Antidote to Infidelity (8 page)

Nevertheless, he’s onto
something. Or at least, he
thinks
he is, as he’s staring at me with such
arrogant confidence that I just want to slap him.

“Car keys?” I ask, blinking
rapidly. “Why? Where are we going?”

Taking my beautiful bouquet, he
gestures towards the front door with a sweeping arm, throws me a smug
get-out-of-this-one-smart-arse look and declares, “The hand clinic.”

The thirty-minute journey to
the hand clinic is just like riding shot-gun with Billy the Kid - dodging
bullets and holding on for dear life! Though no one’s actually
shooting
at us, Will’s really gunning for me and driving like a nutter, tailgating and
amber-gambling every set of lights.

We’re bickering like mad.
Wounded by the flowers, he’s firing
stupid
questions at me and I’m
giving smart, stinging answers, deliberately trying to wind him up.

“You can’t say I never give you
flowers,” he snaps, inferiority complex kicking in. “I distinctly remember
buying some. In August.”

I think about it for a while
then roll my eyes, exasperated.

“That was a
wreath
,
Will,” I inform him sarcastically. “For my Uncle Joe’s funeral. That doesn’t
count. You’re
pathetic
. Try again.”

He doesn’t bother, so I use the
brief interlude to re-stoke my ammo, ready to let fly. It’s pointless. Rattled
by my wreath dig, Will turns up the radio. It’s a common diversionary tactic,
it makes my blood boil and he knows it. I could bait him now until kingdom
come, but I’d be wasting my breath, the shutters are down.

Running inexcusably late having
squabbled for half an hour over whether to put my lovely flowers in water, or,
as Will would have preferred, in the dustbin, we’re taking the short cut
through Central Square - the jewel in Goldwell’s crown.

Home to Will’s office, the
Square - formerly a huge stretch of rambling fields and lush greenbelt land -
sprang up at the turn of the Millennium, the
real
cows replaced by
designer concrete ones, grazing on a grassy island in the middle to appease the
conservationists.

With its vibrant mix of trendy
cafe-bars, restaurants and eateries, not to mention a wide range of shops,
stores and outlets, it’s our favourite weekend haunt - when we’re not haunting
each other - especially the StarBar, where we hang out with friends whenever we
can arrange a sitter for the kids.

Attracting a close-knit
clientele mostly made up of the local twenty-to-thirty-somethings, and the odd
curious out-of-towner, the Square buzzes around the clock at weekends yet winds
down midweek, allowing residents to settle into a calm-yet-cosmopolitan way of
life.

Today being a Sunday, we’d
assumed nipping through the Square would be quicker than taking the main road
into Nottingham. We were wrong. Judging by the heaving mass of bustling
shoppers on the pavements and the gridlocked, honking traffic every which way
we turn, it appears the entire population of Goldwell has decided to stuff the
day of rest and indulge in a spot of bargain-hunting.

The atmosphere in the car is
thick and volatile; you could slice it with a knife. Will, not renowned for his
patience in traffic-jams, looks as if he’s about to simultaneously combust at
the wheel.

“Grrr. Whose idea was this?” he
fumes. “I
knew
we should have gone my way.”

Seeing a mass of queuing
vehicles as we approach the main strip traffic lights, he jerks the car into
reverse, shooting up the back street which runs behind the chain stores,
connecting with the bypass.

“No, no, no!’ We haven’t got
time, we’ll get . . .”

Before I can say ‘stuck’ -
ta-da! We were sandwiched between a Woolworth’s van and an articulated Argos
home delivery lorry, the driver of which is
much
more interested in the
Sunday Sport and
his
sandwich than the fact he’s causing an obstruction.

Being big on manners, this
touches a nerve with Will, who combusts. When his ‘polite’ hooting is blatantly
ignored, he stalks over to the lorry whilst I sink into my seat and cringe.
Tapping on the window, he gruffly requests Mr Oblivious ‘move his hunk of junk,
or else’, sparking a testosterone-fuelled tug-of-war.

