The next morning David called his office to remind them he had a medical appointment. The kind receptionist asked if he was okay – and commented that he’d seemed a bit peaky the day before.
At the heart assessment clinic David waited for his name to be called. He looked at the electronic display. It showed 156. He checked the paper token in his hand: 164. Why did they allocate appointment times and then run over an hour late? He hadn’t brought a book or his iPad. Instead, he played solitaire on his phone. What was taking them so long?
He looked up at the wall. The digital display jumped straight to 161.
He couldn’t concentrate on the card game and scrolled through his friends’ WhatsApp group. Mainly it was harmless banter and memes taking the piss out of each other. Every now and then there was genuine cause for concern. Earlier in the year, Tom broke a leg hiking Snowdonia and for a while it had been touch and go. There was hushed talk of having to amputate some of the limb. Barry had been too hasty in making a legless joke. The rest of the group severely admonished him, although they privately acknowledged his quick wit, however inappropriate.
‘Mr Chatsworth. Mr David Chatsworth.’
David realised his name was being called.
The woman was holding a clipboard and asked him to follow her to a testing suite.
‘Can you take your shirt off?’ she asked as she closed the door. She introduced herself as Lucy and explained her role as a Cardiac Physiologist.
David pretended not to notice how pretty she was. He wanted to ask for a male Physiologist but that would involve admitting he was uncomfortable with her. He took off his shirt and folded it carefully. He held in his stomach, not that she’d be interested in him but she really was pretty. He was acutely aware of their closeness in the small treatment room. He tried to remember whether he had eaten any garlic or onion recently …
She walked him to a treadmill.
Why was his right nipple erect? It was like a bullet. It could have someone’s eye out.
She blew on her hands to warm them then attached electrodes to his chest and fixed a blood-pressure cuff around his left bicep.
David wasn’t particularly hairy, with only a dusting of inch-long dark hairs on his torso, but one of the pads caught a chest hair.
‘Ouch!’ She apologised but said it would probably hurt more to move the electrode now it was stuck. He was primed for further pain to come at the end, very aware of his topless state. She switched on the treadmill and he started walking. The test got steadily faster and the gradient more severe.
‘You’re in great shape …’
Was she flirting or being polite? He didn’t want his heart rate to increase because of her proximity.
David wanted to say thanks but chose not to in case he showed he was out of breath. Not that he need have worried; Lucy upped the speed and increased the ascent angle. He matched the new steep incline, step for step, with no slowing down.
‘… for your age,’ she continued.
No, definitely not flirting. Talk about kicking a man without his shirt on.
David had only joined the gym to punish himself for the guilt he felt. He’d had severe insomnia after his one-night stand with Amelia-Rose and the sleepless nights filled him with despair. He was glad his newly acquired fitness level could compete with the NHS monitoring equipment. Forced to talk when Lucy asked some follow-up questions, he gave short answers concerning his stimulants intake (coffee and alcohol) and exercise regime. He underestimated the former and exaggerated the latter. She asked him to describe his chest pains and any feelings of anxiety.
‘Any problems at work? Or at home?’
My wife is planning to leave me and I will be destroyed.
‘Personally – nothing of note.’ David spoke slowly to hide his exertion, and brushed off the question by giving a broad statement that society was stressed as a whole. He was overworked but wasn’t it the same for Everyman?
When she asked about medications and drugs, he shook his head.
‘Do you smoke?’
‘Quit twelve years ago.’ After she congratulated him, David didn’t think his recent dalliance with nicotine was worth mentioning.
‘Anything harder? Cocaine or cannabis?’
‘No.’
‘Viagra?’
David wished the floor would open up and swallow him whole. He envisaged ripping off the electrodes and storming from the room like the Incredible Hulk, his favourite comic book character when he was a kid. He looked anywhere but at Lucy and tried to keep his dignity intact. ‘No,’ he said in a small voice.
‘In your patient records, it says—’
‘I got a prescription from the doctor, just in case.’ David could feel sweat drip down his back and leak into the waistband of his boxer shorts.
