by Penny Parkes
Holly found herself lost for words. Of course it was a bloody brownie! She was beginning to think that living with two small boys was beginning to warp her view of the world. ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Hartley. Do forgive me. I have two-year-old twin boys at home and you’d be surprised how much of my day is spent discussing poo.’
Prue was still tittering away to herself, but at least she now looked relaxed and at ease, even if it hadn’t been achieved by conventional means. ‘That’s the best laugh I’ve had in days. I knew I was right to wait and see you. That Dr Channing’s a right cold fish.’ Prue shifted her not inconsiderable bulk in the chair and leaned forward confidingly. ‘When I gave myself an injury trimming my bikini line, she was right sniffy about it. Kept making comments about me in a bikini that I did not appreciate. I didn’t dare tell her about my purple poo.’
‘And when you say purple,’ replied Holly, without missing a beat, ‘are we talking Professor Plum or Miss Scarlet?’
Prue nodded approvingly, clearly getting Holly’s Cluedo reference straight away. ‘I’d say Professor Plum, in the downstairs cloakroom, for a good half hour, with a rather pointy candlestick . . .’
Holly started jotting down notes before losing her nerve. ‘So just to clarify – it takes you half an hour to have a bowel movement and when you do, it’s a bit sharp and uncomfort- able – and of course – purple?’
‘That’s about the size of it,’ said Prue, tapping the round crystal paperweight on Holly’s desk for emphasis.
‘Okay, so nothing else unusual?’
‘No, I mean that paperweight there – that’s about the size of my poo!’
‘Crikey,’ said Holly a little taken aback. ‘Then we need to talk about stool softeners and samples. All very routine. Probably nothing to worry about, but better safe than sorry.’
Holly began to run through the usual chat about keeping regular and the benefits of lots of water and fruit and veg. Prue took it all in and seemed to be happy with the plan that Holly outlined for her, even shaking her hand when it was time to go.
‘Do stop by the bakery, Dr Graham. We’ve some lovely unusual bakes – I bet your little lads would love my meringues and if it’s vegetables you’re after, my Alan does some lovely carrot cakes and his little beetroot cupcakes are to die for. I can’t get enough of them, with a nice cup of tea.’
Holly’s expression lit up with amusement. ‘Erm, Prue? Obviously we’ll stick to the plan we’ve outlined, but to be honest, you might just want to stay away from the beetroot cakes for a couple of weeks. Just to see if it helps.’
Prue’s face flushed a decidedly beetroot-y colour and she let rip the most echoing chuckle. ‘Oh for God’s sake, Prudence Hartley, you dolt. Beetroot cake!’ She shook her head. ‘I’m so sorry, Dr Graham. I just didn’t think . . .’
Holly opened the door to usher her out, making Prue promise to drop in a sample anyway and up her water intake, and the two of them were laughing like old friends by the time they got back to the waiting room.
‘You seem to be finding your feet there. Nice to see a happy customer,’ said Dan Carter, as he came through to call his next patient. It threw Holly for a moment, to think of her patients as customers, but of course he was right. It was all about customer service these days, wasn’t it?
It was probably a timely reminder, as her next patient appeared to have more piercings than Holly had thought physically possible. But, in a society where the customer was always right, did it mean that Holly’s job now was to patch up the one through his nose that was clearly infected, or could she give him a stern lecture on the risks of self-mutilation and refer him for psychiatric evaluation?
She made do with a brisk talk about hygiene and sent him off with lots of antibiotics and sterile cleansing solution, since it turned out that his Prince Albert was also causing him a bit of grief in the bedroom since he’d had a few issues with ‘snagging.’ Holly had gamely managed to keep a straight face, showing neither the bubbling humour nor burgeoning disgust, that was threatening her resolve to remain Cool, Calm and Confident.
It was fair to say though, that she was never going to look at a willie in the same way again. And to be absolutely fair, she didn’t feel terribly keen to eat that brownie either.