Shoulders hunched, fingers
wagging, they’re squabbling like toddlers over a Tonka truck.
I knew I
should have taken the bus.

***

Ten minutes of
not-so-pleasantries and a £60 fine for entering a ‘no access’ zone later, we’re
on our way once more, Will simmering darkly, me chewing my nails in grim
anticipation of what’s sure to be a thorny, pistols-at-dawn encounter with ‘Mr
Roses’ at the hand clinic.

As we arrive at City Royal, it
is ‘ding ding, round nine’, and I believe I’ve got my nose just about in front
on points. It’s the middle of afternoon visiting hours, I’m twenty minutes late
for my appointment and there are fifty cars (okay, maybe not quite
fifty
),
waiting to pounce on every space.

“You
go
, I’ll find you
when I’ve parked up,” Will offers, so I grab my bag, zip up my fleece and jog
across the ambulance bay into A&E, where a thunder-faced receptionist
begrudgingly points me in the direction of the hand clinic whilst barking
military commands at her colleagues.

Wishing I’d opted for something
less fluffy, more strappy, I nervously smooth my sporty attire, which I’ve
specially selected to appear casually nonchalant for Will’s benefit. Glancing
over my shoulder, I add a dab of wild cherry lip-gloss, realising my pulse is
racing:

One:
Partly because of my wild ride
in with Evil Knievel

Two:
Partly because I’m about to
see dishy, flower-sending Dr Foster again

and

Three:
Partly because I don’t trust
my seething other half to keep his big, jealous trap shut and be civil

Plonking myself on an uncomfortable
pull-down chair, I settle into a stint of my favourite pastime - people
watching. But alas, there’s no one worth scrutinising, not a sports injury in
sight, so I give up and read the flyers on the notice board instead.

Isn’t it funny how some people have
a suggestive personality and others don’t give a monkeys? I obviously fall into
the former bracket as, minutes later, somewhat enthralled, I’m
convinced
I’m
displaying symptoms of almost
everything
mentioned, from piles to
post-40 impotence, when my hypochondria is interrupted by a tall, slim man in a
long white coat, who seems to be searching for someone. I watch as he gives the
waiting room the once-over before shrugging at the receptionist (quite possibly
a German shot-putter on her days off), who, in turn, grunts and points to me
(peeking round the notice board, camouflaged by a rubber plant).

As he nods and makes his way
over, I notice there’s something hip and bouncy about his stride, like he’s
jamming to a beat only he can hear. I stare, transfixed, half expecting him to
lose his balance, assuming that the huge (and I mean
huge
)
Afro-Caribbean-style bubble on his head
must
weigh at least ten pounds.

Checking his clipboard, he
smiles a broad white-toothed welcome, introducing himself in a spirited Jamaican
accent.

“Mrs Moss? ’Ello dere, I’m
Doctor Nubila, sorry ta keep ya but ya miss ya slot and I have ta see udder
patients . . .”

Udder patients? Surely that’s a
vet’s job?

I’m gawping, I know I am, but I
just can’t help myself. I’m awestruck. It’s
massive
. And it’s just,
well,
sitting
there, like some kind of mega microphone, wildly
out of proportion with his head and the rest of his body. Seriously, I kid you
not - it’s
wicked
. I think I want one.

Oooh! I’ve just realised what
he reminds me of! One of those well-pruned circular bushes, with the lollipop
tops and the stick-thin trunks - you know, the ones you always see in posh
little planters outside stately homes . . .

“Mrs Moss? Ellooo?”

He’s waving his clipboard under
my nose with a grin.

“Wud ya care ta folla me?”

Oops! Busted.

Snatching up my new Radley
handbag (a guilty-gift from Will) I rise to my feet, blushing. I don’t know
what’s more embarrassing: the fact I’ve been caught red-handed gawping like a
goldfish, or the fact I’m imagining him in Cool Runnings. With that hair
though, he’d
definitely
need his own bobsleigh!

As we make our way through a
set of heavy swing doors, which I’m amazed he can negotiate without ducking, I
wonder if he’s taking me to Doctor Foster’s room or if (alas!) Mr Microphone is
my new consultant.

