The Housemate

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The Housemate Page 11

by Pattison C. L.


  ‘What do you mean, lost it?’

  ‘It’s not in my drawer like it usually is. Can you remember seeing me take it off after Amy’s wedding reception?’

  ‘What?’ he said, looking at me strangely.

  I scratched the back of my left hand; it felt itchy and I thought I could see the beginnings of a rash. ‘The necklace – do you remember seeing me take it off before I went to bed?’

  ‘No,’ he said quickly, like he hadn’t even bothered to think about it. ‘Now stop stressing, it’s bound to turn up sooner or later. Come on, let’s eat our starter before it gets cold.’

  Behind him, Sammi was carrying a wooden platter loaded with garlic bread over to the table. It smelled delicious, but my appetite seemed to have vanished, along with the necklace.

  ‘You’ve probably just mislaid it,’ Sammi suggested. ‘I do stuff like that all the time . . . put something down for a second and then forget where I’ve left it. I can help you look for it later, if you like.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I replied, rubbing my temples to try and get rid of the cotton wool feeling in my head.

  Sammi set the platter down and turned to look at me. ‘Are you all right, Chloe? Only you seem a bit, I don’t know . . . fraught this evening.’

  I glowered at her. ‘You’d be fraught too if you’d just lost a family heirloom.’

  ‘Easy, Chloe,’ Tom interjected. ‘It isn’t Sammi’s fault the necklace has gone AWOL.’

  I stared at the floor. ‘No, I know it isn’t . . . sorry, Sammi.’

  ‘It’s fine, no offence taken,’ she said, her face wreathed in smiles. ‘I know you’ve been under a lot of strain lately, what with work and—’

  Suddenly she clapped a hand to her mouth and looked at me with huge, round eyes. I’m sure she was just about to say, ‘what with work and the night terrors . . .’ but then, remembering that Tom didn’t know about them, she’d caught herself just in time. Luckily, he was absorbed in wrestling open a bottle of Zinfandel and the whole thing went over his head.

  The meal was lovely, but I only ate a few forkfuls of lasagne and I skipped dessert altogether. Sammi was livelier than usual and she and Tom swapped easy banter over the dinner table. I did my best to join in, but I felt strangely detached. It was as if my mind was there, but my body was somewhere else, cool and elevated, the top of a mountain perhaps. There was another thing too . . . something bothering the far corners of my mind, casting a shadow, but I didn’t know what.

  Eventually, the talk turned to Megan’s new romance. I’d mentioned it to Tom a couple of days previously and for some reason he found the idea that Megan was dating a surgeon highly amusing.

  ‘I bet they’re not short of inspiration when it comes to role play,’ he said, giving us both a suggestive wink. He picked up one of the linen napkins and held it across his mouth and nose. ‘Nurse Megan . . . scalpel, please.’

  Without missing a beat, Sammi picked up a knife and held it out to him. ‘Of course, Doctor Pete, anything you say, Doctor Pete,’ she said in a squeaky falsetto that sounded absolutely nothing like Megan.

  Tom reached for the knife, before deliberately letting it slip between his fingers. It fell to the slate floor with a loud clatter that plucked at my already taut nerves.

  ‘Oh dear, clumsy me! Would you mind awfully picking that up for me, Nurse Megan?’ he continued. ‘And while you’re down there, can you give me a blow job, strictly in the interests of your professional advancement, of course?’ He banged the table with the palm of his hand and began howling with laughter. I know they’d both had a few drinks (I was abstaining), but I must admit I found the whole thing rather juvenile. I think Sammi must have read my mind because, instead of responding in kind to Tom’s crude joke, she simply rolled her eyes good-naturedly.

  Undeterred, Tom embarked on another double entendre, but before he could finish, we heard the front door slam. I glanced at the clock on the oven: 10.20, I hadn’t realised it was so late.

  ‘Meg!’ I shouted, looking forward to seeing her. ‘We’re in the kitchen.’

  ‘Yeah, Megan,’ Tom added, slurring her name slightly. ‘Come and join the party.’

  She must have heard us, but the only reply we got was the sound of her footsteps ascending the stairs.

  22

  Megan

  I studied the piece of paper in my hand. The directions were clear enough: Clindamycin, 225 milligrams orally, three times a day. Clindamycin was an antibiotic, commonly used to treat bacterial infections; I dished it out at the hospital all the time.

