by Naomi Joy
I start uploading the rest of the patient pictures and guess the process will take me an hour or so, if I’m quick. Bella stands to hug me goodbye, wraps a slender arm round my shoulder, then pauses at the door before she disappears for the night. ‘Bye, then, and thank you, you really are a better assistant than anyone Caroline would have found… despite what she may think.’
For a moment, I feel a pang of loneliness. I don’t like being stuck here without Bella, but then my phone buzzes again, his name lighting up the screen, and I can’t wait for her to disappear.
‘See you tomorrow,’ I call, and she flits into the hallway with a wave, a gust of warm air hitting my cheeks when she opens the door. We’re on the cusp of summer, but the weather has been stormy and unpredictable all week, casting a gloom over the capital. The pale sun, occasionally visible through the cloud cover, bides its time, the turbulence not over yet. I wait until Bella has left the building and then, finally, I pick up my phone.
My skin vibrates. This isn’t something I’m used to. A run of flirty messages, none of them from my husband.
My heart thuds, it’s like he’s knocking on a door inside me, asking to be let in. I pick it up, unlocking it, and the world falls silent as I read.
How was your day?
You know, it’s not fair that you have that photo of me and I have none of you. I want to know who I’m talking to.
After Dr Alex Daniels mailed in his CV, I sent him a message. I told him I’d passed his application on to our owner and that I’d let him know if I heard anything. He got back to me a few days later to thank me but explained that he’d accepted another job, something closer to where he was living. It was mundane, boring, and uneventful, and yet I felt electric every time I heard from him. It was unthinkable to me to just… stop. So I didn’t. I told him I’d spent some time in Paris on my gap year (a lie), that I loved Toronto (I’ve never been), so I was sad that he wouldn’t be joining us (the truth). He replied, asked me about myself, and the conversation went from there…
Now we’re on to pictures.
Crikey.
I glance at my reflection in the mirror to my side, my tired eyes and frazzled hair not exactly up to the task of taking the picture of a lifetime. Which is when the thought occurs to me that there is something I can send him that would pique his interest. I glance at the camera on the desk, my stomach churning. I can’t do this, I tell myself, I can’t send him a picture of Bella. Can I?
Annabella
Now
My teeth chatter together, holding their own frosty conversation at the bus stop on Lavender Road. My limbs are frigid, the tip of my nose iced over, the scene around me near-frozen in a bleak cloud of grey. I rub my gloves against each other and remind myself why I am here. It’s January and my New Year’s resolution is simple: the truth.
My senses heighten, my head spinning to the right as I spot the red double-decker I’ve been waiting for, to lumber into view. It should be tied with a bow like a late Christmas present because, given what’s inside, that’s exactly what it is. I stay seated on the half-bench in the bus shelter, toes numb despite wearing two pairs of socks, unable to keep my eyes from forensically examining each passenger until – there he is.
Rick Priestley.
My next breath shudders from my chest and I clench my legs together. This is it. He sits on the top deck, second row back on the right, a workman in a paint-splattered hoody just in front.
I notice things about him from this distance I hadn’t before: the way he stares out of the window, the turn of his neck, the veins that protrude, a ligament under stress as he cranes to follow something that’s caught his attention.
The indicator fires and the driver spins the wheel into the kerb. Rubber squeaks against concrete. Fleshy, almost, as the hard surface refuses to relent. I push my mouth and nose beneath my coat to avoid the effervescent fumes as they fill the air with toxic perfume. It backfires when it comes to a stop and breathes a noisy sigh of relief. They always sound so tired, buses.
I flit my focus to the top deck just as he’s pushing himself to standing and let my pale eyes dance all over him. Part of me is almost tempted to wave, as though he might be aware that I’ve been following him. I smile to myself. I am always, somewhat perversely, excited to see him.
