The Wish List (8 page)

When entering the Genito-Urinary Medicine clinic at the Royal Liverpool University Hospital, it is impossible to shake the feeling that you’ve got an enormous neon sign
over your head reading: ‘
I’M A GREAT BIG DIRTY SHAGGER!
’

I’m torn between walking into the department with feigned nonchalance, in the hope that people think I’m an off-duty nurse, or with a severe limp, to give the impression I’ve
taken a wrong turn after having my ankle X-rayed.

I arrive and sit before a smiley middle-aged receptionist who has obviously attended some sort of School for Non-Judgemental Grannies.

‘Hello, lovely, pop yourself down there,’ she beams, as if she’s about to serve me a cream tea. ‘I’m going to take some details.’

After reluctantly parting with my particulars, I am invited into a further reception room, which is literally packed with patients, but at least has the benefit of being women only. Men –
aka the horrible swines who got us into this mess – use another entrance.

I don’t know what I expected from the clientele here, but I must say none of them look especially reckless or stupid or – the word on everyone’s tongue – slutty.

The wait is interminable, but my mind is occupied in flipping between several issues. First, Asha: who was at my flat until midnight last night trying, between frenzied sobs, to get hold of Toby
to confess her mistake. He was at a black-tie event – with Christina – and simply reassured her to leave it with him. She was unreassured.

Then there’s my itching, which I’d almost convinced myself I was imagining until I walked through the door here, since when it’s increased tenfold.

And that brings me to the final issue. How I’d never be in this mess if I hadn’t dumped Rob. There’s no way Rob would’ve given me something that made me feel like
I’m wearing a wire-wool G-string, that’s for certain.

How I crave being part of a couple again, without having to deal with this crap. I keep thinking about his arms round me, how warm and loved I felt and what the hell possessed me to do what I
did.

I’m hit by a flashback of the night I introduced him to Cally and Asha at our local pub quiz – and how impressive and lovely they thought he was, without being remotely showy. They
warmed to him instantly – everyone does. I close my eyes at the thought of it. What the hell is wrong with me?

I take out my mobile and scroll down to his number, for a split second considering calling it. I remind myself that phoning from the clap clinic probably wouldn’t make for the most
romantic of reunions.

The doctor I finally see is a skinny, soft-spoken man with an African surname and the same smiley manner as the receptionist. He confirms all my details, before asking me what the problem
is.

‘Right. Well. I had this, um . . .’ I lean in and whisper, ‘
encounter
. . .’

‘You had unprotected sex.’

‘Yes,’ I croak. I clear my throat. ‘I wouldn’t normally. I wouldn’t
dream
of it. I’m not that sort of girl.’

I half expect him to grab me by the shoulders and shout: ‘You had
unprotected sex
? Are you
insane
? In this day and age?
You idiot!
Haven’t you heard that
incidences of chlamydia have gone up by
fifty per cent
since 1999?’

But he doesn’t. He looks at me as if to say: ‘It happens. Now let’s deal with it.’

‘Have you experienced any symptoms you’re worried about?’

‘Hmm. I think I could be . . . possibly . . . maybe . . . itchy. But I might be wrong.’

‘We’ll perform a full screen, shall we?’

‘That’d be lovely,’ I reply, as if he’s offered me a cut and blow-dry.

After a few more relatively painless questions, the doctor leaves and is replaced by a nurse in her late thirties who could win an Olympic medal in talking.

‘Have you
seen
the queue out there?’ She snaps a strap on my arm and starts prodding around for a juicy vein. ‘It’s always like this in summer. Everyone’s
back from their hols. I’m just back from Benidorm. Been anywhere nice yourself?’

‘Italy,’ I reply, because, even though the answer is France with Marianne for two days in March – we both adore the place – I am hit by an incomprehensible desire to not
reveal anything personal in here. Apart from my genitalia, obviously.

I am instructed to undress behind a curtain, then have to grapple with a hospital gown, which has approximately seventeen tabs and is clearly designed for a person with a humpback and five arms.
The doctor arrives ten minutes later, as I am pacing up and down, having now read and memorised the medical abbreviations on the wall for everything from Cardiovascular Syphilis to Sex Worker, and
applied enough hand gel to my palms to peel off a layer of skin.

‘Would you mind if we allowed a medical student to be present?’

I hesitate, then reply breezily: ‘Not at all!’ I don’t want anyone to think I’d be daft enough to let my hang-ups hold back the next generation of medical professionals;
the only sensible, grown-up option is to say yes.

As he goes to the door to invite in the student, I am instructed by the nurse to leap onto a reclining bed and place my legs into two stirrups underneath a spotlight, enabling an optimum
view.

I stare at the ceiling, counting polystyrene tiles in an attempt to take my mind off the stranger who’s prising open my knees and peering between my legs.

After a short rummage around, he senses my tension and says reassuringly: ‘I can’t see anything untoward.’

‘Really?’ I gasp gratefully, flipping up my head.

Only, it’s not the top of the doctor’s head that catches my attention.

It’s the medical student at his shoulder.

And the reason he catches my attention is not because he’s nodding studiously as if having a guided tour of the Elgin Marbles, or because his mentor is gaily pointing out notable features
of my vagina.

