Husband Replacement Therapy

by Lette, Kathy

  ‘Genius!’ said the jaded medic as he gently massaged my legs, pinpointing the source of my discomfort. ‘Well, finding yourself accidentally on a cougar cruise must be the pits. I dunno what’s worse, having to make small talk over dinner with boys who have the personality of a paving tile, or listening to a band who are busy demonstrating that knowing only three chords does not have to be a barrier to a career in music . . . Does it hurt if I press here?’

  ‘Yes!’

  While he adjusted my limbs, I appraised the surly man looming over me. There was something about the set of his shoulders – squared, braced, alert, like a caged animal ready for flight – that caught my interest. ‘If you hate cruising so much, why did you take the job of ship physician?’ I probed him back.

  ‘Let’s just say that the attention I give to my debt is unremitting. I foolishly signed a three-month contract. Can you bend your other knee for me now? This is my first cruise and I already can’t wait to get the hell off. I’m just praying for Somali pirates . . .’

  ‘Might be a long wait as we’re, you know, in the Pacific. Where did you work before here, then?’ I asked, in another effort to take my mind off his painful prodding.

  ‘Doctors Without Borders. A job I loved, but lost.’

  ‘Lost?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s probably with my car keys someplace.’

  ‘Seriously.’

  ‘There’s not one shred of evidence to support the notion that life is serious, I’ll have you know,’ he verbally sidestepped. ‘Push back against my hand.’

  ‘So . . . you lost your job because you have a sense of humour?’

  ‘Well, yes, actually. I annoyed my boss, this total wanker desk-jockey jerk, by making a joke at his expense on Twitter. Now bend your leg inwards for me . . . He’d mounted his high horse and was galloping off into the self-righteous sunset about something or other. I tweeted back a jokey comment. Sadly, he didn’t find it funny.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘That the clitoris has eight thousand nerve endings and still isn’t as sensitive as a white male git on the internet.’

  I snorted out a laugh, as unexpected as it was loud.

  ‘So, I’m on gardening leave. Until I learn to be a bit more “PC” and “woke” and not hit “trigger points” for people on their “emotional journey”. And then, when I’ve “evolved”, I’ll go find a cure for malaria, or perhaps even something more difficult to locate, like, I dunno, Vladimir Putin’s moral compass, and life will go on. Okay, now press down as hard as you can.’

  Despite my physical discomfort, I couldn’t suppress a half grin. ‘Yes, well, I’m having a career rethink too, actually. Although it might be time to finally face the fact that I’m never going to make it as one of Kylie Minogue’s backing dancers.’

  The crotchety doctor gave a twinge of a smile – a twinge that vanished the moment he noticed that I’d noticed it.

  ‘Okay, hop – sorry, slide down off there and take a seat. You’re right. It’s a groin strain. Ice the inside of your thigh to reduce the swelling. Take anti-inflammatory pills every four hours for the pain and, when you feel able, do some stretching and strengthening exercises. I’ll give you a sheet of suggestions. Is that it?’

  ‘Well . . .’ I slowly swung my legs over the side of the gurney and slithered to the floor like an otter down a riverbank. ‘There is one other . . . It’s a bit embarrassing . . .’

  ‘Are you talking about the carpet burn on the end of your nose?’ the doctor inquired. ‘I’ve already clocked that. Dash of Savlon and perhaps some better judgement.’

  ‘It’s a sheet burn, if you must know. And no, I didn’t get it that way. It was just a mistimed dive-bomb manoeuvre to ensure minimum naked exposure in front of a younger man, which I don’t really want to go into . . . Or it could be a disco ball graze, I’m not sure.’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ the doctor said, warily.

  ‘And, well, thing is . . .’ I paused, too mortified to mention it. ‘I have something similar . . . at the other end.’

  ‘Do you want me to take a look?’

  ‘Good god, no! I’m just a bit swollen and irritated. Probably an allergic reaction to aftershave.’

  ‘Cheap aftershave can inflame the sensitive tissue of the clitoris. Fragrance sensitivity is an adverse reaction to chemicals in scented products, causing redness, swelling and vesicles, or skin rashes. Does that sound like what you’re experiencing?’ he asked, matter-of-factly, pen poised.

  ‘Um, yes, probably. His aftershave did make my nose get itchy and irritable, too, you know, when we were kissing . . . But do you have to write that on my notes?’

