Right.’
Victor claps his hands together. ‘So, down to business. Is this just routine or is there a specific reason you came today?’
Whether Victor feels uncomfortable about this consultation, I have no idea, but if he does, he’s certainly not letting it show. Or skimping on his procedure.
He asks me a hundred questions about my lifestyle, sexual activity (lack of), and previous pregnancies (one, aborted). Though under any other circumstances these questions would be embarrassing, something about his manner puts me perfectly at ease. In a way it feels almost like talking to Sarah-Jane, which is strange and unexpected. I know that SJ would never judge me for the simple reason that we have known each other for so very long that she truly gets who I am by now: nothing I might say could ever change her view of me. I don’t really know Victor at all, of course, but something about his calm, non-judgemental manner makes the whole thing feel no more threatening than a detailed chat with a very good friend.
Eventually, of course, he asks me if I would like to have children in the future and on what time-scale.
‘Maybe in a year or two,’ I say, and he vaguely raises an eyebrow and pauses.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t get the impression you were in a relationship,’ he says.
‘No. Well. I’m not actually.’
‘OK.’
‘But some friends had a baby . . . some lesbian friends . . . and I wondered . . . well, it crossed my mind. You know . . .’
‘I see.’
‘It’s not . . . it’s not what I want, I mean, it’s not how I would choose to . . . but . . . well . . . I don’t want to wait till it’s too late. And after what happened with SJ . . .’
‘I see.’
‘You think that sounds bizarre?’
He shrugs. ‘I don’t think anything anyone says to me is bizarre,’ he says. ‘It’s just that the abortion was fairly recent really.’
‘I know. I knew you’d think that. It sounds mad, doesn’t it? But there were extenuating circumstances . . . why I had to.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘I was with a guy . . .’
‘Is it medical?’ he asks, suddenly sounding abrupt.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Is the reason to do with something medical?’
‘Um, no.’
‘Then that’s probably one thing that I don’t need to know,’ he says.
‘OK,’ I say, internally grimacing that I have overstepped some invisible line of what a patient should tell her gynaecologist.
‘OK,’ Victor says, slipping back into his professional mode. ‘So let me get the nurse in, and we can give you a full check-up and then we should have some idea just how much margin you have, time-wise. Does that sound like a helpful idea?’
‘It does.’
He checks my weight, blood pressure and heart rate. He gives my breasts a good squeeze, takes a blood sample, a pap smear and has a good peer and prod between my legs. The only thing I am spared is the rectal examination. Thanks be for small mercies.
Finally he tells me that everything seems fine, makes an appointment for me to see his colleague for the results of the blood tests and smear, and saying, ‘And if you ever fancy a little salsa . . .’ and miming a phone, he expels me onto the street.
The first thing I do is walk into Oriel Brasserie opposite and order myself a large glass of white wine.
I grab my BlackBerry and hit speed dial #3.
‘Russian!’ I say.
‘What?’ SJ answers.
‘You said he was Russian! The gynaecologist.’
‘Right. He isn’t then? Did you go?’
‘He’s French.’
‘Ah, OK. It was just the name that made me think . . . I mean he sounds completely English, doesn’t he?’
‘And the name is Ynchausty,’ I say. ‘Not Yinkchovzky.’
‘Whatever,’ SJ says. ‘He’s pretty though, isn’t he?’
‘He is.’
‘I told you.’
‘And gay.’
‘Gay?’
‘Gay!’ I laugh.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Totally.’
‘How come? I mean, I didn’t get that vibe at all.’
‘His name’s Victor.’
‘OK . . . Victor Yinkchovzky. That’s quite sexy.’
‘Yeah, Victor. Think about it.’
‘Is that, like, a really gay name or something? Because I don’t spend as much time with them as . . .’
‘No!’ I laugh. ‘He’s Victor, the guy I went dancing with.’
‘Dancing?’
‘Yeah, after that exhibition. With Darren. Remember? I told you about it.’
‘Oh right. When they were all snorting coke in the taxi?’
‘Yeah, right.’
‘So Doctor Yingchovsky is Victor the gay, coke-snorting salsa- dancer? Is that what you’re telling me?’
‘It is. And it’s pronounced Yan-shau-stee.’
‘God! Are you sure it’s him?’
‘Of course I’m sure! He remembered me too.’
‘Oh God, how embarrassing. But he’s gay.’
‘Exactly.’
‘God. What a waste. Still, perfect for you really.’
‘Because?’
‘Well, you’re such a fag hag, aren’t you? Now you even have a gay gynaecologist.’
Dealing with the Past
As if having my bits inspected by Twinkletoes wasn’t enough trauma for one day, just as I walk into Spot On, my BlackBerry beeps with a message from Darren. ‘She’s New, She’s Improved. She’s Back,’ it says.
I glance around to see if he is sitting in the lobby and then shrug the message off and look up at the receptionist.
‘She’s back!’ she says.
