by Shari Low
I was sure of it.
Positive.
So it was only a matter of time before that theory went completely balls up.
Literally.
18
The Milky Way
‘Leni Lomond? Hello again, good to see you. Come on through.’
In ten years’ time I will remember breaking my arm; I will remember the hospital that I was treated in; and I will remember the grin of the male nurse who was my first point of contact on each visit.
According to his badge his name was David, but his colleagues called him Dave. Which, of course, I wasn’t, so I just called him ‘Nurse’.
He ushered me into his tiny room, furnished sparsely with a chipped teak-coloured desk, two orange plastic chairs, and a menagerie of medical gizmos. Over in the corner, stretching from one nicotine-coloured wall to another, was a half-drawn pale blue curtain with a brown leather trolley-bed behind it. Even the glare from the overhead strip-lights couldn’t conceal that the room was dull, dull, dull.
And then there was Nurse David Canning, dressed in ultra-flattering designer blue overalls, with not a tuft of hair sticking out of the v-neck at the top. As far as I was concerned that was a good sign. There had been a male nurse back in the ER on my first visit who had looked like he was concealing Diana Ross under his top.
‘It’s just me that you’ll be seeing today,’ he informed me with a smile. ‘This is the final visit, and we just want to check the mobility and swelling before we give you the okay to remove the bandage permanently.’
His eyes creased up when he spoke, immediately transforming him from ‘average looking’ to ‘decidedly cute’. They were a deep blue and framed by long black eyelashes and…What was I doing? I couldn’t believe I was actually checking out a male nurse in a potential date-like manner. This bloody experiment was taking over my life. Men had gone from the status of ‘occasional distraction’ to ‘sole reason for being’. It was ridiculous. Yes, a partner would be nice. And yes, it would be lovely to have someone other than Trish and Stu to share weekends with. And yes, I suppose the odd multiple orgasm would be an acceptable way to spend twenty minutes or so, but I was getting sucked into a strange vortex of male appraisal that was far removed from my normal personality.
He did have nice eyes though.
Aaaaaaaaargh!
He gently peeled off my elastic bandage and placed it to one side. Then, cradling my forearm gently, he asked me to rotate my wrist clockwise, then anticlockwise. Next, he gently released his hold and we graduated on to fist clenching and finger flexing, then finished with gentle stretching and light lifting. My wrist was a perfect patient and completed all the tasks with ease.
Throughout the whole exercise, I was smiling inanely and surreptitiously watching his face as he concentrated on my hand action, his focus punctuated only by his subconscious habit of running his fingers through his thick, wavy black hair. That’s who he looked like! I suddenly realised that he was the more normal, average-looking brother of that bloke Adam Grenier from Entourage–although obviously Nurse Dave Canning was the sibling who made his parents proud by eschewing fame, fortune and Hollywood debauchery and dedicating his life to helping others.
‘Full rotation, normal reflexes, minimal swelling–I think you’re just about healed there, Leni.’
‘Thank you.’
I had no idea why I was thanking him. Or why I’d somehow rested my arm on top of his.
‘Sorry!’ I snatched back my errant limb and–too fast–it caught the top of a mug that was sitting on the desk, sending torrents of coffee across a wooden surface. Unbelievable! Shouldn’t I have left clumsiness back at puberty?
‘Shit, shit, shit…sorry!’ I exclaimed, this time wondering why I was apologising when the coffee had run in the direction of my lap and was now forming an unfortunate stain on the front of my light denim skirt. What was it with me and bloody coffee cups?
He grabbed a long stretch of blue paper towel from a dispenser behind him and bunched it up before thrusting it towards me. ‘Here, you take care of your skirt and I’ll get everything else. My fault, shouldn’t have left that there in the first place.’
‘No, no, it was mine…’ I countered, frantically dabbing and realising that all I was achieving was decorating the stain with loads of little blue fragments that were crumbling off the paper. Why did this always happen to me? Broken arms, panic-inducing eyelashes, spilt coffee…I wanted to glide through life on a wave of chic, effortless serenity, and instead I’d careered into yet another mortifying situation that had resulted in me appearing to have incontinence issues. Hadn’t I studied Decorum for Dummies and The Fine Arts of Composure and Confidence? I could now confidently and without any bloody composure confirm that they didn’t work.
