Tread Softly

by Wendy Perriam

‘Is there any part of her that’s normal?’ the Monster asked derisively.

  ‘It’s my back that hurts, not my hip. I had it X-rayed in hospital and they said I had degenerative changes in my spine.’

  ‘Well, in that case I think you should see our osteopath, José Carlos.’

  ‘Now, you mean?’

  ‘Oh no, no, no. We’ve booked you in for the scan today, as Mr Brownlow suggested.’

  ‘Hughes.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘My surgeon’s name’ – she enunciated carefully – ‘is Mr Hughes.’

  ‘Yes, I know. We’ve been over that already.’

  ‘So why did you call him Brownlow?’

  ‘I didn’t, Lorna. I’m talking about José Carlos – José Carlos Carrero. His English isn’t brilliant, but he’s first-rate as an osteopath. You could book to see him on a subsequent visit. We also have a splendid acupuncturist who might be able to help.’

  ‘He’s touting for business again,’ the Monster warned, ‘for his pals this time. I bet they’re all in it together – inventing symptoms for every patient, to make sure they each have a go. It could even be a pan-European racket: José Carlos from Spain, the acupuncturist from Bulgaria.’

  ‘But wait till we have the results of the scan. That’ll be a help to any practitioner you see here. I’ll just check up on Charlene – she’s the one who operates the scanner … Ah, Charlene, how are you placed? … Half an hour? … Don’t worry, I’ll ask her to wait.’

  Lorna groaned inwardly. Should she phone Paul and warn him she’d be late?

  Mr Weekes shook her hand again, threatening to reduce it to pulp. ‘It’s been a great pleasure to meet you, Lorna.’

  If only she could say the same.

  ‘And don’t worry, my dear. We’ll sort you out one way or another. I’ll be in touch again when I have the results. Meanwhile would you mind going back to the waiting-room and Charlene will call you when she’s ready.’

  With an irritable glance at her watch, she took a seat between a mother with a dribbling baby and a man with his arm in a sling. She could hardly digest all Mr Weekes had said – the wrong operation and the outcome bad enough to sue, for God’s sake! She’d be hopeless company for Paul, with her mind on osteotomies rather than romance. But if she postponed tonight it would mean enduring another bout of nerves, like a teenager on her first date. Would he kiss her? Did he mind that she was older than him? Did he sleep around? Besides, she was all prepared: she had shaved her legs, varnished her toenails, bought sexy new knickers. Why, when they were just going out for a meal? Perhaps next time though … If there was a next time. Yet Sunday had gone well. He’d made her laugh, taken her out of herself – exactly what she needed, Kathy said: a good-humoured guy, not a misery like Ralph.

  But she didn’t want to think about Ralph, least of all him pining on his own. She picked up a copy of Vogue, as a diversion, and tried to decide which shoes to buy once Mr Weekes had ‘sorted her out’: the scarlet stilettos with four-inch heels (£650) or the snakeskin slingbacks (£800). No use. The absurd prices only made her worry about the house sale (and Derek Bowden), and the model wearing the slingbacks had her arm round a black man who bore a marked resemblance to Oshoba. Oshoba had written to her again, asking what had happened to her and had he failed to please his beautiful lady?

  Oh no, he hadn’t failed. She would never forget that session on the sofa. But how could she admit to Kathy that she had let one of the Oakfield staff make passionate love to her? Indeed, if she was in the process of divorcing Ralph, it would be dangerous were anyone to find out.

  ‘Divorce? Are you out of your mind? You’d never stand the strain – busybody lawyers, court appearances …’

  ‘Go away,’ she said feebly.

  ‘Anyway, coming on top of Bowden it’ll bankrupt you both.’

  ‘Is there a Lorna Hughes here?’ An angular woman in a navy skirt and sweater was surveying the people in the waiting-room.

  ‘Yes, I’m Lorna.’ She didn’t bother correcting the Hughes; after all, at one time she would have felt a ripple of erotic excitement at being invested with the name of her beloved surgeon.

  ‘Hi, I’m Charlene. We’re ready for your scan now.’

  Charlene led the way to a dimly lit room dominated by a gleaming black machine which ran the length of one wall. ‘This is the Beast. We call it that because it’s always causing mayhem.’

  Not a good advertisement for a machine costing sixty grand.

  ‘Right, if you’d like to change into your shorts I’ll set up the computer.’