  ‘What? Itchy nose?’ he teased. ‘Oh, you mean “irritated clitoris”. Well, I could use a euphemistic alternative from the slang of my Queensland youth. Love button, devil’s doorbell, clitty litter, crotch nipple . . .’ He counted expressions off on his fingers. ‘Clisaurus, quimberry, cherry chapstick, love nub. We’re so eloquent in the Deep North. But, if you like, I could just limit my clinical record to your groin strain. I’ll write you a prescription for some soothing steroidal anti-itch cream for the . . .’

  ‘Hooded prawn?’ I suggested, lowering myself gently onto the edge of flesh-coloured chair facing him. ‘We’re pretty eloquent in my neck of the woods too.’

  He only smiled with a corner of his mouth but there was a twinkle in his eye – the ophthalmic version of a broad grin. As the doctor rummaged through his desk drawer for his prescription pad, he added, ‘A cool wet compress will also help, plus avoiding the, um, irritant. So, in other words, take it easy on the disco dancing, toy-boy consumption and bottomless vino. Wine stoppers were invented for a reason, you know.’

  I bristled at his condescension – one of the very reasons I’d gone off men. ‘Yes, sure. I have two weeks of my vacation left, so what better time to give up wine and sex? I mean,’ I added, sarcastically, ‘there’s still masturbation and reading, right?’

  The doctor looked up from his prescription pad. ‘I only like one of those activities.’

  ‘Oh?’ I shot back, ‘I didn’t realise you’re dyslexic. How sad.’

  Pausing in his prescription writing, the doctor gave me a shrewd, searching look.

  ‘I can still read you like a book. You’ve discovered that your husband’s having an affair, so you’re seeking revenge by bedding random boat meat and pretending you’re enjoying it. That’s what I actually diagnose – a chronic case of husband uncertainty syndrome.’

  I was taken aback at the accuracy of his analysis. Who was this rude, impudent man, determined to annoy the tooth enamel off me? Gone were the days of me letting a man have the last word. Nope. From now on I was strapping on a bulletproof bra and shooting from the lip.

  ‘And what I diagnose is arrogant, up-himself doctor syndrome. But there’s no known cure for that, sadly . . . except the sack. I could report you for about a gazillion breaches of professional ethics right now. I won’t be doing that, however, because it will only get you dropped off at the next port with a healthy severance package, which is exactly what you want, am I right?’

  The doctor gave a surprised laugh. ‘Touché,’ he said. ‘You’re the only patient who’s seen through my little ploy. But I am genuinely intrigued as to why a seasoned, intelligent woman would be interested in the gauche, shallow attentions of these adolescent oiks.’

  As I cautiously pushed up to standing, I felt my feminist ire rise along with me. ‘Not that it’s any of your business, Doc, but why is it okay for men to date younger women, but not vice versa?’

  ‘Hey, I don’t make the rules, I just enjoy them.’ He shrugged. ‘My last girlfriend was twenty-eight . . . But in truth, she bored the bejesus out of me. All those selfies and Instagrams of her food. Why?’

  I limped towards the door. ‘Okay, thanks for your time. Although, should I thank you or maybe just get you struck off? Decisions, decisions, decisions!’

  ‘What you don’t know,’ the doctor post-script
ed, the indifference in his eyes evaporating for a moment as he looked at me intently, ‘is that those “cubs” you seem so attracted to target women in the nightclub to play the “Whaling Game”.’

  My hand was on the doorhandle, but I remained in the room, half turned towards him. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It’s a vile, sexist game where young men compete to find, bed and “harpoon” the fattest female in the bar.’

  I thought of my ‘Kardashian-esque’ sister, Emerald, and cringed on her behalf. But then again, why should I believe anything Captain Curmudgeon had to say? ‘You’re so cynical,’ I said, defensively. ‘I just hope it’s not contagious. Do you have the mental version of hand sanitiser in your office? Just to be on the safe side?’

  The doctor sighed, despondently. ‘Sadly, I kid you not. It’s all about quantity, not quality. The hottie-hottie-dumb-dumbs are keeping score. Apparently conquests are rated by looks, age and performance. Women are counted and cruelly catalogued, and then the info is shared on WhatsApp. I’m new here, so I’m still working out who’s who in the zoo. But I do know that those “cubs” get together and tell each other every sordid detail. In their sleazy terms, a woman can be a “reheat” or a “freshie”. The player with the lowest score has to buy everyone’s drinks on the last night of the cruise.’