  My gaze turned to the woman standing in the outpatient dispensary. She looked exhausted and there were black circles under her eyes where her mascara had run. A little boy was sitting astride her hip. His face was pale, one side of it drooping a little, as if he might be about to fall asleep, or possibly burst into tears. According to his prescription, he was a year and a half old. I rubbed my chin; something didn’t add up.

  ‘Can you tell me what this is for?’ I asked the woman.

  ‘He’s got an eye infection,’ she replied, resting her chin on top of the boy’s head. ‘How long will we have to wait for it? We’ve just spent three hours in A&E and I really need to get him home to bed.’

  ‘I understand. We’re pretty quiet at the moment; I can do it straight away.’ I reached out and stroked the child’s chubby forearm with the back of my hand. His skin was warm to the touch; he was clearly running a temperature. ‘Why don’t you take a seat? I’ll get this made up for you as soon as possible.’

  The woman thanked me and turned towards the row of chairs opposite the dispensary. I waited until she was out of earshot before taking the prescription over to Serena, the duty manager. I always enjoyed being on shift with Serena. She was organised and decisive, but kind with it, all great qualities for a pharmacist – and she had a youthful energy that belied her fifty-something years.

  ‘There’s something wrong here,’ I told her. ‘This dosage is too high for an eighteen-month-old.’

  Serena took the script from my hand and reached for the glasses that were hanging from a cord around her neck. ‘Hmm,’ she said, frowning. ‘I have to agree with you there.’ She peered at the scrawled signature at the bottom of the page. ‘You’d better call Doctor Freeman and double-check it.’

  A few minutes later, I had the answer. ‘It turns out the nurse recorded the wrong weight,’ I told Serena, as I printed out a fresh prescription on our electronic system. ‘Instead of entering twenty-five pounds in the chart, she entered twenty-five kilos.’

  ‘Bloody hell, that’s more than double his actual weight – no wonder the doctor over-prescribed,’ said Serena. ‘Good work, Megan; not every pharmacist would have picked that up.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, feeling a warm glow of pleasure. The consequences could have been serious if the nurse’s unwitting error had gone unnoticed.

  ‘You’ve taken to hospital pharmacy like a duck to water,’ Serena said when I returned from handing over the medication to the boy’s grateful mother. ‘It must be quite a change from working in the community.’

  ‘It is,’ I acknowledged. ‘But I much prefer it here; it’s great being part of a big team and I love working side-by-side with the consultants.’

  ‘Yeah, we’ve got some good people here, some of the best doctors in the country, in fact – and, most importantly of all, they know how to let their hair down when they’re off duty.’ Serena’s eyes shone with suppressed laughter. ‘I went to a barbecue at Bill McCarthy’s house last weekend. Have you met Bill yet . . . orthopaedics registrar . . . black curly hair . . . very chatty?’

  I shook my head. ‘Doesn’t ring any bells.’

  ‘In that case, I’ll have to introduce you; Bill’s a good guy to know. His wife’s a midwife here; they’re loads of fun and they throw terrific parties. You should have seen how many people were at this barbecue . . . practically the whole of Orthopaedics and at least half of Obs and Gynae.’ She threw her head back, as if vi
sualising the scene. ‘Suffice to say, a great deal of alcohol was consumed and by the end of the evening everyone was pretty merry. Then Bill got out his guitar and began jamming with a couple of friends, while the rest of us sang along. We were making a hell of a racket, I’m surprised the neighbours didn’t complain.’

  ‘Sounds like Bill is definitely someone I need to meet.’ I cleared my throat self-consciously. ‘I guess Pete Chambers was there, then.’

  ‘Pete? Why, do you know him?’

  I turned towards the nearest shelf and pretended to be looking for something amid the anti-inflammatories. ‘Only a little bit. We sit on the Ethics Committee together; he seems like a friendly sort.’

  ‘He certainly is . . . that man could charm the skin off a snake.’ Serena smiled as she reached behind me for a paper carrier. ‘Yeah, Pete and his wife were there. I didn’t realise Fiona was expecting their third.’

  In that moment it was as if Serena had swung a wrecking ball into my chest; I almost vomited into my mouth. ‘You mean she’s pregnant?’ I said, in what I hoped was a conversational tone.