‘In case …?’
He caught her eye. ‘Look, there’s nothing wrong there!’ he said before losing his balance and stumbling. He came flying off the treadmill. The wires ripped from his chest and he ended up sprawled in a corner of the room, legs akimbo.
‘Oh, my God!’ cried Lucy. ‘Let me get some help.’
‘NO!’ His body was battered but the damage to his pride was far worse. He couldn’t bear anyone else to witness his humiliation at careering off the running machine like that. He pretended that the chest hairs that had been ripped out didn’t bother him and ignored that both his right elbow and knee were throbbing. Lucy helped him up. David gathered his shirt and quickly covered himself. If she noticed, she didn’t mention that his buttons were done up incorrectly but waited patiently until he had recovered.
‘It’s not what you think.’ He needed to clarify this with her. ‘Me and my wife are trying … going to try for a baby, and one of my friends said that he was expected to, you know, perform, morning-noon-and-night at the drop of a hat. Whenever the thermometer dictated. I didn’t want to …’ He struggled to find the right words. ‘… I didn’t want to let her down, is all. When I said no, I meant I haven’t needed it yet. I haven’t even filled the prescription’.
Lucy gave his hand a reassuring pat. David felt his arm hair prickle.
‘I’ll send your results to the doctor.’
David asked how long it would take for the GP to get them.
‘It can take a week, maybe two. Off the record – it’s my view there’s nothing physically wrong with you but you’ve experienced some mild panic attacks.’ She suggested relaxation and breathing exercises for when he felt overwhelmed. And told him to lay off the coffee.
‘Stick to single espressos, and no more than two per day. I don’t want to see you here again,’ Lucy said with a smile.
‘Great. Thanks,’ he said before he rushed out of the room. He meant it too. He could have kissed her. David knew he could deal with panic attacks. It was all about breathing and shit. He had been petrified he wasn’t going to live to see his forty-sixth birthday. Like his father hadn’t.
As the fresh air hit David’s face he already felt better. Placebo effect, maybe? Yes, he was a sweaty mess and had been thoroughly humiliated, but he hadn’t died and he wasn’t going to for the foreseeable future. Lucy had said he was in optimal condition for his age category, he had the body of someone five years younger easily. Although Lucy’s test sample were probably not the healthiest of specimens, all being men referred to her for heart assessments.
David tried Rachel’s number. He wanted to hear her cute voice. He wanted to ask if she still loved him. He needed reassurance that only she could provide. His call was sent to voicemail. Where was she?
He called Jim and asked if he wanted to have a celebratory-not-going-to-die-anytime-soon drink. Jim was reliable. Quiet and shy, he hid most of his face under a hipster beard. Jim would be able to give actual advice. Solid, down-to-earth advice, not the stick-your-head-in-the-sand type that was Barry’s forté.
When David got to the pub, he was disappointed to see Jim sitting at a table with Aaron and Barry. Then Lee appeared with a tray of drink
s. Jim, the anti-social mole of the decade, had invited all and sundry. Tom was busy and Alfie was stuck on a job in Edinburgh. But there sat four of David’s oldest friends: Jim, Lee, Aaron and Barry.
Why, Jim, why?
‘Dave – I was just saying, you sounded a bit blue. What better excuse for me to round up the troops!’ Jim raised a glass to him.
‘Thanks, Jim.’
Barry seemed more than happy to spend another night away from the solitude of his single man’s studio, having quickly tired of bachelor life. Lee, vying for stepfather of the year, could fit in a swift one before he picked up the girls from the babysitter. And Aaron said he was always up for a cheeky beer on the way home, but to Barry’s delight had already partnered his pint with a whisky chaser.
‘Do we need to talk? Jim said you were suicidal,’ Barry mouthed to David.
He looked askance at Jim, who couldn’t hear their conversation but gave two thumbs up from across the table.
‘Nah, he got the wrong end of the stick. I had an ECG today but it’s fine – full bill of health. He must have misunderstood my joie de vivre.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ Barry said unconvincingly. ‘But let me know if the black dog visits.’
