by Lindy Dale
“It’s nothing. I had a bit of a surprise.”
“One that caused you to bolt from the room like your bum was on fire and you can’t find the extinguisher?”
A watery smile graces my lips. “Something like that. I just discovered my ex, Brendan, is dating my friend Melinda, the one who’s been ignoring my phone calls for the past eight months.”
“Ahh.” Jared gives a slow nod. “And you’ve put two and two together and decided that this may have been going on while you and Brendan were together?”
“It certainly explains a lot of odd behaviour.”
Like the way they disappeared at Hilary and John’s party and how Melinda cut me out of her life so quickly. What else could she do, if she were having an affair with my partner? I wouldn’t be able to look her in the eye if the shoe were on the other foot. Yes, the pieces seem to fit — the sudden need to buy new clothes (which I attributed to my cancer), the change in cologne that he’d been wearing since before we met. Even the furtive phone calls in the toilet add weight to the theory. I collapse against the wall. I feel deflated and rather gullible that this was happening under my nose and I didn’t see the signs.
“Can I get you anything?” Jared asks. “A cool drink? A shotgun?”
“That might be handy but I think I need a minute to process this, before I decide what to do. I might have to clean up a bit too. Eau de Puke isn’t first my choice in perfume.”
In the perfect movie world, I’d probably storm back into the room, barge up to the Cressley’s table and tip a jug of something slimy over Brendan’s head. The entire gathering would, of course, give me a standing ovation and he would be exposed for the cad he is. But this isn’t the perfect world and no matter how they’ve behaved I feel I’m a little above such a childish action. Perhaps I could ignore them? Pretend like I don’t care?
Jared brings me back to the present. “If it’s any consolation I know exactly how you feel.”
Of course, his wife and the partner.
“Really?” I feign ignorance.
“My wife Polly had an affair with my practice partner. That’s why we’re divorced.”
“That’s too bad.” I can’t believe he’s sharing this with me. What happened to that detached, standoffish man? The one who was only my doctor? “What did you do?”
“Nothing. I had the boys to think of. And she was running about the town, bad mouthing me to all and sundry. One of us had to behave like an adult. I used to dream of a bit of good old retribution though, like her getting fat and not being able to fit into her clothes or getting an awful facelift that only I could fix with my superior surgeon’s skills. Which I wouldn’t.”
I giggle. He’s making me feel so much better.
“Do you think I should go back in?”
“Yep. Don’t give them the satisfaction of seeing you rattled. Why don’t you go and straighten yourself up? I’ll wait here and we’ll go in together. That way it won’t look so obvious I’m late. Damn babysitters.”
When we get back to the open doors of the hall, I steel myself, ready to go in. Luckily, the quiz appears to have started without me and every head on every table is bent in quiet discussion. Heaven help the opposing tables should hear what you choose as a final answer.
We’re about to step inside when the master of ceremonies calls, “And that’s the end of Round One. You have one minute to get your answer sheet to the judges. In the meantime, here’s the first of the spot prize questions for the night….”
The crowd breaks into healthy chatter, reviewing answers and deciding whether they want to enter for a chance at the spot prize.
“Where’s our table?” Jared asks, as we walk.
“This way.”
Our table is near the front and, by the time we get there, I can see Melinda and Brendan. They’re standing chatting to Jeff and Angela like they never had an affair, like they’re satisfied that I scurried off in tears. And somehow, miraculously, they seem to have cleaned every molecule of vomit from their bodies. I hate them. I hate them so much, the word is inadequate to describe my loathing.
“You’re looking well,” Melinda remarks as we stop before her. “Considering your dreadful ordeal.”
Oh. My. God. How can she stand there, after what she’s done to me, and say that? I could so punch her right now. I raise myself to my full height, complete with ten centimetres extra for heels. I stare right into her kohl-rimmed eyes. My mouth opens to speak, and as it does, I feel a hand clutching mine.
“I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Jared Hanson.”