I shake my head in disbelief. ‘Jesus. If you can’t take a morning to go to the doctor’s without getting a load of gyp . . . Anyway, as far as I recall you were off for four weeks in June, so—’
‘Not you!’ she says in a whisper. ‘VB. She’s back. And she wants to see you.’
When I enter VB’s office, she stands, walks around her desk and . . . hugs me. I am so shocked by this that I remain entirely rigid, and then, rather cleverly, I grab her shoulders and force her away in the pretence of getting a better look. ‘Well look at you!’ I exclaim, holding her at arm’s length. ‘Gosh you look well.’ And she does. She looks more than well: she looks like an entirely different person.
She seems to have aged about ten years in six months, but she looks better for it. Her features look softer, her skin less taut – it’s as if she’s had a reverse facelift.
‘Oh, I don’t,’ she says, uncharacteristically. ‘I look a mess really. But I’m not sure I care any more. I hear you’ve done a sterling job on the Grunge! account, by the way.’
I swallow hard and release her shoulders in the hope that she will now return to her side of the desk and stop being creepy. She does neither.
‘So how are you?’ she asks.
‘Good thanks, yeah.’
‘No, I mean, really. How are you?’
‘Good,’ I say. ‘I am good. Really.’
‘I realised that we spend more time with people here than we do with our partners.’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I suppose we do.’
‘Do you have a partner, CC?’
‘I, um . . . Look, did you want to see me about anything in particular?’
VB shakes her head. ‘No, not really. I just wanted to catch up.’
‘Would you like me to give you a report on the whole Levi’s thing?’
VB shrugs. ‘No. Everyone tells me that it’s all going swimmingly without me, so . . . I’m just easing myself back in gently, if you know what I mean.’
‘Sure,’ I say.
‘Everything OK? At the doctor’s?’
She’s really weirding me out now, and I’m having trouble keeping it out of my facial expressions. ‘Yeah, just a check-up,’ I say. ‘Routine.’
‘Good, well, if there’s ever anything . . . If you ever need to talk. Well, I’m here for you.’
‘Right,’ I say. ‘Well, I’ll, erm . . .’
‘It’s no good bottling things up.’
‘No. Well, I’ll catch you later on then.’ And with that, I give her a little wave and walk briskly out of her office.
On my way down I call in to Creative. Mark is on holiday, but Jude and Darren both look up from Jude’s screen which is displaying an image of a yogurt pot.
‘Hiya,’ I say. ‘Don’t tell me you’re actually working!’
Jude frowns at his screen, and then turns slowly to face me. ‘Working?’
‘That is work, I take it,’ I say. ‘Not some new dairy fetish?’
‘Yeah,’ Jude says, vaguely. And then as if his spirit snaps back into his body, he suddenly breaks free of whatever he has been thinking about. ‘Sorry, yes. It’s for that dairy campaign. We’re just looking at what everyone else is doing.
’
‘Cornish Cow? But we haven’t even signed them yet,’ I say.
‘No,’ Jude says. ‘But there’s nothing else happening at the moment, so we were just having a look. Dairy is very dull. I hope if we do get it we can shake things up a bit.’
‘Shake it up!’ Darren laughs.
I frown.
‘You know. Dairy. Milkshake . . . never mind.’
‘No,’ Jude says drily. ‘Never mind.’ He clicks his mouse and the screen goes blank.
Both he and Darren swivel to face me. ‘What’s up?’ Jude asks. ‘You look confused.’
‘It’s just bizarre here today,’ I say. ‘VB is being all huggy and now you’re both working.’
‘Ah, you met the cyborg,’ Darren laughs.
‘The cyborg?’
‘Yeah, we think that they’ve replaced VB with a cyborg.’ ‘Right. Well she’s certainly being very Stepford-Wifey.’
‘Stepford what?’
‘It doesn’t matter. It’s a cult film, but probably a bit before your time. A bit before my time, actually.’
‘Did she hug you?’ Jude asks.
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘She did. You too?’
Jude nods.
‘She was going on at Jude about dealing with the past and not bottling things up,’ Darren says.
‘I got that too.’
‘Personally I think they’ve blown her brains out with electric shock therapy,’ Darren laughs.
Jude pulls a face like he’s smelt something bad. ‘She is still one of the partners,’ he points out. ‘I don’t think we should be, you know . . .’
‘Sorry,’ Darren says.
‘And anyway,’ he adds. ‘Mental illness isn’t something to be joked about.’
‘No. Sure. Sorry,’ Darren says again.
I shrug. ‘Well, I’m with Darren on this one,’ I say. ‘That Greenham woman out there is not VB.’
‘Greenham?’ Darren asks.
‘Greenham Comm— oh, never mind. Again, a bit before your time.’
That night, unable to concentrate on my exercises, I add Living Life Lightly to the heap of self-help books above the bed and try to read the first chapter of The Blue Bistro instead. But my mind is elsewhere, and my eyes just skim the page.
My brain is occupied with a vague unfocused process of passing the day in review. It’s not unlike dreaming.
I feel the cold steel of the stirrups, and see Victor’s head bobbing between them . . .
The Case of the Missing Boyfriend Page 21
