by Paula Daly
‘I used to work in the NHS,’ I said. ‘I don’t shock that easily.’
‘I’d like to pay to spend the night with you,’ he said.
I blinked. Then I laughed.
‘I thought you had something serious to discuss,’ I said. ‘Is this to do with that thing I said about prostitution on Friday? I didn’t really mean it. I’d had a lot to drink and it was just an observation—’
‘I’m totally serious.’
‘No you’re not,’ I replied, but I could see by his expression that he was.
‘Shit,’ I whispered.
I’d been asked some strange things over the years. Only last week one of my regulars – a diabetic drinker with gout in both feet – inquired if perineal massage could help him maintain an erection. To which I replied I couldn’t say for sure that it wouldn’t, but I didn’t know of a person who provided such a service locally, stopping the exchange before it had a chance to go any further.
‘Look,’ Scott said, ‘this would benefit both of us. You refused my offer of a drink—’
‘Because you’re married.’
‘And I would like to spend some time with you – your humour, your candour, the natural way you have about you makes me want to … well, let’s say it’s refreshing.’
He paused, waiting for my reaction.
‘And,’ he went on, ‘as I said earlier, I gather from what Petra said at the party that you could really do with the money. Though, obviously, Roz,’ he said, his tone suddenly turning more serious, ‘I am putting myself on the line here. So if you’re really not interested, I’d rather you just said so straight away. I don’t want to take the chance of this conversation becoming common knowledge.’
‘I won’t say anything about it,’ I said quietly, and he nodded.
I said this not because I had any intention of going along with his outrageous suggestion but because of his wife, Nadine. From experience, I can say that the grief which settles around your heart after you’ve been cheated on never really leaves. Certainly, with time, the raw, ragged edges become smoothed, but it always remains, and I hoped to spare Nadine that.
‘Will you think about it?’ Scott asked.
‘No need. The answer is no.’
‘But you haven’t even asked how much I was prepared to pay.’
‘I don’t need to ask. I’m not for sale, Scott.’
‘Everyone’s for sale.’
‘Now you really are sounding like a dickhead,’ I said.
He smiled in spite of himself and lifted both hands in a gesture to indicate he knew when he was beaten.
I probably should have been angrier than I actually was. I mean, paying me? For sex? Jesus.
Then I caught myself, because wasn’t this exactly the kind of thing I had suggested on Friday night?
Petra’s appalled face flashed into my mind.
‘If you change your mind,’ he said, ‘the offer still stands.’
‘I won’t.’
The morning passed by quickly in a haze of sweating bodies, endless talk of the heat wave. Lots of Well, if this is global warming, I’m all for it type of conversations.
By lunchtime I’d all but put Scott’s proposal from my mind. But I was left with a rather odd sensation – as if I were slightly soiled and in need of a shower.
I headed to the staff bathroom, where I filled the basin with cold water, removed my tunic and gave my upper body a good soaping. I was reluctant to dry off with the hand towel, as it was also used by both Wayne and Gary used, but I decided the chances of them washing their hands after taking a leak were pretty slim, so I went ahead.
I smartened up my hair, securing it with some old Kirby grips that were lying at the bottom of my handbag. Stuck to the lining was a Hall’s cherry Soother that had managed to unwrap itself.
I examined my reflection and wondered if I had encouraged what had occurred earlier. Granted, my candidness on Friday evening had perhaps encouraged Scott’s behaviour somewhat, but I couldn’t remember actually suggesting that I should become a prostitute. My general idea was that for some men there is clearly a need – always was, always will be – so it might be a lot less fuss if they simply satisfied this need, without the call for affairs, and the subsequent break-up of marriages and families.
I could now see that what seemed a relatively straightforward, sensible idea to me could be perceived very differently. Petra had responded like she’d had a slap to the face. Her husband, Vince, as though it were a whistle he simply could not hear. And Scott – well, Scott had taken the idea and run with it to a whole other level.
Or perhaps not.
