The Penultimate Chance Saloon

by Simon Brett

  (As soon as he had the thought, Bill’s mind returned to a question which always bugged him when he saw those commercials for walk-in baths. He wasn’t stupid enough to think you fill the bath before you open the door but what he always wanted to know was: what happened when you emptied it? Presumably you just sat there, getting colder and colder, till the water got below the, sort of, doorstep level and you could walk out. Which might well explain why old people were so wrinkled.)

  He brought himself back to thinking about denture fixative. Maybe they did now manufacture some that lasted twenty-four/seven? Maybe, like toupees, there were now false teeth that would not inhibit the wearer’s normal life in anyway ... false teeth that could be worn in the shower ... in heavy winds ... even while making love? Bill still didn’t like the idea of dentures, though; didn’t like the image of himself as a resolutely smiling extra in a denture fixative commercial.

  ‘I gather,’ he said to the dentist, ‘that there are alternatives to dentures these days.’

  ‘Always have been.’ He tapped one of Bill’s teeth, none too gently, with a metal probe. ‘Can you still feel that?’

  ‘Yes,’ he lied. He wanted to find out more about the potential cosmetic solutions to his dental problem. ‘But can’t you get false teeth kind of ... screwed into your gums?’

  ‘That’s not exactly the process, no.’

  ‘Or veneers? A friend of mine has had veneers.’

  ‘For veneers to work, the basic teeth have to be in good condition.’ The dentist took a disparaging look into Bill’s mouth. ‘You might get away with veneers on the front ones. At the back, though, it looks like Dresden after the Allied bombing. That’s going to need more structural work.’

  ‘Do you do that?’

  ‘No, but I know a very good cosmetic dentist if you’d like to be referred.’ The answer was too practised; clearly there was some lucrative mutual back-scratching going on.

  Bill said he would like to have the contact number.

  ‘Right. Let’s just get rid of this little stub first.’ Bill’s tooth received another healthy clout with the probe. ‘Can’t feel that, can you?’

  Before there was time for a reply, a pair of what looked like pliers were inserted into Bill’s mouth, there was a quick twist, and a lump of grey metal and yellowed tooth emerged.

  ‘See – hardly any root there at all. You didn’t need the injection.’

  Which made Bill Stratton feel even more as though his body was quietly crumbling away.

  * * *

  The orthodontist was Australian too, confirming Bill’s suspicion of some kind of connivance between them. Female, beautiful body in white work suit, whiteness continuing in pale make-up under sculpted black hair. But not fanciable; there was something too antiseptic about her. She had all the sex appeal of a cotton bud.

  She inspected his mouth, calling out information to a junior cotton bud, who keyed it into a laptop. When she finished, her expression didn’t change, but Bill got the strong feeling he hadn’t passed the examination.

  ‘Well, there are a lot of possibilities nowadays,’ she announced. ‘Presumably you want the bite straightened, apart from anything else?’

  ‘What, and get rid of my “crooked smile”?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I’ve just always had this crooked smile. People expect it, when they see me. You know, when I do public appearances.’

  ‘Ah.’ She showed no interest in his celebrity. ‘Well, I can reduplicate existing deficiencies, if required.’

  ‘Well, I would like that existing deficiency reduplicated.’

  ‘Fine.’ She nodded to the junior cotton bud, who made a note on the laptop, and then passed across a bound album. ‘I’d like to show you the kind of cosmetic work I can offer you.'

  The ‘before’ photographs made him feel a bit better. Surely his dentition wasn’t as bad as those. On the other hand, presumably she’d selected the worst cases, to show the wonderful transformations that her wizardry could achieve.

  ‘A friend of mine,’ Bill ventured, ‘has just had veneers done, and she’s very pleased with the result.’

  ‘Yes, well, of course I do veneers.’

  ‘So you’re, kind of, a veneerologist?’

  She wasn’t amused. The junior cotton bud didn’t crack a smile either. Bill got the impression they had both heard the line before. ‘I’m an orthodontist,’ she said sharply. ‘Or cosmetic dentist, if you prefer.’

  ‘Right.’

