by Lette, Kathy
‘You really wanna know?’ He paused, then added, ‘I know I go on about those cubs being as thick as the plank I’d like to make them walk, but I have to admit, they’re not all stupid. Some of them are able to sum up a woman’s net worth to the nearest FTSE share with one long, cool, calculated look. Okay, you can get up now.’
I pushed up onto all fours so I could dismount without smudging the gel or stretching my loins, a complicated manoeuvre requiring such dexterity it could have scored me perfect tens in Olympic gymnastics.
‘A fool and her money are soon married,’ the doctor warned, washing his hands at the sink. ‘And on a cougar cruise, a bludging bloke can find a wife he can really bank on. Do warn those sisters of yours. If either one is a woman with money to burn, a toy boy will be her match.’
A punster. Hmm . . . I liked that. Shame it was the only vaguely likeable thing about the insolent, arrogant ratbag.
‘Do you take this woman to the cleaners, for fifty per cent of her income, from this day forth, for richer and richer? You bloody bet he does.’
‘Ha! You doctors can’t talk!’ I retorted. ‘Now, open your wallet wide and say “Ahhh”. Luckily, I took out travel insurance to foot your preposterous bill.’ Although astounded by the quack’s familiarity and rudeness, I was also wise to his ploy. ‘But hey, Doc, be as rude and crude as you like. I’m still not going to report you for unprofessional behaviour, so you can kiss that severance pay goodbye, pal.’ I rearranged my skirt and slid into my sandals, eager to depart.
The doctor shrugged. ‘ABBA-related dance injuries, facial sheet grazes, labial contact dermatitis and a sunburnt arse – clearly, living is dangerous to your health, Ms Ryan. Just try not to be a hazard to yourself from now on, okay?’ He opened the door and signalled to the receptionist to send in his next victim – sorry, I mean patient. ‘Oh . . . and thanks for the laugh, Ryan. You really are the butt of your own joke today.’ He squeezed out another chuckle.
Once more, I found myself executing a melodramatic flounce away from his office. No matter what happened – shark bite, Ebola, leprosy, not even alien abduction and anal probing – absolutely nothing would get me back here. I was not going to subject myself to his odious company again. Hell, I’d rather gnaw my way through my own ovaries.
15
Madame Ovary, I presume? That’s what I thought when I found myself back in the medical centre waiting room the very next day, cursing my luck. I was looking forward to a third encounter with Doctor Dour as enthusiastically as I’d look forward to amateur appendix removal minus anaesthetic. The bloke had the bedside manner of Jack Kevorkian. I contemplated donning scuba goggles or using my swimming towel as a burqa, anything to hide my identity. I just wanted to retreat to my bed and hang a sign on the door reading TODAY IS UNDER CONSTRUCTION – THANK YOU FOR YOUR UNDERSTANDING.
‘Rope burn,’ I explained, entering his surgery, palms extended to obscure my face.
Doctor Quinn looked up from the book he was reading, uncrossed his legs, which were kicked up on the desk before him, rocked even further back in his swivel chair and grinned.
‘Well, I knew you were highly strung, but not in a masochistic way. Although being the dominant one is actually very masochistic, in my view. I mean, all that time-consuming effort and financial outlay. Then there are all those knots that need memorising, and . . .’
‘Rope burn from abseiling,’ I clarified, coolly.
I then explained how, over breakfast that morning, as our ship docked in Port Vila, Vanuatu, I thought my sisters had been chatting excitedly about canapés. I was under the impression they were planning on taking me to a local restaurant, but they meant canopies, not canapés, as in rainforest canopies with zip-lining and abseiling.
Now, I have a head for heights. Thanks to my journalistic job, I’m the Edmund Hillary of social climbing. Well, okay, maybe just the lower social slopes, inhabited by local surfing champs and footy heroes. But, dangling above the tree tops from a flimsy rope, I’d reached new heights – of terror. When I saw the harness I was to be strapped into, I’d clung to my sisters like Robinson Crusoe to his life raft.
‘We’re doing this for fun?’ I queried, aghast. ‘Other than, say, the bubonic plague or a tsunami, could there be anything less fun than hurtling through thin air held up by a bit of dental floss?’
