Chasing Charlie (8 page)

‘Hear hear. Not that I want him to move out,' I added quickly. ‘He's OK but I can't abide her.'

‘We know!' Mara and Claudia said at the same time and we laughed together. Quite frankly, it was do that or cry.

ED

From: Ed Minkley

Date: Saturday, 7 February

To: Covington Green

Subject: Trouble

Minkleys.jpg

Trouble.jpg

Hey Cov,

That new project sounds amazing. Mara wonders if you've heard of these guys – asiacleanwater.org. She said it looked like they were also working in Tamil Nadu so maybe you could hook up. She loves hearing about what you're doing. In fact, your Minkley fan club is growing, you flash bastard. It would do her so much good to get away and do some NGO work like you're doing sometime.

On to more pressing matters. As you suggested, I did my hard-to-get act last night. I was nervous so I had a couple of jars before, poss one too many. I only meant to be Mr Hard Man towards Sam but as she was with the others, I managed to not only annoy her but also piss Mara off. Quite crappy of me, I think. Maybe not your best advice. Or, more likely, not my best move putting it into practice right at that moment. Anyway I went on to that party with the crazy vixen girl. She was all right in the end. Wasn't all over me like the proverbial rash the whole evening. Actually I got chatting to some suits about what you're up to. They might be keen to kick some funds in – so my night wasn't a complete waste of time!

As requested, I've attached a photo of sisters with crazy niece and nephew. You must be really desperate, mate, to want to see a photo of my family though. We're nowhere near as flash as your one ;)

Oh, and one of the vixen. See what I mean?

Ed

CLAUDIA

I left Hampstead tube station walking briskly but as I neared the surgery, I slowed right down, and the walk that should have taken five minutes took at least ten. If only I hadn't watched that damn programme last night, I could still be burying deeper into snuggly denial.

The programme in question,
Embarrassing Bodies
, was exactly the vapid watch I needed. I got home early from the pub. I had my hot-water bottle. My phone was off. I was all set to escape. But then the spanners started coming, fast and furious.

First up: Dr Jessen. A big blonde hunk. He looked so much like John Morgan he could be his brother and I couldn't believe I hadn't noticed this before. My finger hovered over the remote for a moment. It was escape I was after, not art imitating life. Or, more to the point, not a probing medical series into other people's unfortunate ailments imitating life. The whole aim of this show was to gasp in horror at some woman's elephantine knees, murmuring to oneself, ‘That poor, poor woman,' while quietly feeling comforted that your own knees are really quite supermodel in comparison. Wasn't it? You weren't meant to recognise the symptoms that other people – always other people – had as yours.

But that damn chisel-faced doctor had fixed me with his unflinching gaze and spoken to me directly. The remote slipped, forgotten, onto my blanket while I started comparing my symptoms to those on the TV. Sore down there. More
scheidenausfluss
than usual (I hate the English word, won't even think it if I can help it). And itchy.

So I was on the phone booking an appointment with my GP first thing this morning, and a few hours later I was walking down the quiet residential street I'd walked down countless times before, watching my royal-blue Pollini peep-toes taking one step at a time and wishing it was further away from the station so I wouldn't be there any second. But there it was. Number twenty in a well-kept Victorian terrace. One freshly painted door to open and I'd be inside, no turning back. I paused, just for a moment, and walked in.

The waiting room was warm and smelt clean and reassuring. Sitting at the reception desk was a woman with a neat dark bob and glasses, and I was pleased to see I didn't know her. I checked in and took a seat, picking up a
Vogue
from a coffee table on the way. The table looked spotless, as did the chairs and carpet. I breathed in deeply and started flicking absently through the magazine.

Gradually my eyes started wandering, taking little sideways peeps at the other people waiting. I was careful not to catch anyone's eye. Any one of them could be someone I knew or, worse, someone my parents knew, waiting to have their boils inspected or moan about their IBS or to be told to lose some weight. I had no doubt there would be no one in their social circle here for the same reason as myself.

The decor had been updated since I'd last been and it was definitely an improvement. The walls had been painted deep terracotta, and the lighting was what my mother would refer to as thoughtful. Which sounds so pompous but I have to say, in this setting, it was just that. There were a couple of standing lights tucked into corners, and spotlights beneath a handful of well-executed (another word overused by Mother) oils. The room somehow managed to feel open and cosy at the same time. There was soft music – Bach, I think – playing in the background. All very lovely. If I could have erased the underlying tang of antiseptic, I could have been visiting Aunt Vivian, waiting for her to prepare a G&T. I took another breath. My nervous stomach had settled a little. This was do-able, and practically five star compared to my last experience of the world of all things medical.