Aaron got the next round of drinks and everyone found himself a whisky on the side. Barry was made giddy by this determination to have fun. He didn’t need a partner in crime, but he always welcomed company.
‘How’s the sale?’ Jim asked David.
‘Nearly there. This time next month, I reckon.’
‘Then what?’
‘Then what?’ David repeated.
I don’t have a frigging idea. The realisation he could be losing Rachel and his business at the same time was too much for him to take in.
‘Have you checked your fantasy football?’ Lee interrupted.
‘Think so.’ David nodded, thinking, Couldn’t give two shits about fantasy football.
‘You haven’t seen it then. If you had you’d know you were in the lead by fifteen points!’
‘What?’ He checked his phone. That was unheard of. David usually bobbed about in the middle of the group. He had never peaked higher than third (Tom and Lee took pole position interchangeably) while Jim was always last. The rest of them floated up or down the league table.
‘Something to do with Brighton FC,’ Lee told him.
David realised that outside big occasions, weddings and funerals and even birthdays, he hadn’t had a drink with these guys for over a year. And with the big events came wives, girlfriends, children, so they could hardly talk freely then. Time out had to be organised especially and diaries consulted, with in-laws-cum-babysitters booked months in advance. Their WhatsApp banter was a convenient alternative.
Lee’s phone buzzed. It was a message from the child-minder. He showed David a picture of his stepdaughters. The two girls wore matching dresses and held up a handwritten message reading – WE MISS YOU DADDY LEE! Barry rolled his eyes and made a derisive gesture, implying Lee was under the thumb. But David had never seen his friend happier, so it was obviously working for him.
Lee showed him another picture – this time at Lego-land. And then another, of Lee being buried in sand up to his neck and the two girls in fits of laughter. They were both missing their front teeth and dressed as pirates.
David wondered who would be the first of them to become a grandfather? Aaron had two girls under five years old. Barry had a ten-year-old, a twelve-year-old and a fourteen-year-old. Tom had tweens and Jim had a one-year-old, who slept through the night. Barry said that any kid with Jim for a dad would sleep through the night and most of the day, to avoid his boring musings. Bit harsh, David thought. Jim was his most loyal friend. And the most sensitive of them. David had once seen him save a ladybird from a pub bench. He was a keen member of the local Hedgehog Preservation Society and he tried to be vegan (and mainly succeeded).
David nodded along with Lee and smiled but it hit him in the gut, the thought of children. He’d told himself off for putting on weight. His underwear was too tight – that couldn’t be good for his sperm count, could it? He’d read that somewhere. Or was it one of his friends here who’d told him – Aaron and his missus had had trouble conceiving, although at the time Aaron had laughed it off as getting in extra baby-making practice. David pushed at his stomach. His jeans weren’t digging in, but his boxer shorts were definitely tight. He blamed the extra beer. And missing the gym to wallow in self-pity of his own making. He fidgeted in an attempt to free the jersey cotton from his arse crack.
He looked at his phone and searched for Rachel’s ovulation app. David had proposed it would be nice if they both tracked her cycle. He clicked on the icon. His phone buzzed in disagreement. Error: incorrect login. He tried the icon again. Incorrect login again. He deleted the saved password and manually typed TwoBecomesThree and the error message caused his phone to vibrate a third time.
What did it mean? Why couldn’t he see when Rachel was ovulating? It made little difference. They hadn’t slept together in the last month. Like a child, he used his fingers to work out how long it had been. Had four weeks really passed without sex? Lee downed his pint and pushed his shot glass towards David.
‘Are you drinking that?’ David nodded at the honey-coloured liquor begging to be drunk.
Lee shook his head and winked. ‘Driving,’ he said, and waved good night. Four became three.
David took the glass and downed the harsh nectar. The realisation hit him like a truck then. Why was he thinking about ovulation calendars and children WHEN HIS WIFE WAS GOING TO LEAVE HIM? David had been given a clean bill of health, but what did it matter IF RACHEL WAS GOING TO LEAVE HIM? She had been talking to a solicitor about a separation agreement for fuck’s sake. The warning bell in his head was getting louder. He got up to leave.