  She then confirmed his dentist’s view that veneers might work on Bill’s front teeth, but more radical work would be needed at the back. She didn’t use the Dresden analogy; she said the area looked like ‘a scrap metal yard.’

  ‘Would it be possible just to do the veneers, and leave the back as it is? I mean, nobody’s going to see back there, are they?’

  She winced at this affront to her professionalism. ‘It would be possible, Mr Stratton, but it would be very unwise. Storing up even worse problems for you in the future.’

  ‘Mmm, but I mean, out of interest ... how much would just doing the veneers cost?’

  She patently disapproved of answering the question, but did not refuse to do so. She went through a ritual with the junior cotton bud about finding the up-to-date price-list. ‘We would of course be talking about porcelain veneers. There are others on the market made of cheaper materials, but I personally don’t deal with them.’

  ‘Right, porcelain it is. So how much would it cost?’

  She told him. Bill let out a low whistle. ‘Pricey.’ He grinned. ‘Still, if that sorts out my whole smile, I suppose it’s not bad.’

  ‘Mr Stratton, that is the price per tooth.’

  * * *

  His media career had inculcated the habit of punctuality in Bill Stratton. The timing of news bulletins was not elastic, and he would always arrive in good time for his shifts. So he was at the hospital, with a rather tatty bunch of flowers bought from a nearby kiosk, soon after two on the Saturday afternoon.

  He was interested to find that Andrea was being treated on a private ward. She and Dewi might be avid supporters of the NHS in conversation, but when it came to something really serious they paid for what they hoped would be the best.

  He checked in with the nurse at the flower-bedecked ward reception and was told which room Mrs Roberts was in. Tea or coffee was offered – something else you get for paying extra – but he refused.

  Bill breathed in deeply as he walked along the plushly-carpeted corridor, trying to quell his customary discomfort on hospital premises. The scent of the flowers could not quite mask the endemic smell of disinfectant. The decor was muted blues and purples; small chain hotel, one step above a Travelodge. Framed pictures on the walls were of swans on lakes and misty sunsets through trees.

  He stopped outside a door in whose Perspex slot was a card reading ‘Mrs Roberts’. Once again, he felt the urge to duck out, just to run and avoid the inevitable awkwardness. It wouldn’t matter. Dewi and his family couldn’t think less of him than they already did.

  But he put away the cowardly thought, and tapped on the door.

  A full minute elapsed before Dewi opened it. Though in the early days of their separation Andreas lover had filled his thoughts, Bill had by now almost forgotten what the man looked like. He had not visualised the bushy eyebrows, the matching fringe of hair around the bald dome of his head, nor thought of Dewi’s off-duty penchant for pastel pullovers in geometric designs, pale blue trousers and leather slip-ons with extraneous bits of metal on them.

  ‘I said half past two.’ The voice was heavy with Welsh pique. ‘It’s only twenty-two minutes past.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry. I arrived early.’

  ‘You could have waited. They do have chairs at reception.’

  ‘Yes, but –’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, Dewi. Since he’s here, let him come in. ’

  Bill Stratton could not believe the voice that emerged from the recesses of the room.
Very light, working hard against some resistance, like a sea wind through thick dune grass. Only just recognisable as Andrea’s.

  Unwillingly, Dewi stood back to admit the unwelcome guest. Bill moved into the one-step-above-Travelodge private room.

  If Andrea’s voice had been a shock, the sight of her was a bigger one. Propped up on pillows, her thin arms made her look like nothing more than a stack of kindling. She was attached to a drip. Her brown eyes seemed disproportionately large in her yellow-grey face. He couldn’t see the state of her hair, because she had tied a bright, defiant bandana around her head.

  Bill didn’t know what to do. His instinct was to go and give his ex-wife a kiss, but Dewi’s glowering presence discouraged that. Also, Andrea looked so frail that a mere peck on the cheek might be too much for her.

  So instead he held out his pathetic bunch of flowers.

  ‘I’ll take those.’ Dewi did so. ‘I’ve never been in favour of flowers in a sick room. The nurses’ll look after them.’