  I blushed right down to the roots of my hair. Was that what last night had been about? Was I nothing more than a notch on a jock’s jockstrap? Or, had this doctor just graduated from med school with a specialisation in sarcasm and contempt? Not all young men were like those he was describing. I thought once more of my own goofy, gorgeous son and my nephews, and their mates, who were all laconic charm and devil-may-care derring-do. There must be some boys on board of a similar, likeable ilk? But, then again, my son and nephews and their mates would never come on a cougar cruise.

  ‘You know this for sure? Or is it just something you think? If you’ll pardon the exaggeration.’ I was really getting better at this ballsy, take-no-prisoners routine.

  The dyspeptic doctor laced his hands, put them behind his head and rocked back nonchalantly in his chair. ‘I don’t worry about what other people think. After all, they don’t do it very often,’ he said, gesturing in the general direction of my track-suited nether regions. ‘Obviously. And no, I’m not making it up. I’ve overheard the Whaling conversations with my own ears, unfortunately.’

  My journalistic instinct kicked in. If I were interviewing this pessimistic smart-arse, what would I ask? ‘On second thoughts, what I diagnose you with, Doctor . . .?’

  ‘Quinn.’

  ‘Doctor Quinn, is deep insecurity. Why else would a man of your age hide behind this pathetically barbed banter?’

  ‘I could ask a woman of your age exactly the same thing.’ He fiddled for a moment with the sheaf of papers on the desk before him and allowed the remoteness to creep back into his face. ‘In my case, I hide behind barbed banter because saying to your face that you’re a bloody idiot is considered rude in most social circles.’

  ‘You know, thanks for the cure. If laughter really is the best medicine, I’ll be better in no time, because you are a complete joke.’

  ‘If you have a problem with me, please write it nicely on a piece of paper, put it in an envelope and shove it up the captain’s arse.’

  ‘Good try, Doc, but I’m still not going to help you get that severance pay,’ I said, slamming the door on my way out.

  My face was flushed and my temples were pulsing. Men were ruining my life on a daily basis. Clearly I had a huge bullseye on my back. Tomorrow we were due to disembark at Lifou Island. I couldn’t wait to get out of this murky aquarium and flop onto the shore, alone with my dear sisters.

  Men: can’t live with them, can’t . . . No, just can’t live with them, I concluded, adding the misanthropic medic to my long list of blokes I never, ever wanted to see ever again.

  14

  ‘Oh, god, it’s you,’ were the doctor’s not-so-warm words of greeting the following evening.

  ‘Believe me, I’m not exactly shitting confetti with joy at being here either.’

  ‘What is it this time?’

  ‘Look, is there another doctor in the medical centre I could see? Preferably a woman?’

  ‘Nope. Sadly, as I’ve taken the Hippocratic oath, not wanting you to die is kind of in the job description, so I guess I’ll just have to save you. Take a seat.’

  ‘That’s just it. I can’t . . . Sit down, I mean.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you re-triggered your fragrance sensitivity?’

  ‘No. Good god, no. It’s another problem entirely. My bum, actually.’

  The doctor arched a curious, slightly suggestive brow. ‘Let me guess. A hens’ night that got out of hand?’

  ‘No, nothing like that.’ I felt my face turn hot enough to fry an egg. ‘Like most sane women, I don’t like to be beaten . . . not even at Scrabble. Thing is, I spent the day snorkelling with my sisters. The only downside to the tropics is that the turquoise water is so warm, and we stayed in for hours. My rashie protected my arms and I reapplied sunblock to the backs of my thighs, but I didn’t notice my cossie riding up as I swam. I now have a hotter arse than Beyoncé.’

  Doctor Quinn snorted. ‘Excuse me while I laugh my own arse off.’

  ‘It’s not funny.’

  ‘Really? Isn’t laughter the best medicine? I seem to recall a rather annoying patient telling me that only yesterday.’

  ‘Well, laughter is not going to help me sit down for dinner.’

  ‘Still, surely laughter is the shortest distance between two people?’ the doctor said with mock sincerity.

  ‘The idea of anyone wanting to get close to you is laughable,’ I responded, folding my arms.

  ‘Well, I’d better take a look.’