  ‘Shorts?’

  ‘Didn’t you bring them? Oh dear. You should have been told. We need to see your knees, so we ask you either to come in a very short skirt or bring a pair of shorts.’

  ‘I wasn’t told to bring anything except my X-rays.’ And a hefty cheque, she didn’t add.

  ‘Damn! Polly must have forgotten again. Well, you’ll have to wear your knickers. I hope they’re reasonably substantial.’

  A few wisps of black lace. ‘I’d rather not. Haven’t you any shorts I could borrow?’

  ‘I’ll go and see,’ Charlene said dubiously.

  While she was gone, Lorna scrutinized the Beast. It (he?) looked rather like an elongated treadmill with two steps leading up to it, a handrail along each side, and cameras at either end. A small video screen was mounted on a bracket above.

  ‘No shorts, but I did find these.’ Charlene was brandishing a pair of men’s underpants so big and baggy they would have fitted Mr Weekes twice over. ‘You’re in luck – they’re even clean!’

  There was nowhere to undress, so Lorna had to remove her trousers in full view of Charlene. Hastily she concealed the skimpy black lace with the acres of off-white interlock. The waistband came up to her armpits, while the legs dangled below her knees. ‘Have you got a safety-pin? Otherwise they’ll fall down.’

  She was rather taken aback when Charlene hitched up her skirt and began fumbling with her underclothes. ‘The elastic on my waist-slip went this morning. I’ll take it off and you can have the pin.’

  Watching Charlene wriggle out of her slip, Lorna felt something of a bond with her. This was very much all girls together.

  Charlene stuffed the slip in a drawer and sat down at her desk. ‘Now I need to enter your details into the computer. Full name?’

  Lorna had to think. Hughes? Brownlow? Pearson?

  ‘Address?’

  She gave Clare’s. Tomorrow was the deadline for deciding about the job at The Cedars, and she still hadn’t decided. The main drawback was –

  ‘Medical history? Any drugs you’re on?’

  Not Ecstasy, that was for sure. ‘Only pain-killers.’

  ‘Do you suffer from diabetes? … varicose veins? … epilepsy? … rheumatoid arthritis? … cardiovascular disease? … respiratory problems?’

  After six noes it was clearly blessings-counting time, although if Charlene was obliged to list every ailment in the book they’d still be here tomorrow morning and Paul’s romantic dinner would have to be breakfast.

  ‘Now I’m putting up a picture of a female body on the screen – first front view and then back view. I want you to point to any part of it where you’re experiencing pain in your body … Both feet? OK, how severe is the pain on a scale of one to ten?’

  ‘Eleven,’ said the Monster.

  ‘Er, three,’ Lorna muttered, trying to emulate Agnes’s stoicism. She kept it three for all the various pains, ignoring the Monster’s interjections of ten, twenty, ninety-five.

  ‘Now, sports. Do you play tennis?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Go jogging?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Squash, athletics, badminton, hockey, netball?’

  All noes again, and each increased her feeling of inadequacy. To restore a vestige of self-esteem she said yes to swimming. She had swum, once, last year.

  ‘Olympic standard? Competition standard?’

  ‘Occasional,’ Lor
na mumbled.

  They proceeded through surgery and post-op complications to lifestyle habits – smoking, drinking, stress levels (which must surely be sky high by now).

  Finally, miraculously, they were ready for the scan. ‘We do eighteen tests in all,’ Charlene explained, moving from the computer over to the Beast.

  Eighteen? Forget breakfast. With luck she might make it for dinner tomorrow.

  ‘Take your shoes and socks off, please, and get up on the platform.’

  The hard surface was painful to stand on and she was self-conscious about her appearance: smart cream linen jacket atop thermal bloomers and bare feet.

  ‘Before each test, you watch it done on the screen.’ Charlene switched on the video and a gorgeous Thai nymphet sprang into view, dressed in a fetching mini-kimono patterned with blue butterflies. (No doubt she’d have looked equally good in voluminous men’s underpants.) Her feet, of course, were perfect – small and shapely, with shell-pink nails. As she demonstrated the test, a male voice-over intoned the instructions – Oshoba’s voice: deep black velvet. Lorna promptly overbalanced, and when it was her turn to do the test she muddled her left foot with her right, looked down instead of up, and eventually collapsed against the rail.