Nurse Dave finished drying the desk and then lifted my sodden file and hung it on a bulldog clip suspended from the corkboard in front of him.
‘I think I’ll just leave that there to dry, and mark it up later,’ he said, and, all credit to him, there was a hint of a smile where I’d expected an exasperated grimace to be. ‘But in the meantime, you’re free to go, and I don’t think we need to see you back again, unless of course you have any prevailing pain or swelling, in which case just give us a call.’
‘Thanks,’ I blustered, my face still the colour of a raspberry ripple, ‘and, erm, sorry. Again.’
‘Don’t worry about it. You take care.’
‘I will,’ I reassured him, apologetic smile still in place while I backed towards the door–in hindsight not my smartest move as it gave him a long, lingering look at the large brown stain that was still slowly spreading across my groin area.
I felt behind me for the door handle, pulled it open and quickly stepped outside, then pivoted 180 degrees and pulled the door shut behind me. Out in the corridor, I leaned back against the closed door, eyes shut, breathing deeply. How totally embarrassing. How completely mortifying.
Still, I thought, as I took a deep breath and attempted to calm my face back from a fierce impersonation of Revlon Red, my arm had been given the all-clear, so at least I’d never have to see him again.
Two seconds later, my buttocks hit the floor and I was staring up at the twinkly blue eyes of Nurse Dave. Lesson in exiting embarrassing situations, number 456: Always flee the scene immediately–stopping to take stock, especially when resting against a door, may result in extension of deep discomfort.
Utterly nonplussed, Dave bent down to pick me up with one hand, while he consulted the clipboard in his other hand.
‘Sally Jane Stott?’ he announced, in the general direction of the astonished people in the row of seats in front of us.
A gum-chewing girl of about nine, dressed like a Bratz doll except for the pink plaster casts on both arms, got up onto her sparkly pink platforms. By the time she reached us I’d managed to scramble back to an upright position and I moved to the left to let her past.
‘Nurse Dave,’ she whispered as she reached us.
‘Yes, Sally Jane?’
Sally Jane gestured to me with a slight inflection of the head.
‘Please don’t give me whatever you gave her.’
I bolted out of there–at a speed that was probably prohibited within the hospital grounds–and made an executive decision. It was three o’clock, and I’d promised Zara I’d come back into the office to book her reflexologist, her osteopath, her African dance tribe and her body brusher (don’t ask) for the following week. I’d need to drive to the train station and depending on the train times, it would take me at least an hour to get back to the office, so I wouldn’t get there until four o’clock, and then, if I finished on time, that meant I was facing yet another commute–all for the sake of an hour’s desk time. And it was all Zara’s bloody fault I was at the hospital in the first place. Well, sod it. I’d had enough. I was tired, I was embarrassed, and my buttocks were killing me. I was fed up with putting life, limb and dignity at risk to please everyone else. Obedient, conformist Len
i Lomond was bloody sick of being…obedient, conformist Leni Lomond. For once in my life I wasn’t going to give a damn about doing the right thing. Instead, I was going to do exactly as I pleased, and at that moment I wanted to take the necessary steps to remedy my general wellbeing.
Where was the nearest pub?
The Red Lion sounded like a darts-playing, beer-swilling emporium, but actually that couldn’t have been further from reality. It was an ancient coach-house pub with stone floors along with thick, elaborate chintz curtains and battered oak furniture, where the mahogany-framed pictures on the wall were gently illuminated by the roaring fires in both the bar and the dining area. I’d left the hospital grounds (after stopping at the shop for a comfort-reading package consisting of Take a Break, Cosmopolitan, Grazia and Heat), pointed my yellow Nissan Micra in the general direction of home, and then stopped at the first pub I’d come to. Drinks in the afternoon at the Red Lion were probably the first step on the road to alcoholism, liver disease and an enforced stay in a rehab centre, but right then, right there, I really didn’t care. Okay, there was a small part of me that was already feeling guilty, but I was trying to ignore it.
