Chasing Charlie (9 page)

‘What colour is it?'

‘Yellowish,' I told my nails in a quiet voice. My squeamishness was turning into nausea.

‘Right. Any spotting of blood between your periods?'

‘No, I don't think so.'

‘And how long have you had these symptoms?'

‘A month or so I think. I've really only started noticing it properly in the last couple of weeks.'

‘OK.'

He wrote some quick notes and then looked up.

‘Tell me a bit about your sexual history. In strictest confidence,' he added.

‘Have you got all day?' I laughed, a touch closer to hysterical. But I pulled myself together enough to cast back into my dodgy history and gave him a summary. It really would have taken all day to tell him about every single one of my partners, so I skipped over a couple of them (perhaps a dozen). Dr Epstein wrote notes as I spoke, not appearing to judge me, but midway through hearing about the tenth man, he put his hand up and cut in brusquely,

‘And what about lately?'

‘Lately?'

‘Yes, do you have multiple partners at the moment?'

The way he said the word multiple made me want to disappear into my chair.

‘I . . . I really haven't felt like it for a while now. Since all these symptoms started I guess,' I stuttered. My safe feeling had gone; Dr Epstein was judging me after all. This was a monumentally stupid thing to have done. What if he felt obligated to tell my parents?

He breathed heavily through his nose and looked up from his pad.

‘When did you last have sex?'

‘Ah—' I looked at the ceiling and struggled to think back. I felt so overcome with a sense of failure, of letting Dr Epstein down. The appointment was turning out to be exactly how I imagined it if my parents knew about my real life – all the men, all the fun and games. Eventually I whispered lamely, ‘I guess that would have been six or seven weeks ago now.'

Dr Epstein nodded and then stood, indicating the bed.

I tried to stand up but found my legs weren't cooperating. He must have noticed because as he was pulling the curtains, his voice sounded soft and kind again.

‘I just need to take a swab to send off for testing. It won't take a moment and it won't hurt, Claudia.'

I stepped behind the curtain while he called in a nurse to chaperone.

Thankfully it was over within seconds, and when I was dressed again and he had washed up, Dr Epstein motioned for me to sit down. He sat down carefully again and entered some information into his computer, stabbing the keyboard with his index fingers. My heart pinched watching him do what he obviously had to do but was clearly inept at. He turned to face me.

‘First things first: we'll check for a number of diseases and conditions. I suspect it could be chlamydia, but we'll test for a range of other things just to make sure. If you have tested positive for anything, we'll call you to make an appointment to discuss it further and start treatment. Chlamydia can be treated effectively with antibiotics. If it's caught early, it can be cleared quite quickly with minimum long-term damage.'

I stared at him, my stomach in free fall from fear. Had I heard him right? Did he actually think I might have one of those STIs, one with a horrible, dirty name? I mean, I did come in here to check if I had one but it still shocked me to have it confirmed.

‘Do you have any questions?' he asked.

I couldn't think straight. I never got sick; I just didn't. How was I meant to know what to ask?

Dr Epstein sighed a small sigh and continued. ‘You're lucky, you know. You're having symptoms and most women don't have any at all. If it is what I think it is, we've hopefully caught it early enough and there will be little to no damage to your fertility.'

Fertility? Another swoop of fear deep in my stomach. I was right to be worried about that. I pulled at my skirt, as if by doing so I could make it longer.

‘Will you be able to tell how long I've had it?' Would I be able to guess who passed it on, I meant.

‘Not really. We could have a guess but it could be inaccurate.' He paused. ‘Is there someone that you suspect may have given you this, someone recently, or in the past?'

The picture of a dozen men lounging in my bed flicked through my mind, ending in that vision of John in his tight Calvin Kleins. I shrugged.

‘I'm not sure.'

I reached down and picked up my handbag and tucked it under my arm, suddenly desperate to be in the fresh air, away from this small room with its fake calm and freakish instruments for poking into orifices. I wanted to scream and I wanted to walk, really fast. But Dr Epstein hadn't quite finished.

‘Just one more thing, Claudia.'

I looked at him, my whole body quivering now with the effort to stay still.