I follow his sharp haircut as it disappears below deck and my heart presses hard, knocking against my chest, as I wait for the doors to open. A few passengers are spat out before him, plastic bags and fold-up bikes negotiated through the gap and out into the wintery evening. He carries a briefcase, gripped to his side, and he steps from the bus to the road in the thick of the crowd. In the hubbub, a flustered woman grazes Rick’s arm as they pass. Her hit was light, inconsequential, but he shoots her a stern look in response. The woman gasps, apologises, blushes, lingers, explains that she’s clumsy and that she’s terribly, terribly sorry. He flashes her a picture-perfect smile. ‘No problem’, he says, lying through his too-white front teeth.
I hold my breath as he pulls away and, in the seconds that we’re uncomfortably close, I can’t help but notice how little he has changed. The same dark hair, smoothed to a side-parting, the same heavy brow and wide-set jaw, the same steely expression, taut and unforgiving. I cut the thought as it crescendos and tune into the sound of Rick’s shoes striking concrete, fifty yards or so ahead. My focus needs to be here. I shake my head once, quickly, and hone in.
He walks steady, sturdy, not particularly heavy or light. Average, I’d say. I wonder if that’s what he wants people to think. But you’re not average, are you Rick? It’s a cover. A guise. A façade to hide just how remarkable you can be when you put your mind to it. But people like Rick can’t hide in mundanity forever, no matter how much they practise. A leopard always shows its spots. He hides his with his disarming smile and dull-blue eyes, with a suit so banal you’d forget anyone in it, no matter how notorious. He’s styled this image of himself to hide what lies beneath. If he looked like a serial killer, I probably wouldn’t be so worried about him, but this man, this everyman, is so normal that he has to be hiding something. My imagination fires, invented images flashing as I follow him. Tabby. Make-up running down her face, pleading with Rick to let her go, clawing towards the front door with her one remaining arm, the other loose and broken by her side. She’s nearly there, she’s nearly free; then Rick rises in the background, bruised from their fight, and clatters her with blood-thirsty fists. Later, a woman sobs to the media, adding her voice to the many that didn’t see it coming. ‘I thought he was a nice man, he’s just, he’s so normal.’
The streetlights glow as I follow him in and out of the dark, past Neighbourhood Watch stickers and home security systems, discarded Christmas trees littering the pavements, the smell of pine needles hanging in the air. I slow slightly, fifteen or so paces behind, hands in my pockets, hood low. My breath quickens, the light hair on my arms bristling with anticipation. Which way? The same as last night, the night before? Part of me enjoys following him, but I am growing impatient.
I watch the way his feet move, note that the left overpronates a little, examine the way his free hand sticks rigidly to his side. I wonder if he senses me, feels me drawing closer, warmer. I let my gaze travel up his legs and catch a glimpse of red sock beneath suit trouser. Loud. Interesting. A glimpse of the real him. That tells me a lot. You want people to comment on that, don’t you? If only you were wearing red gloves, Rick. Red-handed, I think. Caught. Guilty. Twenty-five to life.
He swings back his garden gate and I hover in the dark beneath two orange orbs, watching. I am used to this ritual. First, he closes the gate behind him. Tidy. Then, he walks to the front door, whistling. An act. He pulls a set of keys from his pocket. Careless. He fits them into the top lock, then leaves it on the latch. Double careless. I take a few steps forward and scan the front of the black-bricked house; there are no cameras, no alarm, the windows are single-glazed downstairs and up. He thinks he’s untouchable. I hear the door bang as it
closes behind him. I imagine the latch clicking into place. Home sweet home.
I visualise the way he’ll slide off his shoes, red socks on show, then head upstairs to change into sweatpants and a loose jumper. He’ll throw his work clothes near the washing basket but not in. He’ll sigh long and loud as he thumps down the stairs. He’ll ask what’s for dinner with hungry eyes.
I approach the front of the house with another set of cautious, careful steps and watch, pupils wide, as a woman comes into view. Mandy. She moves round the space in red lipstick, a black top hugging her shoulders, dark curls pulled into a wild ponytail.