  ‘Yes, seven months. They’ve been trying for another baby for years. Their first two were conceived naturally, but they had to go down the IVF route this time. It took them three goes, but they got there in the end.’ She looked at me and grinned. ‘Isn’t it great?’

  ‘It’s wonderful news,’ I said, even though it was like regurgitating a jagged chunk of metal. ‘Absolutely wonderful.’

  *

  I honestly don’t know how I got through the rest of my shift without punching a wall. The depth of Pete’s deceit was breath-taking. No wonder he was available so sporadically – and even then only for brief periods. At her advanced stage of pregnancy, dear Fiona would certainly want her husband close by. The talk of a divorce had clearly been an out-and-out lie because, from what Serena had proceeded to reveal, Pete and Fiona were not only very much together, they were even planning on renewing their wedding vows once the baby was born.

  I had realised, all too late, that behind Pete’s flattering words and affectionate touches, the wheels of a cool calculation had been turning throughout our brief courtship. But what could I do about it? Report him to the hospital’s Ethics Committee? Yeah, right. Tell his wife? I’d have to be one hell of a bitch to do that to a heavily pregnant woman. No, I was going to have to suck up the humiliation and the crushing embarrassment and move on. But I must admit, it hurt, it really fucking hurt – and what hurt most of all was the fact that, because I’d been so wrapped up in that pathetic excuse for a man, I hadn’t been there for my best friend when she needed me.

  As I opened the front door of Number 46, snatches of animated conversation drifted out from the kitchen. Despite the lateness of the hour, it seemed the dinner party I’d been forced to pass on was still in full swing. I was just about to close the door behind me when I heard Tom say my name. I didn’t catch all of it, but there was something about a scalpel. Then Sammi started speaking in a silly, high-pitched voice. My cheeks grew hot when I heard the words ‘Doctor Pete’ and realised she was imitating me. Then it was back to Tom – or should I say ‘Doctor Pete’ – for a vulgar quip about ‘Nurse Megan’ giving him a blow job.

  I intertwined my fingers, crushing the knuckles of each hand in a rhythmic squeeze. I wouldn’t have told Sammi about Pete – told any of them – if I’d known they were only going to take the piss. I elbowed the door shut rather more forcefully than I’d intended and it rattled in its frame. A second later, Chloe called out to me, then Tom did likewise. I ignored them both and started climbing the stairs. I really wasn’t in the mood for socialising.

  My mood didn’t improve when I got upstairs and found one of the sash windows in my bedroom wide open. The room was chilly, and strewn all over the floor were various bank statements and insurance documents, a rogue breeze having apparently attacked the in-tray on top of my chest of drawers, where I kept important paperwork. Overhead, a couple of flies were swimming in a dreamy, pointless circle and I swiped at them with my hand as I stalked over to the window and slammed it shut. I certainly hadn’t left it open; Chloe must have been in my room. I didn’t mind if she had; after so many years of friendship, we had no secrets from one another. But if she was going to go round opening windows, I wished she’d damn well make sure she shut them. It was a disappointing end to a very disappointing day.

  23

  Anouk and I are trying to break the record for the world’s longest daisy chain. We’ve been working on it since one o’clock: thirty-six daisies already and there’s still another half an hour of lunch break to go. We’re sitting behind the big oak tree on the playing field where no one will bother us. I don’t like sharing Anouk with other people; it’s best when I have her all to myself. I’m singing ‘Frère Jacques’ while I thread another daisy on to my end of the chain. I’m not very good at singing, but they’re the only words I know in French. It makes me feel good, knowing I can talk to Anouk in two different languages, even though I don’t know what the words to ‘Frère Jacques’ mean. We’re having such a lovely time, but then, out of the corner of my eye, I spot an ugly grey cloud in the beautiful blue sky. And that cloud is Liam.

  When Anouk first started at school and Miss Pickering chose me out of the whole class to look after her, I made it clear to Liam that I didn’t have time for him any more. It took quite a bit of ignoring him, but he did eventually get the message – so why is his scabby arse walking over here?

  ‘What are you two doing?’ he says when he gets closer. There’s something icky on the side of his mouth; it looks like peanut butter. Yuck!

  ‘Seriously, Liam?’ I say, cutting my eyes at him. ‘Are you blind, or what?’