Perhaps Scott had been on the lookout for a while and decided I seemed reasonably game, so what did he have to lose?
The more I thought about it, the more I realized I had no idea what went through other people’s heads.
I left the bathroom, planning to grab a coffee – to head off the afternoon slump – and to eat a banana in the sunshine. There was a wooden bench outside the front entrance to the clinic, which I avoided. This was because old people tended to arrive stupendously early for appointments and would take refuge on this bench. Before you knew it you’d find yourself ensconced in the kind of small talk you’d been having all morning: The heat, immigration, the frivolous spending habits of the daughter-in-law, the overcooked pork at the wedding reception they attended the previous weekend.
So I grabbed my rucksack with the idea of heading around the back of the clinic to eat lunch alone on a dusty step, very much out of sight.
Wayne, however, had other plans.
‘A quick word, Roz,’ he said as I passed reception. He did not lift his head. He had his eyes fixed on the monitor in front of him.
‘I was just going to—’
‘Won’t take a minute,’ and he met my eyes, giving me a sympathetic kind of smile.
‘There’s an issue with the takings,’ he began.
Wayne Geddes was a colourless man. His skin, his hair, his eyelashes and even his gums were a peculiar shade of nothing. He was what I would describe as instantly forgettable.
Apart from, that is, his propensity to sweat.
If you’ve ever left a lump of Parmesan cheese out of the fridge for a time you’ll notice a series of fatty droplets develop along the rind. That is Wayne’s forehead. Doesn’t matter what the weather’s doing. You had to feel sorry for the guy.
‘An issue?’ I said.
He frowned at the computer screen as though trying to make sense of something. Then he looked at me. ‘The takings don’t always match the appointment schedule,’ he said. ‘There are a few inconsistencies.’
‘And what has that got to do with me?’
He hesitated.
‘Spit it out, Wayne.’
I glanced towards the open door. We have so few sunny days throughout the year the pull was irresistible. I stood regarding Wayne, twitching like a greyhound in the traps, primed and ready for release.
‘Nothing you want to tell me?’ he asked carefully.
‘No.’
‘You’re quite sure? Because I could help you, Roz. You only need to confide in me and I promise I’ll help you.’
I held his gaze intently. ‘I really don’t know what you’re talking about. Now, I need to—’
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Okay.’ And he regarded me sadly, as though I was letting him down. ‘There is something else. You’ll have to cut your lunch break short today,’ Wayne said. ‘I’ve booked Henry Peachey to come in at 1 p.m.’
‘Who?’ I asked.
‘The insurance agent? The one you were supposed to call, and didn’t?’
Oh. That guy.
‘I couldn’t let it run on any longer, Roz,’ he said. ‘You need this assessment. We’re not fully insured without it.’
‘So you keep saying. But did you have to organize it for today?’ I asked, glancing at my watch. That only gave me fifteen minutes.
‘Henry only works Tuesdays and Wednesdays.’
‘That’s nice for him.’
Wayne sighed heavily. ‘Just do it, okay? Help me to help you. Besides, it won’t take that long.’
8
‘IF I COULD begin by taking your date of birth,’ the insurance agent said.
‘Twenty-fifth of December, Nineteen seventy-one.’
He raised his head. ‘Christmas Day.’
I nodded.
Now people would generally say one of two things: ‘Do you get twice the presents?’ or ‘I’ve always felt sorry for those whose birthday falls on that day.’
He actually said neither. ‘I’m not really a big Christmas person,’ he said, and smiled.
His smile was warm and sexy at the same time. And I was completely thrown off centre.
We were in the nutritionist’s room. There wasn’t enough work for a full-time nutritionist at the clinic, so Helen Miller split her time between four or five other set-ups around the North-west. This meant that her desk was always clear of the general detritus which accumulated on mine, as she moved her files and whatnot around with her. I had closed the blinds as the heat was fierce now on the west-facing windows, the sun having arced its way overhead, and the fan was on full blast.
My cheeks were hot and red.