I observe her surroundings. From a distance, she stands in a light-grey kitchen with sharp edges and sparse personality but, look closer, and you’ll see the cast iron shelves are decorated with well-thumbed recipe books, a marble island topped with post, fishbowl lamps hanging from the ceiling like spiders dropping from silver-spun webs. Rick drifts into the kitchen moments later, paces over to Mandy and wraps his strong arms round her middle. She half-smiles when he touches her, her shoulders shrugging to her ears as if she’s uncomfortable. Trouble? She rests the back of her head on his shoulder, waiting for him to kiss her and, though it sounds affectionate, something about it looks perfunctory, well-rehearsed. Brief. He pecks her forehead, lets her go, then glides to the set of matching sofas in the living area beyond. He sinks into the seat and out of view. She sighs as he leaves and her smile disappears, replaced with pursed lips and frigid eyebrows. She chops at something I can’t see, blade piercing flesh.
Cold air curls round the back of my neck.
I wonder if she loves him.
I wonder what she knows, what she doesn’t.
I wonder if she feels the danger that lurks outside her house, that scratches at her door, that presses its face up against her windows at night.
Tabby
Five Years Ago
The Pure You office is stifling, swimming-pool humid, the dank air clinging to the skin beneath my uniform, the walls dripping with sweat. I don’t mind the heat, not when I can be out in it, a linen dress whipping blushed skin rather than thick cotton. But, behind reception, the air sits heavy and I find myself counting down the hours to lunch.
I look down, the back of my hand still stained jelly-red, and four letters – XOXO – blurred across my skin. I cast my mind back to this time yesterday when the owner of XOXO had stripped to her underwear and flattened herself onto the surgery table, ready for a few rounds of laser therapy. Quite quickly, I’d noticed a fault line appear in the white plastic and I’d had to move fast to coax the woman down from it.
‘Caroline’s corner-cutting strikes again,’ I’d whispered to Bella as we lay the patient seat as flat as we could make it. ‘Let’s hope she spent more than fifty pence on the seats.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m used to breaking things,’ the woman had said, her yellow-brown eyes sparkling beneath well-crafted brows. ‘My mother fed me fast food when I was a kid because I was prettier than her and she hated me for it. Wanted to do everything she could to stop me from picking up the compliments she used to get.’ Annabella and I had shared a look as she’d continued. ‘I often wonder if I could sue her for child cruelty. It should be her paying the price for my ill health, not me. Don’t you think?’
Child cruelty isn’t the best subject to bring up with Annabella and me – both of us have survived difficult upbringings – and, at the time, I could tell the idea of this woman suing her own mother was affecting Bella. I’m sure she’d told me that her father had done something similar. Sued her mother after their divorce, stopped her from selling the tiny house she’d been exiled to, that all of her mother’s money ended up tied up in the property, so much so that she couldn’t afford the heating bills, or even food, and, rather than counter-sue, she’d let him win. Suicide, I think Bella had told me, in the end.
‘Ah, I don’t know,’ Bella had replied. ‘I think most parents are just trying their best. Besides, you’re beautiful, being thin is not the be all and end all we were once led to believe.’
Bella’s compliment had worked and, at the end of the appointment, two tickets to XOXO’s Wednesday night Perspextacular were pressed into our palms.
Bella hadn’t wanted to go – too loud, too dirty, too crowded – but I’d begged her, and dragged her back to my house after work to get ready. Perspex had made a fashion comeback a few years ago and, though it was often levelled at me as an insult, this time my trend-following obsession had paid off. I’d squeezed Bella into clear-heeled sandals, the top of her foot clad in a jelly-shoe-like band, an ice cube-inspired plastic clutch swinging from her arm. She looked amazing and, finally, she relented.
Honestly, if she’d said no, I would have gone without her. I was desperate to escape, seeking oblivion to punish myself for caring too much about Alex, who’d been broadcasting radio silence since Sunday night. I’d been trying my best not to dwell on it, alcohol and nights out the best way to forget and, before I knew it, I was doing the same again. Bella and I downed watermelon shots at the bar, danced to too-loud-to-hear music, mouths agape at the amazing podium dancers wrapped in clear-plastic dresses, our arms in the air as we’d enjoyed it all together.
