by Betty Balaba
“That’s why I need your help,” said Sophie, semi-reading my mind as usual. “I attract weirdos!” But I just shook my head: I wasn’t going to get into it or we’d be chatting all afternoon. I took my phone out of my bag and handed it to her. She punched in her number.
“I can’t believe how few people you have saved!” she said. I shrugged.
“Doesn’t matter to me. I know who I’m ringing,” she just laughed at me, flicking through my phone.
“What are you doing now?”
“Looking at your pictures…”
She held the phone to my face, and even I was shocked by what I saw. It was me, in what she used to call my Forties outfit. Even then I had put some weight on around my face, although my body was still what it used to be. What it should be!
Then Sophie came to my ‘nature’ photographs.
“These are really good!” She sounded surprised, like it was not something she’d ever known before. I stayed stum in modest silence. “No really, Becca,” she insisted. “They are fantastic. A lady of many talents!” I don’t know why but I felt embarrassed, even at the minor compliment. Even so, I swiftly took the phone back with a curt ‘thanks’.
The afternoon somehow went quickly after that. I even got to the hospital a bit earlier than usual because the trains were on my side for once. Just early enough for a flourless chocolate cake from Le Pain Quotidien. There was a long queue. I was happy to wait – although the longer I did, the more I needed the treat. I was the next one in the line and was about to order when the door opened. There was my mother’s plastics consultant (that’s plastic surgery to you and me). He was the very doctor who always popped into my head when Sophie pushed me on dishy doctors. He had a kind of presence. And I liked the fact he didn’t just deal in the ‘vanity’ side of things, but also dealt with serious injuries and helped people get their confidence back.
By now I was in a slight panic; realising that I couldn’t remember his name. Dr James… James… Duncan! I wasn’t the best at remembering names, but this Dr Duncan’s had come back alright. He wasn’t exactly drop dead gorgeous but you would definitely notice him in a crowd. I would, anyway. He had this air of confidence and playful eyes. He was with another younger man in his early twenties that I wouldn’t have otherwise noticed. I simply took in that he was someone medical.
“Would you like your usual?” I had got to the front of the queue without realising. My usual, for heaven’s sake! Talk about showing me up!
“Yes,” I said briskly. “A bottle of still water.”
“That’s it?” she said, sharing my amusement.
I tried to signal her to hurry up with my eyes.
“Yes, just the water. Thanks!” Sensing Dr Duncan beside me, I turned in his direction. “Oh, hello,” I said. “I’m Mrs Johnson’s daughter.”
“Yes, I remember.” He seemed to look amused. I realised I had only spoken to him the day before, and felt a bit silly for reintroducing myself. Well, I should have left the patisserie. But I didn’t. Instead I manoeuvred myself over to the side counter with its dark-red plastic cutlery and napkins. There I found myself picking up many napkins slowly to go with my water. I told myself it wasn’t odd behaviour at all (after all, people could be messy drinkers, couldn’t they?). I just hoped James Duncan didn’t think I was a fruitcake. Time to make a hasty retreat. Hasty but casual!
He smiled at me as I moved towards the door. Of course being the smooth sophisticated person I am, I just stared. What on earth, where were my manners? I tried to smile back but I think it looked more like a grimace. His smile turned into the sort of simple grin you might give a child. I moved to the side, and managed to bang straight into him as I turned to leave. Could I really be any more gauche? A sixteen-year-old would have managed better.
“Careful! Are you okay?” he said gently.
“Yes. Sorry. Thank you.”
Some of the pointless napkins fell to the ground. I picked them up with my pride, and walked out clutching my water. If he said anything, I didn’t hear it. I could feel myself getting hot with embarrassment and couldn’t wait to be out. I headed back to the hospital, careful to avoid any more incidents and male doctors. Cake o’clock was well and truly gone. Never mind, there was rhubarb crumble for pudding this evening. Yes, I’d subconsciously memorised the hospital menu! The pudding and vanilla custard that I polished off weren’t quite up to the level of the sticky toffee pudding, but they still wouldn’t shame a restaurant. Anyway, I took my joys where I could find them. Besides, I was wasn’t only eating away at my sorrows. I was also trying to figure out how to salvage my dignity with the good doctor. A name was one thing. But where was the Plastics Department?
Chapter 8
Light at the End of the Tunnel
Two and a half weeks of my ‘holiday’ down, and I had gotten into a routine. Life now consisted of going from home to the hospital… and back again. The only diversions were the odd trip to the shops to find clothes in ever-growing sizes and to patisseries to discover new cakes. You don’t have to be a world-class nutritionist to spot the connection. My favourite new additions were coffee éclairs, chocolate fudge cake, coffee cake, strawberry Fraisier; on top of my old faithful flourless chocolate number. If I was feeling more adventurous I’d stray into baked vanilla cheesecake; banana cake; and anything with pistachio. But if it wasn’t on this extended list, then it strictly wasn’t entering my mouth! I didn’t have them all everyday, of course. But I definitely had a few.