Jared holds out his other hand for Melinda to shake. He gives her the sort of smile that could make the hardest of women melt into a puddle of orgasmic jelly at his feet. Even I’d like to melt, and I’ve seen it before.
As she takes his hand, Melinda gazes into those fabulous eyes of his. “Jared. Nice to meet you. I’m Melinda Benson.”
Jared smiles again. He knows how to pile on the charm. “I know. Sophie’s told me about you.”
Such a shame none of it was nice, I think.
Melinda’s eyes travel down Jared’s body, stopping at his hand, locked with mine. She appears to be in shock, as well she should be. I know I am. I was under the impression we’d gone back to the doctor-patient-friend thing. Now he’s holding my hand?
“And you’re with Sophie?”
“Yes, we’ve been together about a month now.” To complete the ruse, he reaches over and places a kiss on my cheek. I would faint from the touch but Melinda’s face is so priceless, I’m dying to see what she’ll do next. She looks as if she’s swallowed a bucket full of glass. And beside her, Brendan’s knuckles are white. He’s clenching them in and out.
It’s bitchy, I know, but I have to rub it in. “Jared and I met at the hospital. He’s a plastic surgeon.” I give special emphasis to the last two words. There’s no need for them to know anything else about our relationship. Hell, I don’t even know. His constant switches in attitude are confusing me more than when I thought the guy who lived next door to my flat was a girl.
“A plastic surgeon, you say?” Melinda gulps.
I want to sing. I want to say, ‘ha ha, my boyfriend is better than yours,’ but I bite my tongue and smirk because singing might be taking it a step too far. We both know any type of doctor is up there in the suitable husband book for Melinda. It’s one of the reasons why she’s never been married. The majority of the nicer men didn’t measure up professionally. Which makes me wonder how serious this thing between her and Brendan is. I suppose it could be she’s culled her list of requirements with age.
I glance over at Brendan who hasn’t entered into the conversation. I don’t think he can. I think that illusion he has, the one where he’s so perfect I’d never be able to find anyone better, has been shattered.
“Oh, Brendan?” I say.
“Yes?”
“I never had a chance to ask if you got that package I sent you a while back? You know, the one with the Hugo Boss shirts in it? You left them at the house.”
I see Brendan’s mind ticking over. A frown kinks the space between his brows. Then I note the tell-tale bulging of his eyes, the sign that his blood is about to boil. “Are you talking about that pile of blue rags?”
“The same.” I smile a syrupy sweet smile.
“That was my shirts?”
“Yes. I thought you’d want them back. But they wouldn’t fit in the bag… so I trimmed them down a bit.” I glance down at the damp shirt he’s wearing. “Pity I didn’t keep them in the car. You could do with a fresh shirt.”
Brendan opens his mouth to reply and I know I’ve hit a nerve. Aside from his gadgets and his pristinely-ironed shirt collection, Brendan’s appearance is the most important thing in the world to him.
Fortunately, though, the master of ceremonies chooses this very moment to announce the beginning of Round Two.
Chapter 29
“You should’ve seen Melinda. Her face looked like it was going to
fall off her head.” Angela and I are sitting with Lani over morning tea the following Monday when Angela begins a cackle that turns into a full-blown laugh-fest between the three of us. So much so, that I have to brace my stomach for fear it’s going to pop the internal stitches. I’ve already been getting this odd bulging sensation near my new navel, which I think is a hernia. I can’t cope with a hernia. I’m tired of constant trips to the hospital.
“The best part was when Jared suggested we go on a couples night, though,” I add. “Brendan almost fell over. He went this weird shade of greenish grey and muttered something about lack of babysitters and being very busy in the run up to Christmas.”
“Which confirmed our suspicions that they’re living together. Why else would he need to get a babysitter?” Angela says.
“And I’ve no intention of going anywhere with either of them, ever again. I’d rather run down Hay Street naked with my one boob swinging like the bells in the cathedral.”
Lani is biting on the edge of her mug and looking confused at this turn of events. “Jared, he’s the cute one, right? The surgeon who gave you the flat tummy?”