We were having fun, then, motivated by self-destruction, I went on to have a little too much. Not much later, Bella had my tresses in a hand-held ponytail to stop me from turning my blonde hair watermelon-pink. She’d stood behind me trying not to touch the surfaces, dabbing a stack of toilet roll against my clammy forehead, pushing a bottle of water into my hand, forcing me to drink, then held me as I’d heaved into the toilet once more – ‘You’re OK, you’re OK’ – she’d cooed as she patted the space between my shoulder blades. Over my shoulder, though, I could tell she was panicking. Bella didn’t like public toilets at the best of times, let alone vomit-stained ones. Bella, patient and perfect, waited for me to finish, then got me home, safe and sound, despite the fact she was on the verge of an anxiety attack herself.
‘Do you always make a habit of ignoring your patients?’ My neck whips towards the voice across from me and my heart flutters as I realise my mistake. The woman ruffling her feathers is one of our textbook patients, an entitled lady in her early fifties, a neat top wrapped tight to her torso, her silver-blonde hair cut sharp to her chin.
‘Sorry,’ I say, grabbing a bunch of forms. ‘I’ll take you down now, you can fill these out later.’
I guide her down the stairs and mouth an apology to Bella as we enter, shuffling towards her as the woman hangs up her things behind the door.
‘She hasn’t had time to do the forms,’ I explain under my breath. ‘But I’ll make sure they’re done before she leaves.’
My hair stinks of cigarette smoke and my eyes are tired and crusty. There’s a faint ringing in my left ear – the lasting effect of last night’s loud music – and a stale taste on my tongue. Bella doesn’t look much better.
I head back upstairs and nap with my head on my desk until Bella’s patient leaves. I shift her next one over to Anya’s schedule. Anya won’t mind, she has a quiet day today.
I give Bella five minutes to clear up, then trudge to her room to debrief on last night’s events. Her head rests heavy on her forearms and she groans when I come in.
‘Why?’ she asks. ‘I didn’t even drink that much. It’s not fair. It’s as though my brain has been scooped out and replaced with avocado.’
I imagine a head full of mushy, green flesh and my stomach burbles.
‘Have you managed to get this off?’ I ask, showing her the back of my hand.
‘No,’ she groans again.
I fill the surgery sink with hot water and scrub at the red stamp with renewed determination.
‘You’d think they’d make them easier to remove,’ I say. ‘Does no one else have to go to work the next day?’
‘They want people to wear them as badges of honour,’ Bella replies.
‘Hmm.’
‘Seriously, though, I’m too old
for three hours’ sleep and work the next day.’
I sound an agreement, though I’m not sure I really mean it.
‘And clubs are just… filthy,’ she says.
Bella gets up from her desk, her complexion pale, and joins me at the sink. She grabs the scouring pad on the side and scrubs at the back of her hand. I don’t think much of it until the water in the sink begins to redden, the back of her hand cut to shreds, the look in her eyes distant and fogged, unmoved by the pain she should be feeling.
‘Bella,’ I say, breathless, breaking the scourer from her grip. ‘Stop!’
Her eyes roll towards me and she visibly crumples. I reach my arms around her, pulling her close, then feel her head nestle into the nook of my neck.
‘Sorry,’ she whispers. ‘I’m tired and I’m—’
‘It’s OK,’ I say, sitting her down, cleaning the wound with antiseptic and bandaging it up. I feel terrible. Bella’s symptoms are always worse when she’s tired, or stressed, or hungover. ‘We all need help sometimes. It was me last night, it’s you this morning.’
Before I have the chance to ask her more about how she’s feeling, her hand freshly bound, we’re interrupted by a knock at the door.
‘Hello?’ a voice calls on the other side.
Bella gets up, bandaged hand by her side. Behind the door is her next patient – the one I’d moved to Anya’s schedule. I roll my eyes with frustration at Anya’s laziness, acknowledging the irony in the way I feel mid-roll.
‘Can you stay?’ Bella asks, turning to me, then to the patient. ‘Tabitha’s shadowing me, do you mind if she sits in?’
The woman bristles. ‘Not if it won’t cause any more delays. You’re already running quite late enough.’
This surgery has a habit of attracting impatient patients – we should call them impatients – and I can tell Bella’s trying her best not to rise to the bait.