‘I know it's none of my business but when I was your age, I buried myself in work, and when I wasn't working I had a lot of fun.' He paused and looked at me to make sure I understood what he meant. ‘I told myself that I was perfectly happy running around, that I didn't need to have a long-term partner, that it was boring, restrictive and somehow' – he tapped his finger against one cheek – ‘demeaning to chain yourself to one person. That was how I thought about it, chaining myself. It took me a long time to be honest with myself – that I was actually scared of trusting someone with my heart.' He paused again, shaking his head and glancing at a photograph on his desk. ‘I am so glad I realised that and finally took the plunge with someone special. It was the single most important thing I've done in my life.'

I sat there blinking at him. I'd heard him speaking but I couldn't take it in. I stood, something tugging at me, urging me to say something, but I only managed an awkward thank you before walking stiffly out of the room.

SAM

I waited for the question. It'd be any minute now. Mum was setting cups of tea down on the twenty-five-year-old coasters (‘Haven't they've lasted well – you get only the best from Sheila'). When they were all placed just so, she sighed happily and backed herself down onto the sofa, all ready for a girly catch-up.

‘So what's new?'

There it was. Christ, it irritated me every single time. It also annoyed Rebecca and was possibly the only thing we had in common. We sighed, heavily, in unison.

‘You go first,' I said through my teeth.

Mum smiled encouragingly at Rebecca. Rebecca gave me a look that said it was my bloody turn to go first next time but obediently opened her mouth and started broadcasting.

‘Well, I heard from Miranda through the week, you know she's getting married this year . . .' I tuned out and saw my chance to escape, and although I'd only just sat down, I took my tea to the kitchen to ‘help' Dad. Not that he would accept any help – it was his way or the highway – but hanging around him as he finished off lunch was infinitely more preferable than listening to Rebecca's perfect vowels.

Dad had a new apron, green and white striped. It was tied very snugly around his body and highlighted his gradually increasing middle. He was moving around slowly and happily in his favourite room in the house. Chopping carrots and cabbage to go on to steam, checking the pork roasting in the oven, preparing the gravy. Small tasks, strung together to make a little symphony of small tasks, made Dad very happy. He was a potterer extraordinaire. Bumbling from one thing to the next in small steps. Always the same things, for it was the familiar little tasks that made up his life. Other men worried about what they'd do when they retired but not Dad. Mum often commented that she could hire him out to lonely old men and women on their own. Someone to get under their feet and fill their home with the happy, small noises of rubbish bins and dishwashers being emptied, kitchen benches wiped down, bird tables replenished. They could make a fortune!

‘How are you, love?' he asked me in his quiet voice.

‘Oh, the usual, Dad. Not sure what I'm up to but trying to enjoy the ride.' Where did that came from? But I always found myself telling him what was really on my mind.

‘Work OK?' he asked, wiping the kitchen counter for the three hundredth time that hour.

‘Not too bad. I've got some bookings in for the next month. All commercials. They pay well but are only a day or so, though sometimes as much as a week for the really big ones. I would love to get more work on films. They're less bitty.'

Dad nodded.

‘Hopefully Vic will get one soon.'

‘Vic, she's the first AD you work with a lot, isn't she?'

‘Yes. She's my favourite, a good friend. She always books me if I'm available.'

‘Any work as a first or second on the horizon?'

‘No, not yet.'

‘You'll get there. It takes time. You're going in the right direction.'

‘Yeah.' Dad was right; it did take time. Careers aren't built in a day, and when you're driving it all yourself as a freelancer it will take time. He always helped me remember there was a context to everything.

‘It was really nice to see you and Rebecca together this morning.'

I didn't have the heart to say that it was an unhappy coincidence we'd caught the same train down, that we didn't even know we were on the same one until we got off at Petersfield. Dad had looked overjoyed when he saw us waiting together outside the little white station. He was always hopeful that his girls would grow to appreciate each other and have the kind of close relationship he enjoyed with his sister. He waited for more but I couldn't go there, so he rinsed the cloth slowly and carefully hung it over the tap.

‘Well then, can you call the others to sit down?' he said.