Henry Peachey wore a polo shirt that was faded around the collar, along with olive-coloured canvas trousers that would be classed as jeans in certain establishments, therefore denying entry. I could smell his aftershave.
‘Full name?’ he asked.
‘Rosalind Veronica Toovey.’
He typed fast. His face was relaxed, he was totally at ease, and I watched him unashamedly. The only men we ever got at the clinic (other than patients) were medical reps, and they were like androids. They would move amongst us, tricking us with their good skin, erect postures, spotless shirts and their keen, interested eyes. In the first moments of meeting them, you would rarely feel more engaged, more attuned, to another person. And then, suddenly, and without warning, their façade would fall.
The rep would reach into his briefcase, the spell would be broken and you would realize: Ah, a salesman.
The sharp banter of earlier cannot be continued as he is only able to sustain it for his opening pitch. At this point you might find yourself throwing in a joke to ease the discomfort. But you would be met with a dead, vacant stare. A stare that said: Does not compute.
Henry Peachey was not like that at all. And when he looked up and said, ‘Place of birth?’ his eyes locked on mine. It was as if he’d asked me to undress.
I was not imagining it, there was an immediate mutual attraction, and I stammered out, ‘Kendal.’ Following it with ‘How is it you don’t like Christmas? Are you anti-religion?’
‘I’m not against Christmas as such,’ he replied, as he typed. ‘It’s more that we seem to have reached a point in society whereby we have to spend inordinate amounts of money just to show that we love each other. I suppose it’s more that I don’t like being told what to do by the advertising industry.’ He looked up. ‘Qualifications?’
‘You want all of them?’
‘The most recent is fine.’
‘A BSc in Physiotherapy. I started an MSc but, you know how it is, life got in the way. Are you anti-birthdays then as well?’
There was mischief in his eyes, and he paused before speaking. I had to look away to catch my breath. ‘I got a message from Apple last week,’ he said, ‘saying I should treat my dad to an iPad for Father’s Day. The sentiment being that if I really loved him, etc., etc., that I would fork out for one. Three hundred pounds on Father’s Day? Crazy. Do you smoke?’
I hesitated. Then said, ‘No,’ firmly.
‘Never?’
‘Okay, sometimes when I’m drunk,’ I admitted ashamedly. ‘If I get a bit bored I do go off in search of a smoke. Not often, though.’
‘That counts.’
‘Really?’
He nodded grimly. ‘We’ve had a couple of cases this year … the families of people who’ve been in car accidents have not been eligible for a payout upon their deaths. The policy holders claimed to be non-smokers, but because there was evidence of nicotine in the hair samples – well,’ he said, and shrugged.
‘That’s a bit harsh.’
‘The world we live in, I’m afraid. Occasional smoker,’ he murmured, as he typed.
‘What is this for exactly?’ I asked. Wayne had told me, but I hadn’t listened properly. Practice managers were always trying to get us to do irrelevant stuff; Magdalena the Austrian physio claimed it was simply to justify their existence. If I did half the things Wayne asked of me, I would see four less patients a day.
‘It’s to bring the public-liability insurance payments down.’
‘But we’re all insured up to a hundred million with the Chartered Society.’
‘That’s your individual insurance,’ he explained. ‘The company that owns this chain is also accountable if there’s an accident with a patient. By doing these extra in-depth assessments of their staff, they are able to reduce their contributions. It’s a bit like doing an advanced motoring course – you’re considered a safer driver on completion, so your car insurance is reduced.’
I nodded.
‘I forgot to ask, are you married, Miss Toovey?’
‘Separated,’ I answered too quickly. ‘And it’s Roz.’
He had such beautiful skin. And a mouth so soft that when I gazed at it I got a surge of longing all the way down to my—
‘Okay, Roz,’ he said, ‘any operations, medical procedures?’
‘I had a car crash four years ago and suffered a pneumothorax.’
‘Pneumo—?’