  ‘Start again,’ said Charlene. ‘No, bottom in, bottom in, Back straight. Damn! One of the cameras seems to be playing up. I’ll see if I can get hold of Kevin.’ She reached for the phone. ‘Kevin? This is Charlene … Yes, another tantrum, would you believe? Can you come as soon as possible?’ She turned to Lorna. ‘The woman who did this job before me had a nervous breakdown. Apparently when it first arrived the Beast refused to work at all, and yet patients were coming from miles away – Truro, Aberdeen, all over the place. Kevin’s quite handy, bless his heart, but we really need a properly trained technician, and there isn’t one in Britain. It’s an American machine, you see.’ Charlene ran a harassed hand through her poker-straight grey hair. ‘While we’re waiting I’ll run the video again.’

  Lorna gave the supple, poised Thai female a withering look, and received a simpering smile in return.

  ‘OK if I come in, ladies?’

  Kevin. Built on Mr Weekes’s scale, although dressed rather differently – in jeans and a T-shirt saying, ‘I’m so wonderful I amaze myself.’ Perhaps not an idle boast, since he managed to fix the camera in less than fifteen minutes. However, he then peered with some concern at the power point on the skirting-board. ‘This is very hot,’ he frowned. ‘There’s a bad connection somewhere. Sorry – I’m going to have to shut everything down.’

  ‘Oh no!’ Lorna and Charlene groaned in unison.

  ‘Well, I suppose I could come back later …’

  ‘Much later,’ Charlene begged. ‘I have two more patients to scan this afternoon.’

  ‘I don’t like to leave it, though.’ Kevin scratched his stomach. ‘It could be dangerous.’

  ‘I’ll take that risk,’ said Lorna.

  ‘Yeah, do,’ the Monster urged. ‘Electrocution could be a blessing in disguise.’

  ‘But how do you feel, Charlene?’

  ‘If it’s not one thing it’s another’ was Charlene’s only response.

  Exactly Lorna’s sentiments. In fact the phrase summed up her entire philosophy of life.

  ‘Well, call me if you need me.’ And, with a last anxious glance at the power point, Kevin lumbered out.

  ‘I hope to God we won’t,’ Charlene grumbled, returning to the scanner. ‘Now, where were we?’

  Lorna couldn’t say. Her mind had strayed to Ralph again. She still felt awfully guilty leaving him with the house to sell – guilty leaving him at all, now she’d discovered that he had only got drunk because they’d lost the Sherborne job, which meant the business would fold. So perhaps she’d been too hasty in …

  ‘Lorna?’

  ‘Sorry, yes?’

  ‘Do watch the screen. See, she’s got her left foot out in front, with the weight on that foot and the knee bent, and she’s holding her knee with both hands and pushing it across the body.’

  Yes, but her knees aren’t draped in this lot, Lorna thought crossly, heaving aside swathes of interlock. She couldn’t seem to concentrate: the dim light was soporific and the deep male voice kept reminding her of Oshoba – his luscious, pink-lined lips; the exquisite feel of his tongue against her nipples. Luscious or no, she really ought to end things with him or he’d continue writing, which could be risky for them both. Ralph was forwarding her letters, but what if he chanced to open one? Clearly she had to avoid entanglements just now. But in that case why was she seeing Paul? Should she cancel tonight, or at least …?

  ‘Lorna, roll the heels inward, not outward. And keep the weight on the left foot.’

  Outside, the rain was sheeting down as they proceeded wearily through tests 4, 5, 6, 7 …

  By the time they reached the last, she was beginning to feel not just physically inadequate but intellectually challenged, as if she’d taken eighteen GCSEs and failed every single one. She stepped off the scanner with aching feet and great relief. ‘Is that it? Can I get dressed and go?’

  ‘Dressed, yes. Go – mm, better not.’ Charlene had returned to the screen. ‘The computer’s flashing a message: “Error 900 Joliet tree sort failed.’’ What on earth does that mean?’

  ‘No idea, I’m afraid.’ Lorna released the safety-pin and the under-pants flopped swiftly to the floor. ‘Would Kevin be able to help?’

  ‘No. He hasn’t a clue about software.’

  ‘Or Mr Weekes?’

  ‘Bertram? You must be joking! He doesn’t know a mouse from a modem. Of course I’m hardly an expert myself. I’ve only been doing this job a fortnight.’

