Tread Softly (40 page)

‘That's what it sounded like to me.' And I'm
not
your dear.

‘Well, I'm sorry if I alarmed you.' He patted her hand condescendingly. ‘Perhaps you're not quite ready for such a major procedure. What I could do instead is remove the fibular sesamoid bone in the inside of the great toe. That would loosen the joint.'

‘Yeah, loosen it so much you'd probably collapse in a heap.'

‘Alternatively, we could do just the tailor's bunion. That's a simpler option altogether. And you don't have to live with that neuroma. If the pain-killers aren't working I can perform a neurectomy. You need to think of the future, Lorna. After all, you've got years of active life ahead.'

‘He obviously needs the business. You'd better agree to
some
thing or you'll never get away.'

‘No, Mr Weekes, I'd rather avoid any surgery at all – at least for the present. I have a few … personal problems.'

‘A few?' The Monster counted on his claws: ‘Ralph in terminal decline, the house still on the market, Bowden not paid off, no job and nowhere to live, and –'

‘Well, we can't let you continue in all that discomfort. If you're unwilling to have surgery, then I'd definitely recommend orthoses.'

‘Which is why I came to you in the first place,' she pointed out irritably, with a surreptitious glance at her watch. At this rate, it would be midnight before she and Paul had dinner. ‘But what I'm still unsure about is whether they'll do any good.'

‘Of course they won't,' the Monster sneered. ‘He's just out to make money. He's lost his five grand for carving bits off your feet, but he'll settle for five hundred for a pair of mingy insoles.'

‘Good gracious yes!' Mr Weekes enthused. ‘I wouldn't invest in a state-of-the-art scanner unless it gave damned good results. Ours is the only one of its kind in the whole of the UK, you know. We're extremely fortunate to have it. Or perhaps I should say foolish – ha ha! It set me back sixty thousand pounds.'

‘No wonder he needs cash fast. Get out while you're still solvent.'

‘Why it's so useful is that it allows us to examine the motion of the joints while the patient is actually walking. And, from what I've seen so far, you definitely have problems with your gait. Just take a few more steps for me, will you, Lorna. Mm … you're turning the left foot out more than you should. It may be that the left hip's displaced.'

‘Is there
any
part of her that's normal?' the Monster asked derisively.

‘It's my back that hurts, not my hip. I had it X-rayed in hospital and they said I had degenerative changes in my spine.'

‘Well, in that case I think you should see our osteopath, José Carlos.'

‘Now, you mean?'

‘Oh no, no, no. We've booked you in for the scan today, as Mr Brownlow suggested.'

‘Hughes.'

‘What?'

‘My surgeon's name' – she enunciated carefully – ‘is Mr
Hughes
.'

‘Yes, I know. We've been over that already.'

‘So why did you call him Brownlow?'

‘I didn't, Lorna. I'm talking about José Carlos – José Carlos Carrero. His English isn't brilliant, but he's first-rate as an osteopath. You could book to see him on a subsequent visit. We also have a splendid acupuncturist who might be able to help.'

‘He's touting for business again,' the Monster warned, ‘for his pals this time. I bet they're all in it together – inventing symptoms for every patient, to make sure they each have a go. It could even be a pan-European racket: José Carlos from Spain, the acupuncturist from Bulgaria.'

‘But wait till we have the results of the scan. That'll be a help to any practitioner you see here. I'll just check up on Charlene – she's the one who operates the scanner … Ah, Charlene, how are you placed? … Half an hour? … Don't worry, I'll ask her to wait.'

Lorna groaned inwardly. Should she phone Paul and warn him she'd be late?

Mr Weekes shook her hand again, threatening to reduce it to pulp. ‘It's been a great pleasure to meet you, Lorna.'

If only she could say the same.

‘And don't worry, my dear. We'll sort you out one way or another. I'll be in touch again when I have the results. Meanwhile would you mind going back to the waiting-room and Charlene will call you when she's ready.'