Lunch was delicious and although I had to endure sitting opposite Rebecca, I couldn't help but mellow as the perfectly cooked pork, crunchy roasties, just-steamed veg and the world's best gravy, all cooked with love, warmed me from the inside out. I even forgot to avoid looking at Rebecca during pudding and managed to tell a couple of silly stories about people I'd worked with instead. I should make it home for Sunday lunch more often – Mum and Dad either side of me, genuinely caring about what I had to say. I sat back in my chair in satisfaction. Even Rebecca seemed less fatuous than usual. It was all really rather lovely.

‘So, Samantha, anyone special out there?'

I felt my goodwill pop like a balloon. Mum just had to go and spoil it all by asking the second-most annoying question in her repertoire. I felt my smile slide off to be replaced by an unwelcome blush that only fuelled Mum into further excitement.

‘Oh she has, look she's going red!'

‘I am not!'

‘You are.' Rebecca regarded me with cool eyes.

I glanced at Dad who smiled warmly and gave a little ‘what can we do? Mum can't help herself' shrug, and I chuckled, in spite of myself. Here they were, my family, sitting around the table that had seen many an awkward conversation in the past. What was the harm in telling them?

‘Well . . . I did see someone the other day. An old flame actually.' I could feel Rebecca's eyes trained on me and I kept my gaze steadily on Mum's plate.

‘It was Charlie Hugh-Barrington.'

‘Really?' Mum looked confused. ‘But . . .'

‘Yes, Mum, we broke up eleven years ago but we bumped into each other in London and ended up going out for a drink.'

‘Oh!' I saw her looking at Dad, bewildered. Of course I had to be landed with the only two people who came through the free-love seventies completely straight-laced. Mum had met Dad at sixteen and married him three years later, and that was that. She found it jolly hard keeping up with all the comings and goings of her daughters and their friends. I could see I might have to explain that it was possible to meet up with someone you used to go out with but I wasn't sure I had the energy and was glad when Dad chipped in.

‘What's he up to these days. Is he a GP yet?' I could hear the tiniest tight nuance in his voice. I turned my head from Mum on my left past Rebecca, who was continuing to stare hard at me, and stopped gratefully on Dad's round, goateed face.

‘He's a surgeon.'

Dad looked impressed. ‘Well well. What kind of surgeon?'

I tried to remember. I'd never excelled at knowing the details of other people's careers. And before I could answer Rebecca asked another question. It was a second or two before I could take it in and then, once I'd registered it, I had to ask her to repeat it. It couldn't be true. It just couldn't.

‘How are things with his girlfriend?'

It felt as if all my blood had been sucked out of my feet, leaving a hollow shell behind. She didn't just say that surely?

‘He didn't mention he had one,' I eventually mustered.

‘Maybe they've broken up,' Mum added bouncily.

‘I don't thing so.' Rebecca's tone was even harder than normal. Emphatic was the word that sprung to mind. Fuck.

‘How do you . . .' I faltered.

‘Oh I bump into him at parties from time to time. His girlfriend went to school with a friend of mine.'

‘Oh.'

‘I can show you a picture on the computer if you want.'

I nodded dumbly although what I really wanted to do was throw myself onto the turquoise bedspread still on my old bed and weep.

It took forever for the computer to wake up. I stood there like a lamb to the slaughter, wanting to see the picture but at the same time wanting to run and hide. Rebecca's beautifully manicured nails tapped away confidently. Maybe Mum and Dad's internet would be down, I hoped, or failing that Facebook would have crashed, for good. Maybe aliens would arrive right now outside 31 Durford Road and take me away.

‘Here we go . . .' Rebecca logged in. I couldn't help glancing at her friends total – 878 friends. Who were all those people? ‘Let's have a look at Bindy's page, she's got a good one of them together . . .' Rebecca's tone had lightened considerably. She was probably enjoying this; in fact watching her sister suffer was Rebecca's ideal way to spend a Sunday. I became aware that my nails were digging into my palms. Click click click went Rebecca's finger on the mouse.

‘Here we are!'