Why? How did I justify it? Because a treat is a treat: there’s no point in treating yourself to something you don’t enjoy is there? And deserving one soon turned into deserving several. If you’re going to do something, do it properly. I was fast becoming an expert at these mental acrobatics.
Even on hot afternoons, the hospital remained a labyrinth of cool white rooms. The windows in the ward were open, so we sometimes got a nice crosswind and a taste of the summer outside. I’d mainly been coming in maxi dresses – but there is only so much rotating you can do with six dresses. And so I’d started on the one thing I never thought I would do: what I called lazy dressing. That meant starting to wear leggings with long tops. That only shows the shape of your legs. But if you brought the right length top then who cares what your knees and calves looked like? It was much more important to cover my thighs and bum. It had happened gradually over the weeks, but dressing had become a way of camouflaging myself.
My mother had been reading her newspapers. Now she was on her last update of the day from the outside world and had begun dropping off, paper in hand. As I gently tried to remove it from her grip, she woke up startled.
“You’re falling asleep, why don’t you rest?” I said, guilty that I’d stopped her doing just that. She looked at me with an about-to-argue expression then thought better of it and took off her glasses. My mother didn’t like being told she was sleeping. Even if she had clearly been asleep for a while, she’d always say, “No, I’m not tired, I’ve been awake!” That would always make me smile because the only place she’d been awake was in her dreams!
“I’ll take a short walk while you’re sleeping,” I said, and she gave in.
“Okay,” she said drowsily. With that she nodded and was dozing off before I’d had a chance to pick up my bag. “Not tired, my eye!” I thought.
I was happily walking along the streets, crossing in and out of shaded side when the sun got too intense. I don’t know if it was down to global warming – but I am sure summers never used to be this hot in London? I wasn’t complaining though. Sophie and I always laughed when people complained when it was too cold, then also complained when it was too hot! There was no pleasing some people.
But now I had become one of them: because it was too hot for me. And of course none of the shops had invested in air-conditioning. I went into the newsagent thinking of the cool fridge with its rows of misty water bottles. Of course, once I was there a Kit Kat and a Twix leapt into my hand. I indulged in ‘morning coff
ee’ and ‘afternoon tea’, minus the hot beverages; I didn’t actually drink tea or coffee, just ate the things that went with them.
I ripped open the wrapper from the Kit Kat and broke off a finger, snapping it like they did in the advert. I was indeed having a break. The summer smile was promptly wiped off when I caught a glimpse of myself in the shop window. I stopped dead and retraced my steps. Surely that wasn’t me? Walking forwards again, there was no denying the truth staring back at me. I had put on weight – a lot of weight. The long white top I was wearing looked like a Bedouin tent! Maybe it was the tent’s fault that I looked bigger? After all, if you can dress well; you can also dress badly. All right so my work clothes were tight but I couldn’t be that big. How much weight can someone put on in two and a half weeks? Not that much, surely.
I finished the Kit Kat with somewhat less gusto than I had started it. Turning a corner back toward the hospital, I almost bumped into someone I knew. Adam, a Nigerian guy I used to work with in my previous job. He worked in IT and looked like he lived in a gym. He was so toned. He didn’t have a filter and just said what he liked – but with such charm that he always got away with it. Somehow we just got on. Now I had physically collided with him. He loosened his grip then did a double take.
“It’s you!” he said.
“Hi, Adam, long time!”
He squinted slightly.
“What happened to you?” Um, I thought; and where is this going? “You have changed. You used to look like, well, a secretary.” I raised an eyebrow. He continued undeterred. “And you dressed like a secretary too.”
“How does a secretary dress?” I said tartly.
“They dress well… usually because they can.” My hand flew to my mouth.
“No, no, Becca. You’re definitely letting yourself go.” He was carrying on quite blithely, seemingly unaware of my reaction.
“My mother’s in the hospital,” I said bluntly.
“I’m sorry to hear that Becca. But what’s that got to do with eating? Are the hospital staff force-feeding you!?”
I felt my eyes widen. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing! Yet somehow, with all the manners my mother had taught me, I found myself smiling back at him. In reality I was half-shocked, half-bemused. It was so outrageous that he thought he could speak to me this way that I had to smile. Anyway, it was always his zero-filter approach which had made me laugh in the first place. Only now I was on the wrong side of it!
“So… I used to look like a secretary.”
“Yes. Definitely. In the best possible sense.”
I shook my head theatrically. “And you’re saying… now… not so much…?”
He shook his head slowly. I laughed.
“My advice is: get back to yourself as soon as possible.”
I just stood there as if I was enthralled by his words of wisdom.
“Well,” I said. “Thanks for the Hi Becca, so good to see you again! How are you Becca?” I said it sarcastically, but it bounced straight off.
“I’m telling you the truth as a friend,” he said firmly. “It is only a few steps from here to the Point of No Return.” Well, I thought; that’s a bit dramatic. “Honestly if you put on too much, it will be almost impossible to take off and keep off.” I shrugged. Okay he had said his piece and I had listened. Well, sort of. He glanced at the Twix in my hand.
"And what’s that?" In a few moments, he had appointed himself as my treat policeman. I looked down at my Twix.
