Going Too Far

by Catherine Alliott

  To my surprise the receptionist informed me with a bright, white smile that it was in fact my lucky day. And I’d had no idea! There was I thinking that this was the day to contemplate suicide in more than just a half-hearted fashion, when all the time my luck was in. I questioned her further and it transpired that Mr Taylor was running at least twenty minutes early so I only had about five minutes to kill. Ah. I went gloomily into the oak-panelled waiting room and, as it turned out, killed time quite fittingly by sticking imaginary pins into the only other patient in the room.

  The girl in question was about my age and luminous with pregnancy. She had pretty blond curls, a contented, Madonna-like smile on her rosy-cheeked face and was wearing a terribly twee maternity smock, strewn with daisy chains. Every so often she’d stroke her swollen tummy protectively, giving me the benefit of not just a wedding ring and an engagement ring but a serious whopper of an eternity ring too.

  I stared at her, sick with jealousy. That should have been me over there, happily pregnant with a loving husband to go home to, hand heavy with rocks. She looked across and smiled. A nice, comradely, we’re-both-in-this-together smile. Now, under normal circumstances I’d have been over there like a shot – comparing morning-sickness bouts, asking her the best place to buy outsized bras, enquiring about the likelihood of piles – but as it was I could only twist my face into what I hoped was a smile but was probably more of a homicidal grimace, make sure my own rings – albeit smaller and fewer – were well on display too and bury my head firmly in Country Life. I caught her look of disappointment as the chance of a cosy mother-to-be chat proved not-to-be. God. When did I get to be so mean and twisted?

  I flicked miserably through the vast houses for sale at the front of the magazine, remembering how I used to pore over them, salivating with longing, dreaming of living in just such a pile. Of course, now I did, but for how much longer? How much longer would it be before Nick decided he could quite easily live without a cheating, scheming, conniving little hussy and sue for divorce on the grounds of adultery?

  Once he discovered I was pregnant of course, that’s how long. Nick was no fool, he’d know the baby was Sam’s. I mean, let’s face it, two years of bonking for Britain with my husband had resulted in absolutely zilch in the way of a bun in the Aga, but one night of steaming sex with a fabulously fertile film director and wham! Here I was, up the duff without a paddle and down at the gynae clinic before you could say knife. Knife! I jumped. No. No way. No way was I losing this baby, not while there was still a chance, however remote, that it might be Nick’s.

  Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a white coat gliding silently towards me. It stopped beside me.

  ‘Mr Taylor will see you now,’ murmured a discreet female voice in my ear.

  ‘Thank you,’ I muttered nervously.

  I got up too quickly and sent at least three magazines flying. As I bent down to pick them up, my bag slipped off my shoulder on to the floor. It flew open and various odds and ends spilled out, including a witty paperback Pippa had lent me to cheer me up, entitled 101 Ways to Have an Orgasm. I flushed, hurriedly shoved everything back in, straightened up, and as I swung the bag back on to my shoulder again, caught White Coat full in the stomach with it.

  ‘Oof,’ she groaned, but faintly and decorously.

  ‘Sorry,’ I muttered, puce now.

  ‘Take your time,’ she murmured, with enviable composure.

  I hid my flushing face and scampered after her as she silently glided away again. As I hurried up the stairs behind her I noticed a ladies’ loo on the landing.

  ‘Just popping in here for a moment,’ I mumbled.

  She nodded politely and I scurried in, principally because it had suddenly occurred to me that I might reek of booze. I’d only had a couple of glasses but judging by the innocent demeanour of Daisy Chain downstairs that was a couple more than the mighty Mr Taylor was used to smelling on his patients’ breath, and I did, after all, want to create a good impression.

  I rummaged around in my bag, found my Gold Spot and had a good squirt, tugged down my rather too short skirt – what on earth had possessed me to wear it? – and was about to leave when I realized I was so nervous I had to have a quick pee. I rushed into a cubicle, sat down, but – oh hell, there was no loo paper. I rummaged around furiously at the bottom of my bag, aware that white coat was tapping her foot impatiently outside, but also aware that I had to have some loo paper, I was having an examination for God’s sake. Fortunately, right at the bottom of my bag I found a grotty rolled-up ball of tissue with bits of fluff and gunge stuck to it. It looked as if it had been there for a hundred years. I hurriedly used it and scurried out again.