  But he didn’t go off to reception. Instead, he sat down in a chair on one side of Andrea’s bed. He maintained a defensive, proprietorial air. Bill hovered, uncertain whether he should take the chair on the other side of the bed, until Andrea wheezed, ‘Do sit down.’

  There was a silence. Bill desperately tried to think of something to say. All that came into his mind was a BWOC line from his after-dinner speaking routine. ‘... and, by way of contrast, before a big match an entire hospital football team developed chicken pox and had to scratch.’ But he knew it wasn’t the right moment for that.

  ‘So, in for some tests...?’ he managed eventually.

  This was so obvious that Andrea wasn’t going to waste breath on answering it. She nodded.

  ‘Any results yet?’

  ‘Not final results, no,’ Dewi replied. ‘And if we did have them, they would be confidential, just for the family.’

  All right, all right, thought Bill, you’ve made your point. I am no longer part of Andrea’s life. I know that. He was surprised by Dewi’s level of prickliness. Bill didn’t flatter himself that he meant anything to Andrea now. Her second husband had no cause for anxiety. But Dewi still seemed very twitchy.

  The silence seemed fated to continue for ever, so Bill asked, ‘And they’re treating you all right in here, are they?’

  It was Dewi who replied. ‘The staff are excellent. The performance figures for this hospital are the best in the area. That’s why we chose it.’

  ‘Fine, fine.’ Again the silence looked as if it was going for a Personal Best.

  Andrea broke it this time. ‘Dewi,’ she gasped, ‘why don’t you take the flowers to reception?’

  ‘Well...’ He was unwilling to abandon his sentry duty. He couldn’t stand the idea of leaving his wife with her ex-husband.

  ‘Please...’

  With bad grace he conceded. He rose and walked away, holding Bill’s flowers as though they were some dead rodent that needed binning. At the door he stopped and looked balefully at the visitor. ‘You arrived here at twenty-two minutes past, so I’ll be back at eight minutes to three.’ The half-hour that had been negotiated. Bill would have bet that there was no slippage of appointment times in Dr. Roberts’ surgery.

  He looked at Andrea. There was a vagueness, a blurring in her prominent brown eyes. Presumably she was on heavy medication. ‘I’m sorry. I can see my being here is upsetting Dewi. Perhaps I shouldn’t have come.’

  ‘Dewi’ll get over it. Anyway, I wanted to see you.’ She didn’t make it sound as though this were a heart-felt need, just a necessary chore.

  ‘So, I mean, Andrea, you can tell me ... what is the, er ... I mean, what kind of ... have they given you any indication ...?’ The words tangled in his squeamishness about matters medical.

  ‘What is the prognosis? Is that what you’re trying to say?’

  ‘Er, yes, I suppose it is.’

  She shrugged. ‘The consultant says fifty-fifty. Having nursed cases like this, I’d put it nearer sixty-forty against.’ She spoke without emotion, ever the medical pragmatist. ‘The thing is, if I am going to need surgery, then I’m going to have to build up my strength. But I think I’m in with a chance.’ She paused to regather her breath. The long speech was taking it out of her. ‘As you probably know, with cancer, mental attitude matters a lot. And I am very positive. I’m determined to get better ... now that I’ve got so many things in my life to live for.’

  Bill didn’t need to ask for details. He didn’t want to hear the manifold virtues of Dewi and his children catalogued. Nor did he want the contrast between her current status and her former life with him spelt out. From her tone it was clear that if she’d developed cancer while she was still married to him she would have given up the ghost with no struggle at all.

  ‘And how are you?’ she asked, more as a formal politeness than out of any great interest.

  ‘Oh ... well ...’ He tried to think of things in his life that he could tell her about. His recent impotence was hardly appropriate. And his dental troubles seemed singularly unimportant, given the scale on which Andrea was suffering. Nor did he think it was quite the moment to start listing his post-divorce sexual encounters. ‘Not so bad,’ he concluded feebly.

  ‘Good.’ She still didn’t sound interested.

  ‘I have been doing a lot more after-dinner speaking.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ There was a note of surprise in her voice.