Chapter 5
Holly pressed rewind on the Bob the Builder DVD, to the twins’ incredulous delight. There was a time to be strict about these things and a time to be practical. At this anti-socially early hour of the morning, practical beat principles every time.
Although it was only her second day at The Practice, Holly was still determined to get their morning routine running smoothly, even if that meant a few compromises on the television front. Somehow, tiptoeing round their tiny terraced house while Milo slept on made everything so much harder. Not that he would have been helpful if he’d been awake. It was just that quietly rushing seemed to be an oxymoron in Holly’s experience, especially when you added a pair of two-year-old boys into the mix. So, as far as Holly was concerned, as long as she could hear Neil Morrissey’s dulcet tones coming from next door, it meant she had a chance at some breakfast.
Milo’s unprecedented appearance in the kitchen made Holly do a double-take. He lounged back against the kitchen worktop, hair artfully tousled and yawning widely. He stretched his arms above his head, giving the yawn a deeper resonance and lifting his t-shirt to reveal perfectly honed (and time-consuming) abs. He yawned again, stretching still further and adding in a little satisfied sigh.
Holly tried to think gracious thoughts as he picked up her toast and chomped on it contentedly – she probably wouldn’t have time to make another piece, but it seemed petty to complain. Milo didn’t like it when she was petty and, to be honest, neither did she.
Pinching the last of her coffee, he dropped a sleepy kiss on her forehead. ‘Morning, Holls. Aren’t you going to be late?’
‘Probably,’ sighed Holly, flicking a glance towards the station clock that took pride of place on her kitchen wall and which dictated her schedule in a more benevolent manner than her husband or children.
She looked wistfully at the empty coffee machine, forgoing the time to make a fresh cup in favour of shovelling a pile of crockery into the dishwasher, before rushing through to the sitting room to give the boys their ten-minute warning of imminent departure, as advised by Baby Whisperers everywhere. She wondered if it ever actually made any difference to the mad scramble out of the door, but nevertheless it had become part of her routine.
Captivated by the sight of the pair of them snuggled up together, Holly simply watched for a moment, pausing in her frantic rush, to focus on committing this picture to memory. She leaned against the door frame, enchanted as always by her boys, cross-legged in front of the TV, their soft cord trousers riding up their plump little legs. She adored the way their actions unconsciously mirrored one another, as they always had done, leaning inwards like a pair of book-ends. All the stresses, all the compromises – all totally worth it in moments like these.
The phone pealed suddenly throughout the house, prompting a volley of grumbles from the kitchen about who could be calling at this ungodly hour. Milo had settled down to read the newspaper and showed no sign of movement so, with a harried glance at her watch, Holly grabbed the receiver before it disturbed Bob the Builder’s big announcement or set Milo off on another one of his spiels about telephone etiquette.
‘Hello,’ she managed, her voice sounding unusually gruff and strangled.
‘Jesus Christ, Holly, if that’s your best doctoring voice, it certainly needs some work,’ said Lizzie with a snigger.
‘Morning, Elizabeth,’ managed Holly. ‘Only you could sound this chipper at stupid o’clock in the morning.’
‘Only because I’ve been up for bloody hours! Anyway, I know you’re dashing but I just wanted to check you survived yesterday afternoon and that you’re still up for supper tonight? I want all the gory details.’
‘Sounds perfect,’ said Holly, secretly longing t
o dissect the rest of her first day at work. Milo’s enquiries last night had been brief to the point of disinterest, but then, she had been fast asleep in front of the television by nine o’clock: hardly scintillating company herself. ‘The boys are looking forward to it already.’
‘Then I shall have something entirely pointless and non-educational lined up for them to do. Speaking of pointless, will your darling husband be joining us?’
‘Lizzie!’ Holly protested, feeling disloyal for the laughter that automatically bubbled up. It was just that Lizzie had this unerring knack of putting into words exactly the feelings that Holly would never admit to. Lizzie firmly maintained that Milo’s primary role in family life was purely decorative and Holly tried to remind herself daily that he was doing his best and that not everyone could multi-task or prioritise on the hoof.