  White Coat was well on her way up to the next landing. ‘Mrs Penhalligan to see you, Mr Taylor,’ she announced, opening a door.

  Blimey, hang on, I thought, bounding after her two at a time. I quickly scuttled past her into the room. She shut the door behind me and I stood there, panting and flustered, not quite making the entrance I’d envisaged.

  The room was large and light with a high, heavily corniced ceiling and gracious french windows leading on to a balcony that overlooked the street. Mr Taylor was sitting with his back to the windows behind an enormous leather-topped desk. He stood up and stuck out his hand and I was almost blinded by the simultaneous flash of teeth, cuff links, gold watch, tie pin and silk accessories.

  He was indeed a dead ringer for Peter Bowles, and my God was he dapper. His black, military-style moustache gleamed with good health – even Brylcreem perhaps – his immaculate, but slightly too loud pinstriped suit looked fresh from Savile Row, and his yellow silk tie matched his yellow silk handkerchief which I had no doubt matched his yellow silk underpants.

  ‘Mrs Penhalligan,’ he beamed, ‘delighted … do, please,’ he purred, indicating for me to sit opposite him.

  I sat down nervously, still puffing and blowing a bit, and watched as he rearranged himself in his chair, pulling up his trouser legs before he lowered his bottom, flicking his arms out to push up his sleeves and then adjusting his cuffs so that j-u-s-t the right amount of shirt protruded. Thus arranged, he folded his arms neatly on his desk and leaned forward, brown eyes twinkling.

  ‘So,’ he purred smoothly, ‘what can I do for you this sunny afternoon?’

  I gulped. Bugger. Bugger, bugger, bugger. This was a big mistake, why had I let Pippa talk me into this? Why hadn’t I gone to some tweedy old professor who would have listened sympathetically to my tale of woe, patted my hand reassuringly and assured me all would be well, instead of this obvious ladykiller in the flashy suit? How was I supposed to unburden myself to him, for heaven’s sake? I mean, it shouldn’t be allowed, he was a gynaecologist, for crying out loud, he was going to – well, you know. And look at those eyes. Twinkling away all come-hitherishly – it was obscene. Not that he was my type, of course, not at all, but, still, he had a certain raffish charm and one simply didn’t want to be charmed, however raffishly, when one’s legs were sticking out at undignified angles. One wanted to be as detached as possible from the whole ghastly business – plan one’s dinner party, rearrange the furniture, contemplate one’s summer wardrobe – that kind of thing.

  ‘Er … Mrs Penhalligan?’ His expensively coiffured head was cocked enquiringly to one side. ‘Are you with me?’

  Shit. I crossed my legs in what I hoped was a rather businesslike manner and cleared my throat.

  ‘Yes. Well, the thing is, Mr Taylor, I appear to be pregnant.’ Good start, Polly, tell it like it is.

  He beamed across at me. ‘Excellent, excellent, that’s the sort of thing we like to hear in this surgery. That’s what we’re here for!’

  We? I looked around nervously, wondering if more Peter Bowles lookalikes were suddenly going to spring out from behind the furniture.

  ‘Pleased, are you?’ he enquired, still beaming. ‘Feeling pretty chuffed? Rightly so, rightly so!’

  God, he was jolly.

  ‘Er, yes, sor
t of, but –’

  ‘Jolly good, jolly good! Takes a bit of getting used to, of course, but it’s a big event in anyone’s life. Husband pleased?’

  ‘Well –’

  ‘Excellent, excellent.’ He nodded, and started scribbling away on a pad. He paused, and looked up, pen and eyebrows raised. ‘Done a test?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Pregnancy test, done one yet?’

  ‘Oh, yes – yes I have, actually.’

  ‘Good, when was that?’

  ‘Um, yesterday.’

  ‘Remember which one?’

  We were well into clipped, ex-army, staccato speak now, and by God it was catching.

  ‘Don’t actually, went blue, though, ’bout thirty seconds.’

  ‘Splendid, splendid.’ He scribbled furiously then beamed up again.

  ‘Now. Last period, Mrs Penhalligan. Any idea? Got a date? Got a clue?’

  ‘Have actually, wrote it in my diary, April the twenty-sixth.’

  ‘April twenty-sixth!’ he exclaimed as if it was some kind of magical date. ‘Marvellous! Now, if you’ll just bear with me while I have a little … look …’ He picked up a chart and ran a finger down a line of dates. ‘That’ll be … yes! Baby due February third, tremendous!’ he declared joyfully. God, anyone would think it was his.