I nod my agreement.
“So why are you going out with him? That’s against the Hippocratic oath. I’m sure it is.”
“I’m not. It was a joke, of sorts.”
Lani still appears bemused.
“I ran into him in the hallway at the quiz night. He saw I was upset; we talked about what happened. I had no idea he was going to pretend we were an item. It was as much of a shock to me as it was to everyone. He does have very smooth hands though. I wouldn’t mind those hands touching me some more.”
“He touched you?”
“Only to hold my hand.”
“And he kissed her cheek.” Angela butts in.
Lani’s eyes bulge dangerously.
“As part of the joke,” I explain. “But it was so nice to have someone hold my hand again.” Even if I cast my mind back to the good times, I can’t recall the last time Brendan did. He was never much of a hand holder.
“So you’re not together.”
“Of course not.”
“That’s a pity. He seems like a nice man.”
Angela gets up and moves to the sink, where she washes her mug and turns it up on the draining board. “My thoughts exactly, Lani. I couldn’t think of a better match for our Sophie than Jared. He’s kind, intelligent and handsome. He loves kids and she wouldn’t have to worry about him freaking out when he sees her naked. He’s already seen her naked on an operating table.”
I roll my eyes. “Seriously. Can we get on to the topic at hand and stop talking about Jared Hanson? He has no more interest in me than I do in him.”
Lani and Angela look at me, eyebrows raised.
“Of course.”
“Sure.”
I pull a pad and pen from the shelf and turn to a new page. “Okay. So, we both know Ange is a wiz with event planning…”
For the next hour we put our heads together to organise the best launch party on ever imagined in the world of small business. Angela, who’s always looking to keep her skills as a party-slash-event planner current, has a tonne of ideas and by the time she kisses me goodbye, the date for the re-branded opening of Vintage is set for six weeks hence. I can’t wait. It’s nice to have something to look forward to that doesn’t involve a scalpel.
*****
Later that afternoon, I reach the playground to collect Rory from school. I find a spot under the huge oak where I normally wait, and pull out my phone to check my emails. On the other side of the broad trunk of the tree, a group of mothers are talking. I don’t recognise their voices and I’m not overly impressed with the topic of conversation.
“Sophie Molloy?” The first one questions. “That’s Rory’s mother, yah? The little boy in One Blue?”
“That’s the one. Well, my friend said she’s going out with Jared Hanson.”
“Ohhh, you mean Dr. Handsome? The girls at the hospital adore him. He’s gorgeous.”
“He’s also her plastic surgeon. She’s had Breast Cancer, you know. Reconstruction was a terrible failure. She’s going to be deformed for life.”
A collective gasp echoes from behind the tree and I cock my ear to see what they’re going to say next.
“According to my girlfriend, Sophie’s been hitting the sack with him for quite a while now. That’s why her and that Brendan fellow split up. He couldn’t take any more of her cheating. Then they had to rub it in his face by flaunting themselves around the quiz night. You should have seen her. It was disgusting the way they were pawing each other.”
Wait a second. There wasn’t any pawing going on. Well, only Melinda and Brendan. And I’ve never had an affair in my life. The absolute cheek. I stick my head around the side of the trunk.
“Uh, hi girls. I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation. You were talking so loudly.”
One of the women looks me up and down. “And you are?”
It’s a reasonable question, I suppose. There are nearly four hundred children in the junior section of the school. It’s impossible to know every parent.
“Sophie Molloy. You know, the deformed, cheating, Breast Cancer sufferer?”
I hear one of them mumble to the others that I don’t look deformed.
“That’s because I’m not. Like your other information, the bit about me being deformed is a total fallacy. Which one of you is friends with Melinda Benson?” I know this has come from her. It’s the kind of thing she’d do to get back at me because my perceived ‘boyfriend’ is better than hers.
“We all are,” says the mumbler.