  I approached the desk, and the amused stare of its attendant. It was beyond mortifying to be back here, with my sunburnt tail between my legs. I gingerly lifted my skirt to reveal my blazing red, blistered buttocks. I thought back with longing to my perfect morning. Sometime during the night our ship had quietly moored off Lifou – one of the Loyalty Islands, in the New Caledonian archipelago. When we Ryan girls woke and drew back the curtains, the crystalline waters, pristine white beaches and steep coral cliffs were so breathtakingly beautiful it inclined us all to the adjectival. Having exhausted our supply of superlatives over breakfast, I’d suggested putting in an urgent request to Stephen Fry via Twitter to airlift in some even bigger adjectives.

  High on excitement, we caught the tender into a jetty nestled in the crook of a turquoise cove. Disembarking, we were greeted by a line of palm trees with spiky Rod Stewart hairstyles, rising up like exclamation marks shouting ‘WOW! WOW! WOW!’ We soon found ourselves mimicking the palm trees by also speaking in exclamation marks. ‘Amazing! This whole, empty, glistening beach is really all ours?!’

  With sherbet-winged parrots taking flight, and fish darting through the coral in their colourful underwater choreography, the island was utterly perfect. Even the shrubs had that happy and contented, ‘talked-to’ look.

  The hardest thing about snorkelling is not talking – especially when Amber and Emerald, post truce, had forgotten their differences and suddenly had so much to say to each other. Best of all, the buoyancy of the saltwater had taken all pressure off my groin strain.

  Diving and floating around atolls, I lost myself in the riot of soft corals and swaying anemones, their bright maws greedily agape. I was so enthralled by this multicoloured world – so entranced by the silent aquatic symphony of silver, sparkling shoals of angel-, lion- and triggerfish darting in unison, as though following an invisible conductor’s baton – that I hadn’t noticed I was burning. Sun-savvy Amber had worn a full-length burkini, and Emerald’s deeply unattractive but practical ensemble of long-sleeved rash shirt, knee-length board shorts and daggy surf hat had also kept the burning rays at bay. My exposed crescent moons of white butt cheek were now pulsating with red hot pain.
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br />   ‘Cold compresses to take the heat out of the skin, aloe vera gel to relieve the pain, ibuprofen to reduce swelling, a water-gel burn dressing to alleviate discomfort at night, and drink plenty of water,’ the doctor recited. ‘Well, this is definitely going to put a damper on your toy-boy bedding.’ He chuckled. ‘No bed rest for you, young lady. If you can’t resist those hottie-hottie-dumb-dumbs, then I advise you to only make love sideways. Then your cub can say that you really are his “bit on the side”.’ The doctor chortled, clearly thinking he deserved an award for his Wildean wit.

  I shot the doc a scathing look. ‘I’m a journalist, you know. A journalist on a news desk. Everything you have just said is totally inappropriate. Just be warned. Anything you say may be taken down and used against you.’

  It was a blatant attempt to make myself sound like a dynamic, empowered, super-successful award-winning journo – instead of a laughable hack who penned such groundbreaking exposés as ‘Local Scout Hall Cooker to be Cleaned More Often’. And, my most recent scoop, ‘Midget Rapes Nun, Then Flees in UFO’. No wonder I’d called my cat Pulitzer – it was the only way I’d ever get to say that I had one.

  ‘Hop up on the bed and I’ll apply an urgent unguent.’ He could not keep the amusement out of his voice.

  I gazed up at the gurney with the same apprehension with which Ranulph Fiennes must have surveyed Everest from his base camp as he faced up to the fact that he was the oldest person ever to attempt the ascent. With my groin strain and singed behind, it was going to take me nearly as long to get up there as his mountain climb. Abashed and flustered, I just kept talking to ease the tension. ‘You may look down on the cougar cruise,’ I said, defensively, ‘but for women who’ve been taken for granted or ignored, or betrayed by their husbands, well, some horizontal refreshment can be very healing.’

  ‘How can bedding a male bimbo with the IQ of a crash-test dummy raise a woman’s self-esteem?’

  The gel he applied to my pulsating arse was incredibly soothing but did nothing to cool my temper, which was heating up by the second. ‘Not that it’s any of your business,’ I seethed, ‘but yes. I had a revenge bonk and it was great. What a night. The guy was half your age and he blew my mind,’ I lied, craning my head to peer over my shoulder at the impertinent, party-pooping medic. ‘I’m feeling liberated. Reborn. Resurrected. And why not? Why can’t women play the same enjoyable field as you blokes?’