  ‘I mean, mostly based on old “by way of contrast” lines.’

  ‘Ah. That would explain it.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Well, I can’t imagine you coming up with any original material for after-dinner speeches.’

  ‘Maybe not. Sal’s set it all up. She’s still acting as my agent.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ She dismissed the news, as she always had dismissed details of his professional life. Andrea still had the ability to make him feel very shallow and trivial. In fact, she could do it even more now she had the support of the infinitely worthy Dewi and his infinitely worthy children.

  ‘And the only other person I really see from our former life is …’

  In spite of the unsatisfactory nature of their last meeting, he still felt a little bold saying the name ‘...Ginnie.’

  ‘Oh God.’ Andrea was surprised. ‘Is she still as affected as ever?’

  ‘Well, she’s still a bit actressy, but I wouldn’t have said she was affected.’

  ‘Oh, she was. She always was. I never knew why you wanted to stay in touch with her.’

  ‘I wanted to? She was your friend, Andrea.’

  ‘No, she wasn’t.’

  ‘Oh, come on. From school onwards.’

  ‘All right, I don’t deny that I knew her before you did, and yes, she was my friend actually at school, but afterwards ... no, it was you who kept wanting to include her in everything we were doing.’

  ‘That’s not how I remember it.’

  ‘Your memory always was conveniently selective, Bill.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘You’re not having an affair with Ginnie, are you?’

  ‘Good God, no.’

  ‘Well, perhaps you should.’ For a moment Andrea sounded almost sympathetic.

  ‘I don’t think –’

  The moment of sympathy passed, as she went on, ‘You’re both as shallow as each other.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Her breathing was getting difficult again. Anyway, I’m glad you’re all right, Bill. We’re both so much better off apart.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘We should never have got married. Amazing, thinking back, how much pressure there was to do that, even in the sixties. Doing what one should, doing the proper thing. What a lot of time we wasted.’

  ‘I don’t think it was all wasted, Andrea.’

  ‘Well, I do. Still, at least – thank God, better late than never – I’ve found out what a happy marriage can be like.’

  With that stuck-up prig, Dewi? Not the momen
t to express the opinion, though.

  ‘That’s why I’m going to get better,’ Andrea wheezed. I’ve got every reason to live.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course you have,’ he agreed automatically.

  Bill tried to think of other things to say. Nothing offered itself. Normally, when conversation lay becalmed, he would ease the atmosphere with a few ‘by way of contrast’ lines. But Andrea had never been amused by them while they were together, and he didn’t think the influence of Dewi would have changed her attitude.

  ‘Presumably, this cancer ...’ he said at last, ‘was caused by passive smoking?’

  ‘What?’

  All your nursing friends. You know, if you think of the amount they used to smoke round that big kitchen table in Putney, they –’

  ‘My cancer,’ Andrea breathed imperiously, ‘has been sent to test me. I don’t know where it came from, but it’s a challenge. And it’s a challenge I’m going to win.’

  ‘Ah. Good.’

  Anyway, I’m glad you’re all right, Bill –’

  ‘Well, all rightish'.

  ‘It’d be nice to think that we’ve both managed to move on after that disastrous marriage.’

  ‘Now, just a minute. I think you are exaggerating a bit there. Okay, our marriage wasn’t perfect –’

  ‘You can say that again.’

  ‘– but I think “disastrous” is a bit strong.’

  ‘That’s the word I’d use.’

  ‘Why, Andrea? What was wrong with it?’

  ‘You were wrong with it, Bill. It was all right while we were engaged, but the minute we got married...’ She gasped for breath.

  ‘What happened the minute we got married?’

  ‘You instantly became jealous, possessive and controlling. You were always watching what I was doing, and you were deeply resentful of any attempts I made to set up anything that didn’t involve you.’

  She panted, running out of air, but still determined to finish her catalogue of grievances. ‘You used to constantly criticise my appearance and my home-making skills. And your sole aim in life was to totally undermine my confidence.’

  Bill Stratton didn’t recognise any part of himself in that description. But then, presumably, nor did any of the world’s other ex-husbands.