Feeling a bit rude and a little
subdued, I attempt an explanation of my bad manners as we meander down a maze
of narrow, winding corridors into the bowels of the hospital.

“I’m really sorry if I appeared
to be staring, you know, back there. I really wasn’t, honest, I was just
captivated by your . . . by your . . .”

“By ma hair?”

Smiling brightly, he stops,
holding open the door to a small, study-like room on our right, gesturing for
me to enter.

“Don’ya worry, man, it ’appen
all da time,” he pats his mega-mic proudly, adding, “Is ma Jamaican genes, ya
see. I was gunna ged it cut, ma girlfriend, she don’t dig it. Trouble is, it
make me ’bout seven feet tall. Have’ta sleep halfway down da bed wid ma feet
stickin’ out da bottom!”

Settling into a cerise chez
long by the window and scanning the rear car park for Will, I nod
sympathetically.

“Bummer. Perhaps you could get
a bigger bed? Or consider a new girlfriend, maybe? What I mean is, you have
options . . . I’d
definitely
keep the hair!”

He chuckles good naturedly,
pulls up a chair and begins gently removing the bandage from my hand.

“You know, day warn me ’bout
ya. Appears ya stir up quite da drama in Casualty on Christmas Eve, yes? Let’s
see if dis can come off.”

As the last piece of dressing
falls free, I peer at my finger, thrilled to see it waggling and in one piece.
Despite a neat little train-track running around the tip, it seems fine. So
fine, in fact, that Doctor Nubila is nodding his heavy head, satisfied.

“Oh yeeess, dat look
won-der-ful, Mrs Moss. Smaaaa-shing.”

He wiggles it up and down, then
from side to side, adding, “Good movement, yes? Pain subsiding? Finish ya
antibiotics? Great, well den, unless ya got any concerns, I tink we can safely
say cheerio.”

Mmm. That was painless - and
swift, too. I’d half expected a four hour wait, more nasty needles and a hefty
great cast right up to my elbow.

Almost forgiving him for not
being Doctor Foster, yet wary he might change his mind at any moment and admit
me, I jump up like a jack rabbit, sneaking one last lingering look at his hair.

“Oh thank you, wonderful! Well,
if you’re sure that’s it I guess I’ll be off. Take care doctor. Utterly
fabulous
hair, by the way.”

He grins, tossing my grotty
bandage into the bin.

“Sure ting, me beauty. Be
safe!”

Shaking my liberated hand, he
reaches to open the door for me but misses the handle as it swings outwards
instead. In waltzes a flustered nurse, who I instantly recognise as the sweet,
petite blonde who consoled me on Christmas Eve.

“Sorry to disturb you, doctor,”
she pants, “but it’s bedlam out there, you’re needed in A&E. Here’s the
print out you requested for tomorrow’s out-patients.”

Handing him a sheet of paper,
her flawless porcelain face lights up as she spots me, trapped behind the door.

“Oh hello! Sally, isn’t it? How
are you? Sorry, come on out. Oh, you look
much
better! I hope you had a
lovely Christmas after all the excitement?”

Remembering how kind she was to
me - particularly at tetanus time, when I squeezed her dainty fingers purple -
I smile warmly.

“Yeah, I’m fine now, back in
the land of the living, thank God! Thanks ever-so-much for looking after me,
you were really lovely. Both of you.”

She beams, preening herself.

“You’re welcome. Any time . . .
though hopefully not too often, obviously! Are you heading back to reception?
You’re bound to get lost, everyone does, I’ll walk with you. Oh, that reminds
me, I have something for you.”

“You do? For me?”

“Yeah, that shirt, you know,
the one you’d wrapped your hand in. Doctor Foster had it dry cleaned, it’s
bright white again. It’s in reception.”

Mmm. Am I imagining things or
did Doctor Nubila just raise an eyebrow? Mmm. I wonder what that’s all about,
then?

I don’t wait to see. Instead, I
nip through the gap, hot on the heels of Pretty-Little-Nurse, my gorgeous guide
back up the dimly-lit corridors to civilisation.