It’s because this is not the first time we’ve met
.

I freeze and turn a violent shade of crimson as I’m assaulted with a flashback of Saturday night, when I last saw this student – who apparently doubles as Chris the barman from Alma
de Cuba. The one I
almost
slept with. The one I
would
have slept with, had his shift finished two-and-a-half hours earlier.

‘The patient is concerned about previous sexual contact and has been experiencing abnormal irritation,’ the doctor tells him.

It’s at that point that he glances up and makes eye contact with me, a split-second occurrence in which his expression shifts dramatically – and five words are screamed internally by
us both: ‘
Get me out of here!
’

He doesn’t move – he can’t. And neither can I, given that I’m in the sort of position into which you’d manoeuvre a turkey, pre-stuffing.

Clearly at a loss as to what to do, the student bends down hastily to pretend to scrutinise the most intimate part of my anatomy. He doesn’t look up, but I can recognise one thing after
the doctor’s commentary about my health concerns.

Never in his life has he been as grateful as he is now for having been stuck with Saturday night’s late shift.

Asha phones that afternoon to confirm she’s in the clear after what’s obviously been a torturous morning.

‘Toby got home from the event and, while Christina was getting changed, he logged onto her Facebook profile in their study. Hers is the default account on their PC and all her passwords
are saved on there.’

‘So he rejected the friend request?’

‘Exactly, then deleted the notification she was sent.’

‘So – panic over?’

‘Yep,’ she says flatly. ‘I guess so.’

Then there’s a silence. Because it doesn’t feel like much of a triumph somehow.

Asha’s roller-coaster romantic life is a long way from that of my sister. Marianne is so firmly in the couple-zone these days, I’m worried she’s a step away from his
’n’ hers undies.

‘Brian and I are thinking of going away to Devon,’ she announces, when I Skype her later that night.

‘Really?’ I love Devon myself but I’m wondering when this became exciting to a woman who used to pop to New York for a weekend.

‘It’s meant to be lovely – he has family there. And things are a bit tight for him at the moment so going abroad is out.’

‘It’ll be nice.’

‘I think so. I spent years travelling to places like Ibiza and Paris and never really discovered half of the UK. Hey, Brian’s just come in! Why don’t you say hello?’

Marianne disappears and after a short background conversation, followed by shaky webcam adjustment, I am confronted by a gargantuan brown jumper, a tent of an item, underneath which is a man I
recognise – just about – to be Brian. I say
just about
because, since the last picture Marianne showed me on Facebook, he has grown enough facial hair to knit a matching
hat.

‘Emma, we meet at last!’ he grins. At least, I think he grins. The beard moves, certainly.

‘Hi Brian – how are you? I’ve heard a lot about you.’

‘Not too much, I hope! So, is your job keeping you busy? I’d love to have a good chat to you about it.’

According to Marianne, Brian is fascinated by my job because of his own aspirations to be a television writer. I’m really trying not to be too sceptical – I mean,
I
manage
to make a living as a scriptwriter despite it being notoriously competitive.

The difference is that I have a steady job working for an established company, and I’ve learned the ropes over the course of eight years. Brian’s on-the-job experience is limited to
operating the jet wash at Gleamers.

Despite that, I can’t deny he seems nice; he’s funny and unassuming and he obviously adores Marianne.

If I hadn’t ever met Johnny – dynamic, entrepreneurial, charismatic Johnny – I probably wouldn’t think twice about her new boyfriend. But I have. And the stark, glaring
contrast between them means it’s impossible to conclude anything other than that Brian is punching above his weight with my sister.

When I end the Skype call, the rest of my evening becomes dominated by one other very pressing matter: what’s going on – to use Cally’s phrase – ‘down there’.
I will spare you the detail, but say simply this: there is not a shadow of a doubt that something is wrong. Very wrong.

As I grimly open the fridge, I spot the list and gaze at Cally’s teenaged handwriting.

After almost two weeks, I’ve managed to cross off only one ‘achievement’ – a one-night stand – and add another unexpected one: I’ve contracted my very first
sexually transmitted disease. What a proud moment. I wonder if I get a certificate?

The only thing I’ve got in for dinner is a ready meal that claims to be ‘beef hotpot’ but actually contains so little meat I’m convinced the Vegetarian Society would
approve it. After my three-and-a-half-minute dinner, I log onto my laptop in front of the TV for another fun-packed session of Googling medical conditions.

I flick onto Facebook first. Only, my usual unquenchable desire to look through the wedding photos of people I have never met and never will meet is diverted by the notification of a friend
request. As I scrutinise the name and picture, a tight knot develops in my stomach that I know has nothing to do with the hotpot.

Matt Taylor.

My mouth widens enough to swallow a whole mango. It’s
him
. My one-night stand. I click the link to a message.

Regrets? Re-bloody-grets? Well, yes, I’ve got a few, thank you very much, Mr Matt Itchypants Taylor. And that’s without knowing the full details of my in-flight demonstration.

I storm into the kitchen and make myself a Horlicks to try to calm myself down. It doesn’t work. So I return to my computer and begin hammering a response into the keyboard with such force
that the F pings off and lands in my mug.