True, there were times, like last night, like this morning, when it grew increasingly difficult to ignore the deteriorating state of her marriage, but Holly knew that if she stopped to dwell on it, even for a second, she would lose the momentum she relied upon to carry her through each and every day. It was all about keeping focus. Much better to focus on the things that made her happy – her boys, her work, her friends . . .
‘Can I bring anything?’ Holly asked simply.
‘Wine. We’ll definitely be needing wine. Quite a lot of wine probably.’ Lizzie’s laugh was a little strained and Holly wished she had more time to talk, but Lizzie, like Holly, was banking on momentum and pushed on with her plans. ‘We’ll give the kids a treat and pop on a DVD or something – you never know, we might even finish a sentence.’
And Lizzie had a point: with everyone’s various offspring around, there wasn’t much scope for adult conversation in Holly’s home life. The snatched exchanges with the other mothers in the Nursery corridor, or at the various children’s parties that seemed to monopolise many a weekend, often felt unsatisfying and left Holly feeling out of sync with the people around her.
Lizzie had it right as always. What Holly fancied was a proper gossip with her friend, without the need to censor her words and cram every concept into three sentences or less. Holly had recently decided that motherhood was a lot like Twitter – you had 140 characters to get your point across, before the next distraction came bowling along and you’d missed your window.
‘Have you got time for this?’ Milo called through from the kitchen, feet up on the table and sports pages spread open.
‘Is that His Lordship I hear summoning you?’ asked Lizzie drily. ‘He’s doing well to be out of bed this early.’
Whilst absolutely true, Holly once again felt torn: her honour dictated that she should defend her husband, mention that he’d been up writing until the wee small hours, but the exhausted mother in her welcomed the acknowledgement that help and support from Milo were in short supply. Some days she wondered whether it might actually be easier to be a single parent, before promptly and repeatedly quashing the notion. She simply couldn’t do that to her boys. So, she did what she always did these days, and dodged the issue. ‘I’d love to chat but I really must dash, Lizzie, I can’t be late on my second day.’
‘Quite right too – go forth and heal the sick, placate the whiney and be virtuous for the both of us. Just promise me you’re not wearing one of those tired old jersey dresses again or I shall be forced to intervene.’
‘Good Lord, is that the time?’ deflected Holly as Lizzie hit a sensitive nerve. Holly was actually still mourning the fact that, as a GP, she would no longer get to fall out of bed and pull on a set of scrubs every day. Okay, so she had secretly rather enjoyed going into Jigsaw with Lizzie at the end of her maternity leave last year, and picking out three stylish outfits, but a year down the line she was still wearing those self-same outfits day in, day out – and now for work as well as play.
Biting at yet another loose thread, she conceded that a little more effort probably was required on the clothing front, but at 6 a.m. every last moment spent in bed was precious. And if she did sometimes worry that she might arrive at work looking as though she’d got dressed in the dark, it just didn’t seem terribly professional to let on, that some days she actually had.
Lizzie’s laugh echoed down the phone as Holly hung up and started gathering yet more kit together for the day ahead. She could hear Bob the Builder heading for its exciting denouement and knew she didn’t have long.
She grabbed the twins’ kit bags from the kitchen table and dashed into the utility room, turning her back on the sorry heap of laundry that lay neglected in the basket. ‘You’ll still be here when I get back,’ she told it, as she filled the bags with drinks for the twins and shook her head in disbelief. ‘I can’t believe I’m talking to the bloody laundry now,’ she said to the contents of the fridge, as she rummaged around for a few snack-time treats.
She filled a separate plastic tub with Ben’s special homemade biscuits and unearthed some non-dairy chocolate buttons. It had been a long road to uncover the source of Ben’s allergy, but the endless exclusion plans had been worth the effort. Of course it meant that most of his food had to be prepared from scratch, just to be sure that no dairy products were creeping into his diet, but Holly figured that a little extra cooking was a small price to pay. Watching her miserable, screaming, snotty baby transform before her very eyes had been almost miraculous.