With an irritable glance at her watch, she took a seat between a mother with a dribbling baby and a man with his arm in a sling. She could hardly digest all Mr Weekes had said – the wrong operation and the outcome bad enough to
sue
, for God's sake! She'd be hopeless company for Paul, with her mind on osteotomies rather than romance. But if she postponed tonight it would mean enduring another bout of nerves, like a teenager on her first date. Would he kiss her? Did he mind that she was older than him? Did he sleep around? Besides, she was all prepared: she had shaved her legs, varnished her toenails, bought sexy new knickers. Why, when they were just going out for a meal? Perhaps next time though … If there
was
a next time. Yet Sunday had gone well. He'd made her laugh, taken her out of herself – exactly what she needed, Kathy said: a good-humoured guy, not a misery like Ralph.

But she didn't want to think about Ralph, least of all him pining on his own. She picked up a copy of
Vogue
, as a diversion, and tried to decide which shoes to buy once Mr Weekes had ‘sorted her out': the scarlet stilettos with four-inch heels (£650) or the snakeskin slingbacks (£800). No use. The absurd prices only made her worry about the house sale (and Derek Bowden), and the model wearing the slingbacks had her arm round a black man who bore a marked resemblance to Oshoba. Oshoba had written to her again, asking what had happened to her and had he failed to please his beautiful lady?

Oh no, he hadn't failed. She would never forget that session on the sofa. But how could she admit to Kathy that she had let one of the Oakfield staff make passionate love to her? Indeed, if she was in the process of divorcing Ralph, it would be dangerous were
anyone
to find out.

‘Divorce? Are you out of your mind? You'd never stand the strain – busybody lawyers, court appearances …'

‘Go away,' she said feebly.

‘Anyway, coming on top of Bowden it'll bankrupt you both.'

‘Is there a Lorna Hughes here?' An angular woman in a navy skirt and sweater was surveying the people in the waiting-room.

‘Yes, I'm Lorna.' She didn't bother correcting the Hughes; after all, at one time she would have felt a ripple of erotic excitement at being invested with the name of her beloved surgeon.

‘Hi, I'm Charlene. We're ready for your scan now.'

Charlene led the way to a dimly lit room dominated by a gleaming black machine which ran the length of one wall. ‘This is the Beast. We call it that because it's always causing mayhem.'

Not a good advertisement for a machine costing sixty grand.

‘Right, if you'd like to change into your shorts I'll set up the computer.'

‘Shorts?'

‘Didn't you bring them? Oh dear. You should have been told. We need to see your knees, so we ask you either to come in a very short skirt or bring a pair of shorts.'

‘I wasn't told to bring anything except my X-rays.' And a hefty cheque, she didn't add.

‘Damn! Polly must have forgotten again. Well, you'll have to wear your knickers. I hope they're reasonably substantial.'

A few wisps of black lace. ‘I'd rather not. Haven't you any shorts I could borrow?'

‘I'll go and see,' Charlene said dubiously.

While she was gone, Lorna scrutinized the Beast. It (he?) looked rather like an elongated treadmill with two steps leading up to it, a handrail along each side, and cameras at either end. A small video screen was mounted on a bracket above.

‘No shorts, but I did find these.' Charlene was brandishing a pair of men's underpants so big and baggy they would have fitted Mr Weekes twice over. ‘You're in luck – they're even clean!'

There was nowhere to undress, so Lorna had to remove her trousers in full view of Charlene. Hastily she concealed the skimpy black lace with the acres of off-white interlock. The waistband came up to her armpits, while the legs dangled below her knees. ‘Have you got a safety-pin? Otherwise they'll fall down.'

She was rather taken aback when Charlene hitched up her skirt and began fumbling with her underclothes. ‘The elastic on my waist-slip went this morning. I'll take it off and you can have the pin.'

Watching Charlene wriggle out of her slip, Lorna felt something of a bond with her. This was very much all girls together.

Charlene stuffed the slip in a drawer and sat down at her desk. ‘Now I need to enter your details into the computer. Full name?'

Lorna had to think. Hughes? Brownlow? Pearson?

‘Address?'

She gave Clare's. Tomorrow was the deadline for deciding about the job at The Cedars, and she still
hadn't
decided. The main drawback was –

‘Medical history? Any drugs you're on?'

Not Ecstasy, that was for sure. ‘Only pain-killers.'