‘Come on mate, stay for one more. Aaron, get Dave a drink,’ Barry said before David could make his escape.
His friend’s command gave him breathing space. He didn’t have to make a decision straight away. He had to sit and finish whatever drinks were put in front of him. Another shot arrived and was downed. Two more glasses, one little, one large, appeared. And maybe another pair. Barry had said something funny. Everyone at the table was laughing. David smiled and said ‘good one’, without registering the joke.
He tried to tap out a message to Rachel. He’d spilled beer on his phone and the space bar was sticky. The predictive text made it impossible for him to type out the words he wanted to use. He wanted to say he was with Jim and Barry and wouldn’t be back too late. And that he missed her and he loved her very much.
David: Iminthevb wiry jamsbalry andieontbebacklqtw imisuouqne Iveuoua veyrmhxxx
Jim asked if anyone was having another pint, which caused Barry to take to his feet and celebrate this decadence with a tap dance.
‘Are you alright, D?’ Jim asked.
‘Yeah, can’t complain.’ No, I’m not alright. I’m fighting for my life, my marriage, everything!
‘And what about Barry?’ Jim nodded towards the inebriated Barry. They watched as he continued his dance over to the next table. The women there looked to be having a serious discussion about literature and didn’t want to entertain his Riverdance antics. It was all about the shin and calf muscles, he kept repeating to them.
‘Have you been to his new place?’ David asked.
‘Gina’s not kicked him out again?’
‘You know Barry’s motto: better to ask for forgiveness than permission.’
‘How’s that working out for him?’
‘IKEA must make a mint out of temporarily excluded husbands.’ It was Barry’s round, but David could see the anxiety on his face.
‘Need a hand, B?’
At the bar David asked his friend if Gina had thawed towards him.
‘Not a chance.’
‘And the bank?’
‘The same. My credit card is at its max. I’m covering all the direct debits on the house and the kid
s—’
‘What do you need?’ David offered.
‘That would be great. It shouldn’t be much longer.’
David checked his wallet. He had £70 and change. He handed over the notes to Barry.
‘You’ll pay me back.’
Barry nodded.
Back at the table, Jim asked David if he was really okay. David looked him in the eye and told him not to worry. Afterwards he wasn’t sure why he spent the entire night convincing his friends he was fine and didn’t need to talk when the opposite was true.
David staggered home. He tried to avoid the cracks in the pavement. It was something his kooky art teacher had told her pupils to do, to avoid being cursed. When he turned from the main road to Sycamore Rise his big clumsy foot crossed a line. Cursed. He moved his leg back, only to cross another line. Cursed again.
He paused at his front door and realised how drunk he was. The last thing he wanted was to try to enter the wrong house. The car outside the garage was his. The door was red as was his. The brown mat said WECLOME. The typo was a purposeful nod to one of Rachel’s favourite comedy shows. The numbers on the door were a stylish one one four. Yes, this was his house. He tried multiple pockets for his keys then found them in his hand.
‘Always the last place you look,’ he said aloud. He slowly opened the door and headed clumsily upstairs. When his right foot connected with the creaky step, he loudly shushed the stair and told it to go back to sleep. The heat from the whisky was oozing out of his pores. He checked his breath after brushing his teeth and decided that he would need to brush again. David found it difficult to brush while simultaneously yawning. He allowed the wall to help hold him up. He needed a shower, but first he must lie down. Fully dressed, he climbed onto the bed. His head spun.
He stared at his sleeping wife. She was beautiful. The Cupid’s bow of her lips was aimed towards him. Her faint outbreath was minty. He realised that this was what home smelled like for him: mint and the patchouli of her night cream. He wanted to breathe in as much of it as possible. He wanted to wake her up. He wanted to tell her everything. He wanted to tell her she was his everything. He hoped he would remember all the things he wanted to tell her. He opened the email app on his phone and started typing.
How to Marry Your Husband Page 13