And there he was, smiling at the camera, his arm around a tall, beautiful blonde woman with perfectly straight, impossibly shiny hair and a lean-machine body, looking like she'd just walked out of a fashion shoot. I recognised her as one of the many women he had photos with on his home page.

‘That's her. Her name's Lucy,' Rebecca said gleefully. I stared at the photo in shock. Not again. Not another elegant girlfriend on his arm. Where the hell did they all come from?

I remembered when I couldn't wait for the first holiday to arrive in my first year at university. As luck would have it I finished a day earlier than Charlie and had decided to travel to Warwick to surprise him. I could barely sit still on the train on the way there, imagining the look on his face when he saw me. It had been weeks and weeks since we'd seen each other, and we'd been missing each other so much. It was true his emails hadn't been as frequent the longer we were apart but he was really busy doing his medical degree and I wasn't worried. I found him in a pub full of students rowdily drinking their parents' money. He was leaning nonchalantly on the bar, managing to look debonair even in that student drinking hole.

‘Sam!' He looked surprised to see me. Not quite the elaborate ecstasy I'd imagined but he seemed pleased.

My face was glowing with excitement and the anticipation of being enveloped by him. His hug came. Hmmm, that unforgettable smell of man, beer and cigarettes. And something else. Chanel? But I was determined to hold onto the dream and gaily chatted on to him about my trip to see him, my course, and this and that. Charlie smiled his devastating smile and nodded and chatted with me. He bought me a drink. His friends melted away, leaving us alone. I was trying very hard to ignore the way his eyes flicked backwards to the door. To the door, to me, to the door, to me. I was just asking about his family when the smell of Chanel seemed to fill my nostrils. Charlie was looking at the space next to my stool.

‘Penny!' he exclaimed in a strained, jolly voice.

I turned and saw her. A tiny creature wearing something charmingly understated. Despite the wind outside, her hair was glossy. I felt extremely uneasy looking at her.

Penny went to kiss Charlie hello, aiming for his lips, but he went for her cheek. It was awkward and her composure faltered slightly but it only lasted a second. When she turned enquiringly to me she was the picture of well-bred confidence.

‘Sam, this is Penny . . . Penny, Sam.'

‘Pleased to meet you.' Penny offered her beautiful hand to shake. It was cold.

‘Are you at university with Charlie?' I enquired, not particularly interested in the answer.

She gave me a puzzled look. ‘Of course we are,' she said.

Charlie swallowed and managed a tight grin.

‘Drink?'

‘Yes, please,' we answered at the same time.

‘Sauvignon.'

‘Same again thanks.' I offered him my pint glass.

Penny eyed it coolly. ‘So, Sam, what do you study?'

‘Media studies. Not here though, I've come up to surprise Charlie. He seems pretty surprised.'

Penny's perfect eyebrows lifted slightly.

‘Oh? That's . . . nice. How do you know him?'

How did I know him?

‘I'm his girlfriend.'

Penny looked at Charlie, who had returned with the two drinks, and keeping her eyes on him asked me querulously, ‘What did you just say?'

I looked at Charlie. His mouth was open. His eyes flicked between us, for once unable to come up with a single word.

I repeated myself, slower this time, because it looked like Penny was having a hard time understanding me.

‘I'm his girlfriend.'

‘No you're not.'

‘Ah . . . yes I am. We've been together for over a year.'

With that, Penny's creamy complexion flooded beetroot red and she turned to Charlie with tears pooling in disbelieving, furious eyes.

‘You' – she stuttered, finally spitting out, ‘Bloody bastard!'

Then she snatched the drinks out of Charlie's hands and poured beer over him (the cashmere!) and wine over me. I gasped and watched her turn on her petite heel and storm out. Charlie followed her, running out on me without a backwards glance, let alone some sort of explanation. I was left alone with the wine starting to seep all the way through to my skin. I looked around at the bemused faces of the students, not a single one of them familiar, and felt, for the first time in my life, utter miserable loneliness. I didn't wait for long. Something told me Charlie wouldn't be back and I stumbled into the night, hot tears mingling with the Sauvignon. Somehow I made it onto the train, and I went straight home and cried for the whole of Christmas. I swore I'd never see him again.