  ‘We’re making a daisy chain,’ says Anouk. ‘We’re seeing if we can break the world record.’

  ‘What is the world record?’ he asks, standing there with his feet turned outwards like a duck.

  Anouk looks at me. I don’t know the answer, so I say the first thing that comes into my head. ‘Sixty-eight. If we don’t get any more interruptions, we can probably break the record by the end of break time.’

  ‘Is it OK if I watch?’ Liam asks.

  ‘Of course you can,’ Anouk says, before I even have a chance to open my mouth.

  ‘You can watch, but you mustn’t speak,’ I tell him. ‘Or else you’ll ruin our concentration.’

  ‘OK,’ Liam says, smiling his slow, stupid smile. ‘If you like, I could pick the daisies for you.’

  ‘Yes!’ Anouk squeals, like Liam’s just done an amazing magic trick. ‘Zat would be a big help.’

  Instantly Liam cheers up. The blood rushes to his cheeks and his eyes get brighter, sharper, the way everyone’s do when they’re in Anouk’s orbit.

  I turn towards Anouk. ‘It’s that,’ I tell her crossly.

  She looks at me, confused. ‘What?’ she says.

  I lean over, so my face is right up in hers. ‘You said “zat”, instead of “that”. If you’re going to live in this country you ought to learn to speak the language properly. T-H-A-T . . . that! Got it?’

  Her long eyelashes flutter. ‘Oui,’ she says quietly.

  It’s extremely annoying having Liam around while we’re trying to break the world record. He still hasn’t wiped the peanut butter off, and he keeps makes sucking noises with his teeth while he’s picking the daisies. I shouldn’t be surprised; Liam’s so thick he can’t even read a book without his mouth making the shape of the words. Anouk doesn’t seem bothered, though; if I didn’t know better, I’d say she actually liked having Liam there. She chats away to him in her perky princess way, asking if he’s got any brothers and sisters and whether or not his eczema hurts. Who cares?!!! I want to scream, and it takes a big effort to stop the words bursting out. I sometimes think that Anouk needs to grow up a bit . . . be a bit less, well . . . nice.

  The problem is her life has been too easy; she doesn’t know anything outside the bubble of her big house and her piano l
essons and her ridiculous collection of china Beatrix Potter figures. If only I could make her realise that there’s no point being nice to everyone. I can see that’s something I’m going to have to work on with her, but there’ll be plenty of time for that later.

  Usually, lunch break goes too quickly, but today I’m glad when the dinner lady starts ringing the bell to call us back in, because it means we can finally get rid of Liam. I jump to my feet and go to pick up the daisy chain (I don’t think it’s long enough yet, so Anouk and I will have to finish it tomorrow). But as I lift it up off the grass, only half the daisy chain comes with me. The other half stays right where it is, because Liam’s foot in his stupid clunky shoe is resting on the end.

  A giant surge of rage jolts through me, almost robbing me of air. It feels as if a fist is pushing into my windpipe, right at the base of my throat, where my collarbones meet.

  ‘Look what you’ve done, you stupid idiot!’ I shout at Liam. ‘You’ve broken our daisy chain, we’ll never beat the world record now.’

  ‘It’s OK, we can just join the two halves together,’ says Anouk, but because of the rush of blood in my ears, her voice sounds muffled and very far away, so I just ignore her.

  ‘Get up!’ I shout. ‘Get up, you flipping fuckwit!’ When Liam doesn’t move a muscle, I grab his skinny, white, scabby arm. He digs his heels into the ground and tries to pull his arm away, but I’m pretty strong for a girl and I don’t let go. Instead, I twist his arm up behind his back. A moment later, I hear something snap. Re-sult! Liam looks at me with the shocked expression of a cartoon character who’s just been flattened by a steamroller. Then he tips back his head, lets out an ear-splitting scream and starts blubbing like the great big cry-baby he is.

  Everything goes a bit mad after that. One of the dinner ladies comes running over; she turns white as a ghost when she sees Liam’s floppy, useless arm. She turns around and shouts at another dinner lady to call an ambulance. Then Miss Pickering appears out of nowhere and says Anouk and I have to go back to the classroom with her. I don’t say anything to Anouk as we walk back across the playing field, but I give her a look that says, Keep your mouth shut – or else. I’m sure she gets the message; we are best friends, after all.

 

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