The last time was seeing Kate and a brand-new Rosie in hospital. I couldn't get there fast enough – although my imagination had heaved with Dickensian images of what an NHS maternity ward would look like. I had imagined far too many mothers and babies crawling with germs, dilapidated buildings, exhausted under-resourced nurses walking around in a sleep-deprived daze, and I wasn't disappointed. The ward was full of women and babies, copious tears issuing from both. The paint was faded and worn. The staff looked peaky. But then I saw Rosie. She was a perfect little bundle, so beautiful she eclipsed her surroundings, and as I looked down at her in her little plastic crib, I almost forgot to breathe.

I turned a page in the magazine. It was strange I hadn't thought about having my own children very often, considering I'd entered my thirties. But I really hadn't. At least not until this all started rumbling. I put my hand on my belly. The night before I had lain awake churning everything over in my mind. What if my fertility had been affected? And I thought about it and thought about it and realised I was scared witless, and all because of a brief moment of pleasure. Was I missing the point here, after all? I have always enjoyed my body without shame, always seen it as mine to enjoy, one of life's pleasures. Like hot chips, walking at the seaside, chocolate in front of a film. But as I had tossed and turned past one o'clock, past two, past three, I wondered for the first time in my life if I wasn't a woman making choices but actually an irresponsible slapper.

The day before I'd had lunch with Jill at work.

‘What's eating you, Claudia?' she'd asked in her Afrikaans accent. ‘Scowling doesn't suit you, you know.' There wasn't much that passed Jill by. She'd been round the block and back again. Her teenagers were convinced she could read minds.

‘Oh women,' I'd replied, rolling my eyes. ‘Our place.'

Jill raised her eyebrows. ‘Our place?'

‘The good woman. This stupid world,' I continued, scrabbling around for tangible examples to describe the sudden swell of indignation I was feeling. ‘All around us, blocking out perfectly good sunlight, are billboards of sexy women selling bloody anything and everything with their tits—'

‘You've only just noticed?' Jill asked.

‘No, of course I've seen them. It's just that I've never minded before. I've always taken them for granted. They do their job . . .' I paused; I still couldn't quite get to my point. ‘It's not them I've got a problem with – of course tits sell stuff, why wouldn't they? They're fabulous!'

‘Speak for yourself.' Jill looked down her top. ‘Mine are dropping out of sight rapidly.'

‘Your fault for breastfeeding,' I said.

‘Charming!'

I flapped my hand at her – I didn't want to get distracted from my train of thought.

‘I think that what's eating me is that despite all the sexy images of women, in real life we're not really allowed to be sexy, not in the full sense of the word. We're still expected to stay in our place, be good women. Look sexy, act sweet,' I said.

‘Oh listen to her. You'd better watch out, you'll be burning your bra and marching the streets if you're not careful.'

‘But that's the thing I don't get. We had feminism. Our mothers—' Here I paused again. ‘Well, maybe not my mother, but other women's mothers marched the streets demanding equality, and got labelled men-hating dykes.' I'd have to ask my mother if she'd ever been mistaken for a lesbian. I tried picturing her protesting in her Louis Vuitton suit, her thin, elegant legs, and her perfect ankles. Hmmm, difficult. Then I tried to imagine my father, in one of his beautiful suits, cheering her on. No. Despite his liberal political views, I just couldn't picture it. I kept on.

‘These women did so much. Gave us “women can do anything”. And now we wear whatever we want, study what we want, pursue careers, travel the world and go out with whoever. Do all of that. But we can't dress up like sluts, enjoy it and garner any respect for it.'

Jill started shaking into her sandwich.

‘What?' I frowned at her. I wasn't joking.

‘Shame!' That was Jill's favourite saying, said swiftly, almost swallowed. She put her sandwich down. ‘Look at you, most often dressed in a miniskirt and tarty heels, cleavage fit for a high diver to land in, bleached blonde hair, Angelina pout. You're gorgeous and you're respected, with a great job. You're the envy of most of the women who work here and fuelling fantasies for most men. What's the problem? Where's this all coming from?'

I sighed. ‘Oh I don't know. Maybe a dormant feminist gene is finally coming to life and telling the other genes committed to being a siren that they aren't self-respecting enough.'

Jill shook her head again. ‘Poor sexy Claud, my heart bleeds for you, it really does.' She paused and then her voice became serious. ‘Is there something really concerning you, Claud?' she asked, her brown eyes trained on me like two searchlights.