“Well, perhaps you’d like to know that it was Melinda having the affair with my partner, Brendan. For the entire time I was being treated for cancer, in fact. And Jared Hanson is not my boyfriend, he’s my doctor.”
I continue to give them a piece of my mind for another couple of minutes until I notice Rory bounding across the oval towards me.
“Oh and by the way, you can let Melinda know that if I hear any more malicious gossip about me, I’ll sue her and her liposuction-toned bottom for everything she has.”
Another gasp, this time of horror, reverberates through the canopy of leaves above us.
“She’s had lipo?” the first woman whispers, as if even saying the word out loud is a crime.
“On a regular basis. You don’t think giving up carbs gave her that look do you?”
With that, I turn, gather Rory’s hand, and together we walk to the car. I feel strangely satisfied that I’ve backhandedly given Melinda and Brendan a taste of their own medicine. I hope this means that they’ll leave me alone now. I have better things to do with my time.
Chapter 30
It’s been eight months since my diagnosis. Today, I’m visiting Dr. Downer for a check up, after I’ve done the obligatory tests first, that is. I’m not looking forward to it. Even though I’ve been assured the cancer is gone, I have this recurring niggling feeling. It happens every time I contemplate the idea of an ultrasound or mammogram. These two devices, that are meant to save lives, are now the source of absolute fear for me. It’s silly, I know. But they are.
I arrive at the pathology centre and after my name’s called, I go into the cubicle to change into a gown, leaving my clothes and underwear in a neat pile on the bench seat. I pull back the curtain and stand, looking for an empty chair amongst the row of women, each of whom have two breasts. Suddenly, I understand why this place is segregated from the rest of the pathology centre. This is possibly the most self-conscious I’ve ever felt. I feel as though every woman present is peering at me over the top of her magazine and hoping it never turns out to be her. If only I had a bigger handbag. At least, then, I’d be able to hide my lopsidedness with leather. I sit down and try to be thankful for one small mercy. This humiliation would be ten times more of a nightmare if I had to sit in the general waiting room looking like this.
As the weather’s been getting warmer
, I’ve found that I’ve become increasingly self-conscious about my one breast. I try not to be, but it’s a hard thing to fight. Where I used to wear singlet tops in summer, I now wear t-shirts. I never get dressed without the bra, even around the house, because I worry that someone will knock on the door and I’ll be forced into an entire conversation with my arms crossed over my chest. I‘ve stopped going swimming with Rory, too, because I can’t bring myself to pay the hugely inflated prices they’re asking for bathers that have a built in pocket for the fake boob and I’m certainly not going without one because that would be even worse.
So I sit there, looking at those women with their two boobs and I think to myself, they have no idea how lucky they are.
It takes a while but finally a nurse appears and leads me down the hall to the mammogram room. As she’s squashing my remaining breast into the machine and I’m trying not to picture it as a pancake with lemon and honey, she’s making small talk. I can’t remember if it hurt this much last time, which worries me because it could be a sign that something’s dreadfully wrong. While she’s clicking away, I begin to strategise about what I’ll do when she gives me that look, the ‘you’ve got it again but I can’t say anything’ look. I won’t cry, I know I won’t because I’ll most likely be passed out, dangling with my boob clamped in the mammogram machine. The trauma caused by such a look will send me over the edge.
At last the mammogram is over and as I pull the gown back over my shoulder, I know I can’t take this torture every six months. The humiliation of only having one breast, the waiting for results, the muttering of healthcare professionals. Instead of Jared giving me an implant that will never match no matter how much he tells me it will, I’d rather he take my other breast, too. I’ll have two, new, no-possibility-of-cancer breasts. Thank you very much. Then only reason women will look at me is because of envy. They’ll totally want my perky boobs.
The nurse takes me to sit on a chair at the door to the ultrasound room. People are rushing around me oblivious to the worry racing through my head and I can feel myself becoming agitated, worried. What if they find something? What if I have cancer in the other breast? I can’t do this again. I won’t do this again. I’ve had my turn. Let some other woman have hers.