  ‘Third all right?’ he enquired.

  ‘Er, yes, fine.’ What did he expect me to say? No, actually, I’m having my roots done?

  ‘Good.’ He threw the chart in a drawer and shut it with a flourish. ‘Now.’ He folded his arms and leaned across the desk with a smile. ‘How’s Mum? Feel OK? No sickness? No gippy tummy?’

  ‘Um, a bit, in the mornings – oh, and evenings sometimes.’

  He compressed his lips and nodded, scribbling furiously. ‘Only to be expected, dry biscuits, sips of water, don’t get up too quickly, soon pass. Four months max. Anything else? Aches and pains?’

  ‘N-no, but –’

  ‘Good, excellent, Charlotte’s all right?’

  I looked at him in bewilderment. Who the devil was Charlotte and how the hell was I supposed to know how she was?

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Queen Charlotte’s all right? Got to have it somewhere!’

  ‘Oh! Y-yes, fine.’

  ‘Good, good, book you in then. Now.’ He held up his hand and proceeded to tick off on his fingers what were clearly key points. ‘No smoking, no drinking – within reason, of course.’ He winked. ‘Couple of glasses of wine now and then won’t hurt you – but no illegal substances, eh? Ha ha! Lots of fresh fruit and veg but go easy on the soft cheese, other than that, life goes on as normal, OK? So! There we are. All seems to be present and correct, Mrs Penhalligan, see you again in six weeks’ time!’ He beamed, stood up and stuck out his hand. Jesus.

  ‘Th-that’s it?’ I asked incredulously.

  He looked puzzled. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘That’s it? You’re not going to examine me or anything?’

  He shuffled his papers busily, shaking his head. ‘No, no real need, if your period’s late and you’ve had a positive result from a test, well, Bob’s your uncle generally.’ He looked up abruptly. ‘Unless of course you’d like me to examine you? Feel more reassured, perhaps? Some women do?’

  ‘Well, I –’

  ‘Fine! Fine! No problem, hop up over there in that case.’ He indicated a bed with a curtain half drawn round it in the corner. ‘No problem at all, let’s have a quick look at you.’

  Hop up? A quick look? God, this chap was like greased lightning, no wonder he was running early: he only allotted twenty seconds to each patient and then no doubt charged like a wounded rhino. This little interview had probably cost me well over a hundred pounds already, just for telling me what I already knew.

  Nevertheless, his alacrity was infectious. He’d really got me going now. I flew behind the curtain, ripped my skirt, tights and pants off in one untidy bundle, threw them on the floor and in double-quick time jumped up and hit the deck, ready for action, so to speak. The curtain swept aside.

  ‘Now …’ he murmured, and went to a little table to peruse his instruments.

  I gulped and shut my eyes, preparing to think of England and hoping to God I wouldn’t fart at a crucial moment. I went into my usual gynae-visit deep-breathing exercises and was well on the way to feeling reasonably relaxed, when all of a sudden I had a thought. I opened my eyes. Hang on a minute – this was absurd. I had to tell him why I was here! There were specific things I needed to know – this was no routine check-up and I had to tell him so before he was telling me to hop back down again and it was too late!

  ‘Wait!’ I sat bolt upright.

  He was poised for action beside me, jacket off, Marigolds on, an instrument of torture poised in his rubber-gloved hand. His eyebrows shot into his hairline. This man was a consummate eyebrow-raiser.

  ‘Sorry?’

  I swung my legs over the side of the bed.

  ‘Just wait a minute, please, you’re going so fast I can hardly think. You see, there was a specific reason why I came to see you today, not just to confirm my pregnancy but to ask you a very important question.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes, only you haven’t let me get a word in edgeways!’

  He looked abashed and lowered his tool. ‘Gosh. So sorry, Mrs Penhalligan, so used to this first visit being purely routine – do go on, I do apologize.’

  ‘Yes, well, thank you,’ I said in a peeved tone, rather milking this moment of moral superiority. It was, after all, the only one I was going to get. I cleared my throat.

  ‘The thing is, I need to know something about the baby.’

  ‘Y-e-s’ – he folded his arms and nodded slowly and carefully – ‘and what is it exactly you need to know? I’m sure it’s absolutely fine, by the way, nothing to worry about at all.’