Both my sisters remained unperturbed. Emerald was like a bouncy labrador, the type that causes chaos with its wagging tail. She was whooping her way across the leafy canopy at breakneck speed, not caring how many times she snagged or lurched or accidentally flipped upside down. Amber, on the other hand, was like a cat – standoffish, quiet, a touch superior, surveying the route with a calculating eye before eventually nailing the task with the finesse of a highwire trapeze artist.
After completing the course, my sisters stood together on the platform on the other side of the rainforest canopy and cheered me on in stereo.
Emerald cupped a hand to her mouth and shouted out, ‘Don’t be a wuss!’
‘Any intelligent person, even a reasonably bright fungus, could see that leaping into the unknown like this is a stupid idea!’ I’d shouted back to them.
‘Carpe diem, remember?’ Amber urged.
‘Does the word “splat” mean anything to youuuuuu!’ My sentence changed direction when the insouciant French ropes instructor suddenly shoved me forward. I screamed and squeezed my eyes shut as wind whistled through my hair. After what felt like an eternity, but was probably about thirty seconds, I felt a wrench. Certain that my right arm had been torn from its socket and was already hitchhiking back to the boat without me to order a cocktail, I was amazed to realise that I’d simply landed in my sisters’ warm and welcoming arms. They hugged me simultaneously and congratulated me on conquering my fear.
My older sisters approached the abseiling part of the adventure with similar ease. Emerald, giving a goofy grin, just stepped backwards over the cliff edge, descending the vertical drop in jerking fits and spurts, guffawing merrily on route. Amber stood back to observe the other abseilers for a while, before nimbly rappelling earthwards with the smooth motions of a Mission Impossible agent.
I could hear them calling to me from the forest floor. Emboldened by my unexpected zip-lining success, I let the instructor belt me up, stood with my back to the drop, leant slowly back and gingerly inched a foot over the ridge. I might have made it unscathed, too – except that, in my apprehension, I dropped my goddamned gloves.
‘Anyway,’ I told the doctor now, ‘abseiling turned out to be the most nerve-racking event of my life that didn’t involve a gynaecologist.’ Or coming to your wretched surgery, for that matter, I mentally added. ‘Nobody warned me to pack adult Pampers. Hence the panic. Hence the fact that I dropped my gloves. Hence the rope burn.’
The doctor looked at me with grizzled amusement.
‘Vanuatu’s so fascinating, isn’t it?’ he finally said, getting up from his desk to examine my lacerated hands. ‘Over a hundred distinct languages are spoken in a country with a population no greater than that of a large Aussie town. Virtually every group of villages has its own lingo. Colonialism exacerbated the islanders’ difficulty in understanding one another, since Vanuatu was ruled jointly by the UK and France. That’s why Bislama, a pidgin form of English, became their national language. And it’s quite straightforward, really. A womb is a “basket blong pikinini”. Flippers are “dakdak sus”, or duck shoes. A tumour is “rabis mit”, meaning rubbish meat,’ he decoded. ‘A bathroom is a “rum blong swim”. A bra is a ‘bag blong titi.’ And ‘bagarap’ means buggered up, which you’ve clearly done.’
‘And what’s a rude, supercilious, self-important doctor in Bislama? A “pain blong backside”, possibly?’
‘I seem to recall from your last appointment that you’ve already got one of those. And now, rope burn.’ As the doctor cleaned the wounds on my palms with disinfectant, he gave another annoying little chuckle. ‘Abseiling without gloves. I can cure a lot of thi
ngs, but there’s no cure for idiocy, you know.’
‘Yeah, well, you must think I’m an idiot if you thought I’d fall for what you said about the “cubs” keeping score. Seems to me you only diss the young studs in a pathetic effort to increase your own chances with women, which are limbo-low, by the way,’ I pointed out in a frosty tone.
‘Are you kidding?’ The doctor grinned. ‘These dumbarse “cubs” are having a fantastic effect on my self-esteem. Male airheads are the most efficient way of making a bloke in his late forties look fascinating and super-intelligent,’ he said, eyes twinkling.