“Just a little something…” I said.
“Well, before you realise it, that turns into something big. A big thing around your hips and thighs!” I burst out laughing and he joined me. But I knew that the joke was all on me. “Look,” he said frankly. “Some people would just leave you to it, probably talking behind your back. Or worse, encouraging you! Not me, Becs!”
It turned out that he lived near the hospital. I gave him a hug and we said our goodbyes. I reminded myself that it was only jest and didn’t have time to really worry too much about my weight at the moment. I had to use my energy on looking after my mum. My weight would have to wait: surely that was right.
Walking towards my mother’s bed I stopped in my tracks. There was Dr Duncan, talking to her by her bedside. I pulled myself together and continued walking. He stood up when I approached, and we shook hands quite formally.
“Hello,” he said, with warm professionalism. “Nice to see you again.”
“Hi, yes.” I felt awkward for some reason but was doing my best to keep it together, whilst wondering if I had chocolate-tinted teeth. My mother perked up at the conversation, picking up on something.
“You know each other?” she said. Honestly, sometimes, my mother!
“No, no,” I said hurriedly. “We just saw each other in the café.”
“You didn’t say, dear…” For goodness’ sake. I was sure she was teasing now. Next she’d be buying a hat and wedding outfit. Or maybe that was me thinking? I realised that I was still holding his hand and let go quickly, quite embarrassed enough for the both of us. I guess he’d been too polite to let go. And what soft hands…I wondered again how was it possible to have hands that soft with all that disinfectant washing? I hoped he wouldn’t be the kind of man who was always looking for your flaws? Plastic surgeons didn’t do that, did they?
“We are happy with how her leg wound is healing,” he said.
“That’s good,” I said, slightly dreamily. He had great eyes. The deepest blue that you could lose yourself in. And very striking against his dark hair! Sophie would approve. He smiled.
“Yes. It is. So good that we should be able to discharge your mother in the next week.” Good news, of course! But two weeks wasn’t long enough to, er, make friends? I’d have to find a way.
A nurse came over, all chirpy as usual. She smiled at my mother and me, and positively sent rays of light at Dr Duncan. He nodded politely but didn’t pay her any great attention. I couldn’t help feeling pleased. I had thought he was tall in the patisserie but now I felt he towered over me. He was 6’1or 6’2 and wore his height well. It was an achievement to be so tall while remaining unintimidating, with that calming presence I’d remembered from before. It was almost as if he didn’t know the effect he had on people, and women in particular. Tick, tick, tick, I thought, wondering how many other patients’ daughters had thought the same. The nurse hovered as if trying to decide whether to stay or go. I poured my mother a second glass of water that she sipped and then helped her put the glass back on her table. When I looked up, I saw him looking at me. Our eyes locked for a couple of seconds before we both looked away. Suddenly I found my mother’s jug fascinating, and he was engrossed in the notes hooked at the end of her bed. Between us, my mother still exuded mischievous curiosity. Soon he was putting away his notes.
“Oh, that’s fantastic,” I said, just to say something. I must have been beaming somewhat because his smile widened.
“Your mother will still have to go to physio though,” he said, turning back to his notes. “But she will only end up with a slight limp as she’ll have a dropped foot.” I nodded trying to look extra caring as we both awkwardly fixed our gaze on my mother. She was supposed to be pleased at getting out in a fortnight, but seemed more pleased at the two of us smiling at her! Even so, I was happy she was doing well. Now I could see the light at the end of the tunnel; or, in my case, cave. Only then did I really feel the weight on my shoulders lift after all the months my mother had been in hospital. When I looked up it was to find Dr Duncan gone, swept off to his next assignment.
Chapter 9
Nice and Nouvelle Cuisine
“Hello, Becca?”
“Hi Jen,” I knew straight away that it was Jenny on the phone, my oldest friend. We went all the way back to secondary school.
“It’s as if you’ve fallen off the face of the earth!” Straight in, as always. But we were the type of friends who slotted right back into each other’s lives, however long it had been.
&n
bsp; “I’ve been spending time with my mother.”
“I know,” she said. “How is she?”
“Much better. Hopefully she’ll be going to physio next week.”
It had been a long old stretch but now we had come through the worst.
“You need a break.” I didn’t say anything. I needed more than that. I wanted to be in the Caribbean. Or any beach, anywhere.
“I was thinking…” she continued.
“What about?”
“I’m going to my apartment in Nice. Why don’t you come with me? I promise you’ll get some rest.” She couldn’t have said anything I wanted to hear more. But how could I go away now? My mother was in the hospital, and would be recuperating for a long time to come.
“Thanks,” I said, bursting with regret. “But it’s really not a good time.”
“You just think you can’t leave your mother,” she said persuasively. “But it’s the perfect time.” How did she work that one out? “Come while she’s about to leave the hospital and before she goes to the physio. It’s just what you need before the next haul. Come for a week.” I sucked in a breath. I couldn’t go for a whole week. Jenny sensed weakness. “Okay, come for as long as you can. Becca, you need to rest or you’ll soon be no good for anyone else’s needs, let alone your own.”