  ‘No, it’s not that, it’s – well …’ I bit my lip and shifted around from one cold buttock to the other on the hard bed, staring down at my toes. I looked up. ‘It’s about the father.’

  ‘The father? Oh! Oh goodness me, yes, fathers are always welcome. Consultations, examinations, scans – oh yes, no problem there, do bring the father.’ He beamed and picked up his instrument again. ‘Shall we go on?’

  ‘Er, no, no, it’s not about bringing the father, it’s about … knowing who the father is.’

  He frowned. ‘Rather lost me there, Mrs Penhalligan – I know the father, do I? Is that it? Penhalligan, Penhalligan – army chap, was he? Blues and Royals?’

  ‘N-no, you don’t know him.’ I licked my incredibly dry lips. ‘It’s more to do with the fact that – I don’t know him.’

  He shook his head, bewildered. ‘Really losing me completely now, I’m afraid, Mrs P’ – heavens, he was even abbreviating my name now – ‘you’re surely not telling me – no. No, of course not, do excuse me.’

  ‘What? What were you going to say?’ I pounced eagerly. Please God let him be the one to say it rather than me.

  He nervously smoothed down his moustache and looked embarrassed.

  ‘I – I was going to say … surely you’re not saying you don’t know who the father is?’

  ‘That’s it! That’s it exactly!’

  He stared at me incredulously. ‘What … not at all?’

  I met his eyes and felt myself flushing scarlet with shame. I quickly looked down. My toenails, appropriately enough, were crimson too.

  ‘Well, I’ve narrowed it down to two,’ I whispered.

  ‘Good Lord.’ He whistled. ‘Yes, I see. Yes, quite a predicament. Quite, um, distressing.’ He pursed his lips and frowned, looking hugely embarrassed. ‘Dear me, yes, and – well, extraordinary,’ he murmured, ‘you don’t seem … anyway.’

  I looked up quickly. He was fiddling with his cuff links.

  ‘Don’t seem what?’ I demanded. ‘Don’t seem the type? Don’t seem like the sort of girl who sleeps around and doesn’t know who the father of her child is?’ My voice rose hys
terically. ‘Well, I’m not, Mr Taylor, I’m not! I’ll have you know this was a totally uncharacteristic and unprecedented departure from the straight and narrow path I usually stick to, a one-in-a-million drunken encounter with a good-for-nothing bastard who I’m quite convinced took complete advantage of me. I don’t love him and he doesn’t love me and I hope to goodness this is my husband’s child and not his and – oh God, this is all so awful!’ I covered my face with my hands and burst into tears.

  Within a twinkling a blue and white striped Gieves and Hawkes arm had whizzed around my shoulders and a yellow silk hanky was thrust into my hands.

  ‘There, there, it’s all going to be fine,’ he murmured. ‘You’ll see, these things always sort themselves out. It’ll be fine.’

  Ah, there they were at last, the magic, comforting words they obviously all learn at medical school but are so bloody economical with. What had taken him so long? So soothing, yet so tear-provoking too.

  ‘Oooh, no it won’t !’ I blubbed into the glorious silk hanky which I felt sure had never in its life been used for practical purposes. ‘It’s such a mess! What on earth am I going to do?’

  A fresh flood followed this outburst, plus more reassuring shoulder-hugging from Peter Bowles. I sobbed and sniffled into his hanky and all the time I was breaking down part of me couldn’t quite believe I was doing it. Heavens, Polly, in front of a suave Harley Street consultant? All over his immaculate pinstripe? Naked from the waist down? – me, not him, of course. But it was no good. The floodgates had never officially been opened on this subject, but now that they were it was damned hard to shut them again.

  Eventually, though, the tears subsided enough for me to at least be able to see and the sobs became mere gasps and hiccups. Peter Bowles patted my hand.

  ‘Now you just sit there quietly for a second and I’ll be back in just a mo with a nice cuppa tea.’

  He disappeared and I tried desperately to get a grip on myself. I blew my nose, wiped my eyes and shoved my hair behind my ears, attempting at least to look a little more presentable, but it was jolly difficult to look even remotely dignified sitting there as I was without my skirt on and with just my T-shirt protecting my vitals. I pulled it down, frantically trying to cover my thighs which are only fit to be seen in the dark and then only fleetingly. I spotted a handy blanket at the end of the bed and hurriedly pulled it across them. By the time Peter Bowles returned bearing hot, sweet tea, I had at least gained some sort of control and composure.