‘In your wet dreams,’ I scoffed. My irritation at this man was almost enough to make me forget the pain of my various ailments.
When the doctor had finished his ministrations, I stood up to leave. ‘Thanks. I’m a huge fan of your work. Let’s make sure we never do this again some time.’
Famous last words – the kind of last words that, hubris dictates, usually indicate it’s time to pull the emergency brake on an out-of-control, runaway train.
16
‘Okay, I now diagnose a case of chronic hypochondria.’ The doctor smirked as I appeared the next day at his surgery door.
‘I am not a hypochondriac,’ I bristled.
‘Then hypochondria must be the only disease you don’t have.’
‘Jellyfish sting. Can you believe it? Not even Billy Connolly could turn this journey into a witty anecdote.’ I lifted my T-shirt and revealed the thick red welts on my abdomen.
‘Yep, that looks nasty.’
‘There are some stings in other more, um . . . sensitive areas.’
‘Skinny dipping, eh?’ The doctor stood and began to assemble equipment to bathe my wounds in soothing antihistamine lotion. ‘Just a tip – knowing the location of all venomous creatures in the vicinity is really the minimum precaution one should take before exposing one’s naked body to the elements.’
‘Really? Thanks so much! I wish I’d thought of that!’
I’d actually spent a sublime day on Mystery Island – population zero – with my sisters. The palm-tree-fringed beaches and coral caverns so resembled a storybook fantasy that I’d expected to see singing mermaids riding foam seahorses. It’s taboo to live on the southernmost island of the Vanuatuan archipelago, but grass-skirted locals had paddled over from nearby Aneityum Island to slice open coconuts with machetes for thirsty visitors, then entertain with traditional dance.
Strolling far from the crowds around the white, silica-sanded beach, we Ryan sisters had found a secluded, shaded spot and braved a skinny-dip. It had been Emerald’s idea. ‘Come on! As you said, Ruby, it’s the first time we’ve been away together like this since we were kids – but this time there’s no parental supervision. So, let’s muck up!’
‘We can do synchronised swimming,’ Amber had laughed, peeling off her clothes. ‘Just like we used to do in the pool at home. Except naked!’
‘I just hope we don’t get caught in a rip. Otherwise it will be the most embarrassing winch up to a rescue helicopter in human history,’ I joked, stripping off and cantering after them into the lagoon. The water is, after all, my natural habitat. At school I’d won every swimming carnival, but Mum had put the kibosh on professional coaching because ‘men don’t like muscly girls’.
Giggling and squealing with juvenile joy, we formed a circle and touched toes, making starfish shapes then improvising other aquatic choreography. The water was so silky and warm, and our comedic camaraderie so cosy, it had been pure, purring perfection – until the pain.
The doctor, inspecting my oozing blisters, interrupted my reverie. ‘Could be worse, though. These islands are said to still be home to some cannibal tribes. With your penchant for getting yourself into hot water, I’m surprised you’re not simmering in a pot somewhere.’
‘Cannibals don’t eat witty women, because we taste funny,’ I shot back. ‘Clearly you’d be safe, too, because you’re far too bitter for anybody’s palate.’
The doctor was obviously relishing my chagrin at being back here in his clinic. ‘I thought you might have realised by now that you are not entirely suited to the great outdoors, Ms Ryan. But off you go, day after day, despite the damage to your physical wellbeing. I think it’s a case of persistence beyond the call of talent. Unless’—he raised a sardonically amused brow—‘you’re just making excuses to see me again.’
I reminded myself that it would take forty-two muscles to frown, and only four to stretch out my arm to slap the taciturn and irritating bastard. Instead I fired a furious look his way. If my eyes could shoot out fatal rays like the ones in sci-fi movies, he’d have been incinerated instantly.
‘You know, GPs will soon be replaced by computers, so you won’t have to subject yourself to the indignity of tending to actual patients.’
‘Well, a computer did once beat me at chess. But it was no match for me at karate,’ he said.