‘Apologies, I thought you were medical. A collapsed lung,’ I said. ‘I broke my arm, too, but I don’t think that’s relevant.’
‘Any operations, any surgeries performed outside the UK?’ he asked.
I paused.
He raised his head and looked at me with concern.
When I didn’t continue he winced a little before saying, ‘I’m sorry about this, but I need you to be fully transparent here. It’s important.’
I exhaled. I didn’t want him to know. Up until this point I’d been under a kind of lovely, hazy, dream-like spell where the real world was locked firmly behind the clinic door.
Now it was as if that spell was broken.
‘I lost a baby whilst on holiday in Gran Canaria,’ I said. ‘I was twenty-six weeks pregnant – quite far along.’
He tilted his head and gave a sad smile. ‘So sorry to hear that,’ he said softly.
‘It just wasn’t meant to be,’ I replied.
What I didn’t say was that this was the beginning of the end for me and Winston. He had been screwing around. I was unaware of this at that point, but I knew we weren’t what we once were. I failed to see what was right in front of my eyes and, somewhat delusionally, thought a new baby would bring us closer together again.
Silly, really, but in my defence I’m sure I was not the first woman to think a man would change his ways once he had a new baby in his arms. If women were to stop kidding themselves with that particular fantasy, I reckon the human race would die out pretty quickly.
Sadly for us, I started spotting blood when I boarded the plane at Manchester, and by the time we arrived in Gran Canaria it was clear something was wrong. We went straight to the hospital, whereupon I was hooked up to a saline drip, examined briefly and told I would be scanned first thing in the morning. They told Winston he could do nothing and, since I would be sharing a room with another woman, he was not welcome to stay.
At around ten that night there was a change of plan. A gruff obstetrician performed the scan, notifying me in her limited English, ‘There is nothing.’
When I asked what she meant exactly, she said, ‘No more baby,’ and the assisting nurse informed me that I would be induced at seven in the morning, and would need to go through normal labour. I would have nothing to show at the end of it. Half consumed w
ith grief, half terrified, I begged for a Caesarean. But I was denied.
I changed after that. I think I just gave up trying. I had neither the grit nor the energy and determination required to run our lives effectively and, ultimately, everything began to unravel. Winston slept around more. I didn’t attend to our financial problems. And we lost it all.
‘I’ll need to take some blood from you,’ Henry Peachey said now, apologetically.
‘A blood test? Why?’
‘Anything surgical performed outside the UK carries an increased AIDS risk. Did you have a D & C?’
I shook my head. ‘Labour.’
‘That’s still classed as surgical, I’m afraid. The test is a thumb pinprick. I’ll just need enough for …’ His voice trailed off as he rummaged around in his briefcase, looking for, it transpired, two polythene envelopes, each containing a small plastic vial.
‘Here we go,’ he said.
He set about cleaning my thumb with an alcohol wipe. I was conscious of the drop in mood and Henry’s careful way with me. The earlier playfulness between us was gone.
‘Gives you quite a privileged insight into other people’s lives, an assessment such as this,’ I commented as he punctured my skin.
He squeezed my thumb and positioned the vial.
‘As does your job,’ he replied, screwing on the cap. ‘You must see all sorts.’
He wasn’t wrong. I carried more secrets from the folk around here than I cared to remember. It’s an odd arrangement, the relationship between patient and therapist. Not really replicated anywhere else. I used to think it was the vulnerable condition of the patient – the fact that they were in pain, in a state of undress – which caused them, perhaps from a nervous response, to divulge. But I’ve since changed my mind. I don’t think my patients ever really feel vulnerable. I work hard to put them at ease, to present myself as an affable, capable person who can be trusted to get on with the matter in hand with the minimum of fuss. So, no, it wasn’t that. It was the closed door. The soundproof room. Something about knowing you wouldn’t be overheard, about talking to a person who is bound by patient confidentiality, liberates people to unburden themselves in a way they can do in no other area of their life. Except, perhaps, with a priest. But who confides in clergy any more?