I struggled to meet her gaze. Could I tell her? Maybe I could. I opened my mouth to speak but a bulging crotch caught my eye. It was hovering just above the table, looking like it was going to plop down onto it. It could only belong to one person. I looked up – it was Tightpants himself.

He stood there grinning, with a big tray of food. ‘Can I join you ladies?' he asked.

‘Ah . . .' said Jill, looking at me for an answer.

‘Of course you can,' I said quickly and motioned for him to sit down. Jill didn't need to hear about my problems anyway. She had a hard enough job keeping her fourteen-year-old from falling pregnant.

‘Thanks.' John sat down opposite me, his cologne wafting gently over the table. I looked at his tray of food rather than look at his face. Bouillabaisse and the cheesecake, exactly what I'd almost finished eating.

‘So what have the ladies been talking about?' he said.

‘Oh this and that, nothing really,' I said quickly.

‘Nothing important?' Jill raised her eyebrows again at me and then turned to John – the last person I wanted to discuss this with.

‘It's not important that women get to dress and be who they want to be without apologising for it?' she said.

‘Sounds serious.' John grinned.

‘It is serious,' I found myself saying.

‘Do you mean women should be able to wear their trackies into work?' John asked.

‘No, the opposite. That women should be able to dress like saucy tarts and not be thought any less of,' said Jill.

John said nothing for a moment and then said quietly, ‘Do women really get that much grief when they look hot? Or are they just appreciated more?'

I didn't say a thing.

‘According to Claudia, possibly not,' Jill said for me.

I shot her a warning look, which she pretended not to see.

John feigned shock. ‘Claudia? Since when did you worry about such trivial things as what people might think of you? You're a confident and intelligent woman who knows who she is. There isn't anything more attractive than that.'

We were both silent then and I saw him colouring slightly. He tucked into his soup.

Jill looked at me questioningly then, finally twigging that perhaps there was more to this strange conversation than met the eye, and I – the coward – kept my eyes on the table. Dammit, I could feel my cheeks colouring slightly too.

‘Claudia Myers?' a soft voice broke across my thoughts. It was Dr Epstein. I smiled nervously and followed his slow steps into his office.

‘So how are you, my dear?' he asked through a cropped white beard, once he'd lowered himself into his chair, more creakily than when I'd last seen him. How old was he now? It felt like he'd been old forever.

I sat in front of him, clutching my handbag. I did wonder, not for the first time that day, why the hell I was coming to my family GP when an anonymous private doctor would have done the job perfectly well, but for some reason I'd felt drawn here. I swallowed, acutely aware of how dry my mouth had become.

‘I haven't seen you in a long time. Still working in HR?'

I nodded.

‘I bet you're just great in that job. They're lucky to have you.'

I managed a small smile. Dr Epstein's kind blue eyes were crinkled with genuine delight at seeing me all grown up, a girl whose leg he'd stitched and temperature he'd taken and whatever else throughout her childhood. I knew in that instant why I was there. I wanted to share my fears with someone older than me, someone I looked up to. I couldn't tell my parents what I was afraid of, and I loved my friends but they didn't feel older and wiser most of the time. Dr Epstein, however, would take it all in his stride.

‘Well . . .' I swallowed again. ‘I'm worried about symptoms I've been having lately and wanted to get them checked out,' I finally managed to say.

‘Yes . . .' Dr Epstein sat perfectly still, as if he had all the time in the world to wait for me to elaborate.

‘My—' I motioned in a vague circular motion down there.

‘Uterus?'

‘Yes. That. It's aching on and off. Mainly on, actually.' I kept my eyes on his tidy desk.

‘Have you noticed any abnormal discharge?'

My stomach turned over. I couldn't say it.

Dr Epstein waited quietly.

And suddenly I felt really flustered. ‘You must have seen this all before,' I blurted, and then almost stood up to leave. I felt out of control. What was I blethering on about? Even Dr Epstein didn't have time to listen to my neurotic babble . . . but I didn't. I took a deep breath.

‘Sorry,' I said. ‘That was my mind speaking without permission. I'm a little nervous.'

Dr Epstein adjusted position in his seat.

‘I have seen a lot of things, Claudia, and every day I see nervous people here. Most importantly, though, we're going to try to find out what's going on so we can treat it.'

‘OK,' I said, and I managed to look up at him and hold his gaze for a millisecond.

‘So tell me about your' – the doctor paused – ‘what's going on down below.'

I took another deep breath.

‘I'm having a lot of . . . stuff come out down there,' I said.