  God – Lorna yanked her trousers up – you’d think they could afford a state-of-the-art operator to match their state-of-the-art scanner. ‘Or how about his secretary?’

  ‘Oh, Bertram doesn’t employ Polly for her computer skills.’ Charlene gave a knowing smirk. ‘She has other talents.’

  ‘So what do we do now?’

  ‘Well, whatever happens, stick around until I’ve sorted out this glitch. The error message keeps flashing and I can’t get rid of the bloody thing.’ Charlene pressed various buttons, muttering expletives that grew more and more obscene. In the end she banged both fists on the desk, making the keyboard bounce alarmingly. ‘There’s nothing for it – I’ll have to phone Seattle. Let me see, what time is it over there? Yes, they should be in the office – just. Sit down and rest your feet, Lorna. This may be a lengthy business.’

  Lorna remained standing. ‘Charlene, I’ve got an appointment in Weybridge, which will take me a good two hours from here, given the unreliable trains. And I’m already very late.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m doing all I can … Hello? Hello? Could you speak up? Is Sinclair in yet? … He’s not. Shit! Is anyone in? … Randy? Yes, OK … Hi, Randy. Look, can we cut the pleasantries? It’s this sodding machine – it seems to be frozen … It’s no good you saying press the Enter key when it just won’t … Are you positive we can’t lose the tests? … You’re not positive … Yes, I’ve got the patient here … No, I won’t let her go … Of course I don’t understand. Why the hell would I be phoning you if I could work it out for myself? … Nothing happens – just an arrow. It still hasn’t changed … Wait, everything’s gone blue. Should it have? Now it says, “Are you sure you want to delete?’’’

  ‘Don’t delete!’ Lorna gasped. This was farcical. Should she offer to take over herself? In fact she could probably run the whole clinic more efficiently than this crew. She’d sack Polly for a start, and all practitioners with sub-standard English, limit staff holidays to one week per year (to be taken in the British Isles), get rid of the clutter on Bertram’s desk and, last but not least, ship this useless scanner back to Seattle.

  ‘Randy, I haven’t time to discuss your peanut allergy. I’ve got two other patients waiting … No, I didn’t know that chicken marsala contained nuts. Is Sinclair in yet? … Ill
? … What, nuts? … Oh, mumps. I see. I’m sorry. When he does come back to work, tell him Mr Weekes will want a refund on his phone-bill. And I‘m claiming compensation for the stress of the last two weeks … I know it’s not your fault, Randy. That’s the trouble, it’s never anybody’s fault … Oh, God, hold on. Now it’s saying, “Please insert blank CD.’’ Which means it must be about to start at the beginning again. In that case has it lost the tests? … You think it has … Do them all again? You are joking, I assume … You’re not joking. But how do we know it won’t go wrong a second time? … We don’t. OK, I’ll tell the patient …’

  All at once there was an ominous noise: a fizzing sound like a small firework going off. It was followed by a blue flash, and suddenly the lights went out.

  ‘Bloody fucking hell!’ Charlene had dropped the phone and was staring at the wisp of smoke curling out of the socket.

  ‘Armageddon!’ shrieked the Monster. ‘Prepare to meet thy doom!’

  Lorna picked up her coat and made her way in semi-darkness past the now blank computer screen. For once the Monster had been right: she was never meant to have orthoses. ‘Goodbye, Charlene,’ she said, tight-lipped, then added a little more kindly, ‘Good luck!’

  After all, she had just saved herself £500.

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  ‘Don’t stop! Don’t stop! It’s wonderful. Fantastic. Go on, go on! Harder. Yes. Oh yes …’ Lorna collapsed back on the bed. Her pounding heart seemed to shake the room, the whole flat. She closed her eyes. Deep black velvet plush behind the lids – Oshoba’s skin, Oshoba’s feel, Oshoba’s touch. She worshipped him. Who cared what Kathy thought? Or Ralph? She had been born for this. Her life before meant nothing. ‘Oh, Oshoba, I …’

  ‘Don’t speak.’ His lips moved towards hers again.

  The kiss travelled down and down, alchemy turning her base cells to gold. Then he drew back a little and looked at her. The gaze was like the kiss: passionate, intense. She could see herself reflected in his eyes: a tiny surrendering figure lost in deep black pools. As he must be in her eyes. They were part of one another, skins and bodies exchanged. She was black now; he white. Even their smells had fused, the tang of coconut hair-oil overlaying her rose scent.