If only they could get to the bottom of his other issues so easily. Although it was fair to say that Ben suffered by comparison with his gregarious, over-confident twin, it was equally obvious that Ben shied away from other people. Given the choice, Ben liked habit, routine and his twin. He was happy enough with Holly, but he only really sparkled for Tom. Anyone else, anything else, was simply perceived by Ben as an unwelcome interruption.
Holly emerged from the utility, bags fully laden and running through her day’s To Do list in her head. The twins were now running noisy loops around the kitchen table, Ben lagging behind as always. She’d been meaning to book him in for another development assessment, but somehow, with the move, it had slipped down the list and guilt needled at her over-burdened conscience.
Holly looked up, distracted, to find Milo still blissfully unperturbed by the chaos now surrounding him. He sensed her gaze, looked up at her and smiled. ‘If you’re up, Holls, I’d love another cup of coffee.’
‘Yes, yes, very funny,’ Holly replied. ‘Kettle’s on. You’ll have to make your own. I’m late.’
‘I did warn you that you didn’t have time to be nattering on the phone,’ he said, turning the page. ‘I’m not sure that this morning routine of yours is really working.’
Holly took a deep breath, refusing to rise to the bait. Sometimes she wondered whether Milo just wanted to provoke a reaction, to prove that he could.
To say that Milo was not a morning person would be an understatement of Jurassic proportions, but since she was utterly wiped by supper-time, their window for civil communication was rapidly shrinking. She constantly reminded herself that his writing was important and that his hours were long and erratic – she wasn’t making excuses for him, whatever Lizzie might say – she was just stating a fact.
But it didn’t excuse the elephant in the room: Holly’s new policy of keeping her head down and ducking the debate was hardly a long-term strategy for marital bliss.
She checked the clock and pulled her battered make-up bag out of her handbag and quickly smudged some eyeliner into place.
‘You want some help?’
Holly distractedly covered up the stress spot on her chin and didn’t think before answering. ‘You could get the boys into their boots and coats?’ she suggested, ever hopeful.
Milo leaned forward and plucked the make-up from her hands. ‘I meant with that muck on your face – there’s probably a trowel kicking around here somewhere!’ He laughed at his own joke and tossed Holly’s make-up bag to one side. ‘I think you might have to admit defeat there, Holly. Only so much you can do with a bit of slap, my love.’
She stared at him, stunned. He may have been laughing, but these recent jokes at her expense simply weren’t that funny. ‘Give it a rest,’ she said, properly needled by his comments, hitting her on the soft underbelly of her own insecurities as they always did. For Milo, words weren’t just his profession, they were also his weapon of choice and these days his aim was unerringly accurate.
Later on, when she thought about this conversation, she knew she’d be second-guessing herself. There was a chance, of course, that she was simply over-reacting to Milo’s odd sense of humour. But then there was also the possibility that Lizzie was right and that he was actually doing his level best to put her down and gradually shred her self-esteem. The problem was that Holly could no longer tell the difference.
Fresh starts were all well and good, but surely they had to be built on a level foundation? And right now, living with Milo was like walking across a ploughed field in high heels. It was all about balance.
As ever, it took an age to wrestle Tom and Ben into their gloves, hats and coats, muddling up their identical pairs of shoes, and by the time they were ready to leave the house, Holly felt as though she’d run a mile.
She manhandled their enormous double-pram, dubbed the Beast, out of the hallway and into their quiet little road. Holly had actually been looking forward to walking to work whenever the weather allowed. If nothing else, the opportunities for denting expensive Mercedes when she was merely wielding the Beast were marginally lower.
This morning, though, her thoughts refused to be quieted by the beautiful scenery around her. The boys were gabbling away in the pram; their own little language indecipherable even to Holly.
She leaned in to the pram as the road sloped upwards and wondered where it had all gone wrong.