I ordered a glass of red wine (large), a packet of steak-flavoured McCoy crisps (larger) and found a huge, padded armchair in a corner, far away enough from the fire so that I couldn’t continue on my general daily path of self-inflicted disaster by inadvertently setting myself aflame.
I snuggled into the copper-coloured chenille chair, plumped my chestnut Uggs on the matching footstool, switched off my mobile phone, took a huge gulp of the wine and opened a mag.
This was more like it. I know my New Year’s resolution had been to inject some excitement into my life, but I had to face it, this wasn’t the kind of excitement I’d envisaged. I closed my eyes for a second, conjured up a mental image of my office at City Plumbing, had an imaginary conversation with Archie Botham about his ballcocks and then involuntarily shuddered, my mood automatically lifting a few levels. There was a lot to be said for aversion therapy.
I took another large gulp of the Shiraz and turned my attention back to the magazine, ready to absorb myself in the story of Janette from Barnstable, who’d come back from Weight Watchers early one night to catch her husband having sex with her twin sister and her best pal at the same time. The poor thing had lost everyone she cared about in that very moment–but at least the trauma had also caused her to lose seven stone and win Slimmer of the Year. The moral of the story? Always enlist the help of your friends and family when you embark on a weight-loss programme.
This was working. An hour ago I’d been in the depths of despair, and now I was starting to feel like one of the privileged, chosen few. Who needed therapists when there were ballcocks, large bottles of red wine and magazines full of stories so awful they made your spirits soar by default?
‘Be careful with that arm, I don’t want you straining it with repetitive lifting.’
Nurse Dave. Standing behind my right shoulder. I started to turn around when…
‘Stop! Don’t move–I’ll come to you,’ he exclaimed, with a definite amused lilt in his voice. ‘We don’t want a repeat of what happened earlier.’
He stepped round so that he was standing directly in front of me. I was relieved to see that the blue overalls and the white shoes were gone, replaced with a pair of indigo jeans (clean and non-wrinkled), a loose black T-shirt (ironed and bearing a small Ted Baker logo) and what looked like suspiciously trendy trainers.
‘At least the stain came out okay,’ he observed, gesturing to the front of my skirt. I stood up, turned around and gave him full view of the large stain that, courtesy of a quick waistband shuffle, was now giving the impression that my incontinence was worse than first thought.
Two old ladies at a nearby table gasped and then continued to stare. I gave a small bow in Nurse Dave’s direction. ‘My aim is to entertain the masses with my episodes of serial humiliation.’
‘You’re very good at it,’ he said, his voice oozing mock seriousness.
‘It’s a talent I’ve been cultivating for many years,’ I told him solemnly, noting that a) the red wine had already kicked in and was delivering a healthy dose of irreverent boldness, and b) the two old ladies were still staring.
Irreverent boldness collapsed, exhausted after one witty comeback, and left an awkward, apprehensive silence for about five seconds. He was the first to cave. ‘Can I buy you a drink?’
I motioned to the one already on the table. ‘I’ve got one, thanks. If I get another one it just doubles the chances of an incident involving a red face and a mop.’
Wow, another sharp retort–normally in uncomfortable situations it took me ten minutes to think of a witty reply, and by that time the moment was long gone. Note to self–must drink more.
‘Okay, I’ll just get one for myself then.’ Aw, he sounded almost shy there. Kind of bashful. I immediately regretted my refusal, positive that he was now going to head to the furthest corner of the bar and spend the rest of the afternoon avoiding me. Urgh, was I ever going to get it right? I went along with things I didn’t want to, and then on the one occasion that I should have kept schtum, smiled and gone with the flow, I’d somehow taken the opportunity to come out with my first ever smart-ass comment. I was just one big social bloody dysfunction.