I was truly tempted to make a complaint about him now. But I also wanted to get back to my sisters. Emerald had booked us into the spa for a facial and pedicure. Yes; normally scruffy Emerald, who’d always acted as though her body were only there to carry her intellectual head around, had suddenly taken to beautifying. She’d started exercising, too, which was equally out of character. Each spring when Amber warned us that it was time to get ‘beach body ready’, Emerald would reply, ‘If I’m by a beach, and I have a body, then I’m ready.’ But not anymore. Push-ups, sit-ups, lunges – the woman was constantly on the move.
Much to my amazement, Amber had declined Emerald’s invitation for some spa pampering. Although normally polished and perfect, she’d recently preferred slouching around in tracksuit pants – elasticated tracksuit pants – making it all the easier to graze on more and more food. Protein and veg only, of course – she’d still die rather than eat a carb – but nevertheless, her new motto seemed to be, ‘My home is girth by sea.’
‘Honestly, I’m like a boa constrictor. I just go to the buffet and unhinge my jaws. But instead of lying around digesting for, oh, say, six months or so, I simply go and consume another meal just like it three hours later. It’s heaven!’
I’d promised to meet Amber at the sushi bar later and accompany her to watch the ballroom dancing, followed by a martini ice slide party, whatever the hell that was. ‘It’s the first time in forever that I’m doing things just for me!’ she’d enthused. ‘And, look at this.’ She’d shown me her phone. ‘I’ve only Skyped the kids twice!’
All of these interesting developments would be discussed in detail when we three met up for our daily cackle over a cocktail. So, I really had no time to waste on this irritating human haemorrhoid.
I wanted to strut out of his office but could only manage a half-limp, half-lope. A groin strain, a swollen labia, a red-hot arse, rope burn and a jellyfish sting – surely that had to be it; there was no way the fickle fairy of fate could deliver any more body blows with that bloody wand of hers. Because if I was forced to see this up-himself, pissant medic just one more time I’d be tempted to rearrange his smirking facial features with his own scalpel, while explaining to him, with caustic condescension, that apparently dying can also be seriously damaging to your health.
‘By the way, thanks, Ryan,’ he called out after me, with a chuckle. ‘I can always count on you to brighten my day.’
17
By the time our ship had moored in Mare, New Caledonia, we girls were getting used to paradise.
‘Right,’ Emerald announced as the tender came to clamorous life and zoomed towards shore. ‘Time to explore the beach in search of exotic creatures.’
Amber displayed all the eagerness of a limpet at her veterinary sister’s suggestion. ‘I think we’ve seen quite enough odd creatures aboard HMAS Toy Boy.’
‘Yes, Em, you haven’t exactly been exercising berth control,’ I punned.
‘Oh, ha-ha.’ Emerald rolled her eyes good-naturedly. ‘I’m talking about the Pacific leaping blenny. Or Alticus arnoldorum, if you
want to be posh about it. It’s a unique fish that lives on land and can leap huge distances. You simply must come with me to see it.’
‘Ugh, no thanks. Ruby and I prefer our fish in the past tense – on a plate. We’ll probably eat one of your leaping blenny’s on our food tour of the local market, won’t we, Rubes?’
‘A food tour? You can’t be serious. I can’t believe you still have room to eat anything after all the food we’ve consumed on board. Ruby’s definitely coming with me,’ Emerald said. ‘Aren’t you, Rubes?’
The familial tug-of-war was settled, however, by my groin strain. The only place I felt no pain was in the weightless water. And so, having agreed to meet back on deck for a sunset cocktail, we went our separate ways.
Alone on the seashore, I breathed a sigh of relief so huge it was probably mistaken by nearby sunbathers for emphysema. Beyond the palm-tree-dotted beach lay the turquoise bay, distantly semi-circled by the frothy breakers of a coral reef.
Stashing my bag behind a boulder, I donned a sun-savvy rash shirt and, this time, long board shorts, and fixed my goggles and snorkel. Then, pretty certain that I was not in the running for the Ms Mare New Caledonia Style Awards, I plunged into the silky sea and swam effortlessly out into the cove. A warm sense of calm washed over me as I watched the majestic stingrays, with their theatrical Batman capes and stage-villain grins, the shy sea turtles, the giant gropers, with their pouty Mick Jagger lips, and the colourful choreography of iridescent fish darting through coral without a care in their weightless world.