‘Do you suffer from diabetes? … varicose veins? … epilepsy? … rheumatoid arthritis? … cardiovascular disease? … respiratory problems?'

After six noes it was clearly blessings-counting time, although if Charlene was obliged to list every ailment in the book they'd still be here tomorrow morning and Paul's romantic dinner would have to be breakfast.

‘Now I'm putting up a picture of a female body on the screen – first front view and then back view. I want you to point to any part of it where you're experiencing pain in
your
body … Both feet? OK, how severe is the pain on a scale of one to ten?'

‘Eleven,' said the Monster.

‘Er, three,' Lorna muttered, trying to emulate Agnes's stoicism. She kept it three for all the various pains, ignoring the Monster's interjections of ten, twenty, ninety-five.

‘Now, sports. Do you play tennis?'

‘No.'

‘Go jogging?'

‘No.'

‘Squash, athletics, badminton, hockey, netball?'

All noes again, and each increased her feeling of inadequacy. To restore a vestige of self-esteem she said yes to swimming. She had swum, once, last year.

‘Olympic standard? Competition standard?'

‘Occasional,' Lorna mumbled.

They proceeded through surgery and post-op complications to lifestyle habits – smoking, drinking, stress levels (which must surely be sky high by now).

Finally, miraculously, they were ready for the scan. ‘We do eighteen tests in all,' Charlene explained, moving from the computer over to the Beast.

Eighteen? Forget breakfast. With luck she might make it for dinner
tomorrow
.

‘Take your shoes and socks off, please, and get up on the platform.'

The hard surface was painful to stand on and she was self-conscious about her appearance: smart cream linen jacket atop thermal bloomers and bare feet.

‘Before each test, you watch it done on the screen.' Charlene switched on the video and a gorgeous Thai nymphet sprang into view, dressed in a fetching mini-kimono patterned with blue butterflies. (No doubt she'd have looked equally good in voluminous men's underpants.) Her feet, of course, were perfect – small and shapely, with shell-pink nails. As she demonstrated the test, a male voice-over intoned the instructions –
Oshoba's
voice: deep black velvet. Lorna promptly overbalanced, and when it was her turn to do the test she muddled her left foot with her right, looked down instead of up, and eventually collapsed against the rail.

‘Start again,' said Charlene. ‘No, bottom
in
, bottom
in
, Back straight. Damn! One of the cameras seems to be playing up. I'll see if I can get hold of Kevin.' She reached for the phone. ‘Kevin? This is Charlene … Yes, another tantrum, would you believe? Can you come as soon as possible?' She turned to Lorna. ‘The woman who did this job before me had a nervous breakdown. Apparently when it first arrived the Beast refused to work at all, and yet patients were coming from miles away – Truro, Aberdeen, all over the place. Kevin's quite handy, bless his heart, but we really need a properly trained technician, and there isn't one in Britain. It's an American machine, you see.' Charlene ran a harassed hand through her poker-straight grey hair. ‘While we're waiting I'll run the video again.'

Lorna gave the supple, poised Thai female a withering look, and received a simpering smile in return.

‘OK if I come in, ladies?'

Kevin. Built on Mr Weekes's scale, although dressed rather differently – in jeans and a T-shirt saying, ‘I'm so wonderful I amaze myself.' Perhaps not an idle boast, since he managed to fix the camera in less than fifteen minutes. However, he then peered with some concern at the power point on the skirting-board. ‘This is very hot,' he frowned. ‘There's a bad connection somewhere. Sorry – I'm going to have to shut everything down.'

‘Oh
no
!' Lorna and Charlene groaned in unison.

‘Well, I suppose I could come back later …'

‘Much later,' Charlene begged. ‘I have two more patients to scan this afternoon.'

‘I don't like to leave it, though.' Kevin scratched his stomach. ‘It could be dangerous.'

‘I'll take that risk,' said Lorna.

‘Yeah, do,' the Monster urged. ‘Electrocution could be a blessing in disguise.'

‘But how do
you
feel, Charlene?'

‘If it's not one thing it's another' was Charlene's only response.

Exactly Lorna's sentiments. In fact the phrase summed up her entire philosophy of life.

‘Well, call me if you need me.' And, with a last anxious glance at the power point, Kevin lumbered out.