I exhaled deeply and stared at Aggie and Ethel, forcing them to finally turn away, then went back to my solitary mag-fest. What did it matter if I’d dropped Nurse Dave like a white-hot chip pan; I wanted to be alone anyway. I wanted to revel in the solitude, drink in the peaceful surroundings, let the overstuffed arms of the slightly smelly armchair carry away my cares…
‘So can I join you then?’
‘Sure, pull up a chair.’
‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’ He checked his watch with the hand that wasn’t clutching a newly purchased bottle of Budweiser. ‘I’m supposed to be meeting my brother here in twenty minutes and I’d rather not sit on my own like a saddo.’
One. Two. Three…Cue furious back-pedal. ‘Not that you’re a saddo because you were here on your own. I mean, you’re not. It’s fine to drink here. On your own. Well, not every day, obviously, but sometimes it’s fine, and especially today, because of, you know, the whole falling thing, and…’
I had to put him out of his misery. It was like we were caught up in some weird cycle of excruciation by osmosis.
‘Please stop. It’s like you’ve caught the crazy babbling bug from me and now you’re in full flow,’ I said, smiling.
He pulled over an identical chair to mine and sat down, leading straight into another one of those pregnant pauses.
‘So, not working today?’
‘So, finished work for the day?’
We both blurted at the same time, the equivalent of breaking the ice with a jackhammer.
‘I’m playing hookie,’ I told him. ‘My boss is driving me crazy so I’m seeking solace in magazines and wine. Like a saddo, obviously.’
He had the grace to match my teasing expression with a sheepish one.
‘What about you, on a break?’
‘Nope, finished for the day.’ He held up his beer to emphasise his point. ‘I’m on early shift this week, which I love, because it keeps me out of A&E and in with the nice, sober, regular people. Present company excluded, of course.’
‘Hey! This is my first glass of wine. Although I do intend for there to be many more. But before you write out my admission slip to the detox ward, I promise you I don’t do this very often. Never, actually, but I promise there are extenuating circumstances.’
He clinked his beer bottle against my glass. ‘Well, I’m glad you decided to do it today. I’m Dave, by the way.’
‘I know. It was on your badge.’
‘Are you always that observant?’
‘Only when it doesn’t involve things that I can drop, squash or trip over.’
He smiled and checked his watch again. ‘I’ve got fifteen minutes left before
my brother gets here. Is that long enough to hear about those extenuating circumstances?’
‘Sorry, no–it’s a long, long list that can’t be demeaned by rushing through it.’
Bzzzzzzzz. Bzzzzzzzz. Bzzzzzzzz. The mobile phone that he’d placed on the table burst into vibrate mode, sending it careering across the knotted oak surface. Just in time, he snatched it up and checked the screen.
‘It’s a message from my brother–he isn’t going to make it,’ he sighed. ‘That’s the third time this week. He’s in the CID, so if a big case comes in they often have to work overtime.’
There was another five-second silence as I waited for him to announce that he’d be going then. He drained his beer and then placed the bottle down next to his phone. ‘I should really just get off home then,’ he said.
No problem! I was looking forward to getting back to my magazines anyway. And I’d hardly touched my wine since he’d joined me. It would be nice just to sink into blissful oblivion again and resume repair work on my tortured soul. Or maybe I’d just have another packet of crisps and perhaps a Bacardi Breezer.
‘Unless…’ he started.
‘Yes?’
‘Unless I got us both another drink and you filled me in on those circumstances you were talking about. Without rushing through them, of course.’
Before I realised what I was doing, my mouth smiled, my head went into a repetitive nod and ‘Okay then, it’s a deal’ spouted forth.
As he wandered off to the bar, the irony of the situation didn’t escape me. Last year I’d had a dating drought so severe it should have been given a government health warning. This year I was chalking them up even when I didn’t want them.
Although this wasn’t exactly a date, I corrected myself; this was more of a happy coincidence. Two vague acquaintances bumping into each other in a pub–that hardly made this an official date.
But, er, the bumping of intimate organs just a few hours later probably did.
19
Total Eclipse of the Heart