Out of Practice (15 page)

Julia methodically and slowly arranged the kitchen exactly as she liked it. After years of chaos and uncertainty, she wanted to believe that she had enough self-control not to let one little
phone call knock her completely off her stride.

Even on a good day, Julia could appreciate that she was no picnic to live with. And on evenings like this, when the niggle of loneliness and self-doubt had managed to find a
foothold in her mind, she could easily understand how it had come to this. Midnight on a Friday and she was alone. Scrubbing a spotless floor and making plans to take a bath with her favourite
medical text.

If she was honest, she would grudgingly admit that she even found herself wearing at times. It was something to do with the indefatigable nature of her personality – there was, quite
literally no down time. If she wasn’t working, working out or keeping her house to a virtually unsustainable standard of cleanliness, then she would be playing chess, or doing puzzles or
devouring medical journals. Her mind needed sustenance and distraction the way her body needed oxygen.

She knew it wasn’t normal. She knew it was exhausting – not just for her, but for those around her. But she also knew it wasn’t her fault.

Obviously, it was one thing to rationally say that and quite another to wholeheartedly believe it.

To Julia’s mind, her mother’s therapy in rehab had damaged their little family far more than it had helped. As an adult and even as a child, Julia had always known that her parents
had struggled with her intellectual abilities. They simply weren’t able to relate to their ferociously, precociously gifted daughter. Knowing they resented her constant questions and her
insatiable thirst for knowledge had somehow always been part of the deal.

Hearing her mother’s unfiltered opinions when drunk had been relatively easy to dismiss. Hearing the blame being laid at her feet had been hurtful but in some way understandable. Drunk
people liked to lash out at those they loved, didn’t they?

But hearing those same opinions being meted out by her mother at the rehab clinic had been so much worse. Decades’ worth of spite and blame pouring forth, suddenly gaining credibility when
viewed through the medium of family counselling sessions? Well, that had been harder to justify or ignore.

Julia had previously thought that knowing her mother’s true feelings about her might have been a price worth paying for sobriety; a small price, in fact, for a chance to rebuild their
shattered family. But when her mother had relapsed only weeks later, was apparently drinking yet again, those blaming taunts were like fresh barbs in Julia’s psyche over and over again.

Airing all those demons had simply made it harder.

Harder to care, harder to get involved and certainly harder to write a cheque for yet another round of rehab that was destined to fail. If the very definition of insanity was doing the same
thing over and over again and expecting a different result, then by this measure, and certainly where her mother was concerned, Julia was downright certifiable.

Nevertheless, Julia pulled off the rubber gloves and picked up her cheque book. She wrote out the cheque carefully, signing it precisely in her small cramped handwriting. At this point, she had
stopped paying out of loyalty or gratitude, had passed through paying out of guilt and now settled, more brutally, on a desire to just get this sorted and get on already. After all, she had a TV
show to make and a partnership battle to win.

Holly paused at the corner of the Market Place to compose herself and whistle off a quick text to Lizzie. She knew it was a bit adolescent, but she’d been so excited
about coming to Elsie’s house this morning that she’d resorted to an early morning phone call to Lizzie about what to wear. In hindsight, it had probably been a mistake to download some
of Elsie’s more famous films last night, but she’d craved distraction from her own demons and what better way than utterly absorbing classic movies? It had been an even bigger mistake
to stay up, completely enthralled, until 3 a.m. Now, not only was she star struck but also exhausted and feeling ridiculously overdressed in a rather short skirt.

Lizzie had sworn blind that she could carry it off, and since Lizzie had never been widely recognised for her tact, Holly felt that she could always bank on getting an honest opinion. Some might
even say too honest, thought Holly, remembering the bikini shopping expedition last summer that had ended in tears and the purchase of the all-encompassing, hoover-action Miraclesuit. But she had
to concede that Lizzie had a point – it may have taken some serious leverage to get the bloody thing on, but it did things to her figure that had only previously been thought possible with
the aid of general anaesthetic – or possibly a nasty bout of salmonella.

This morning however, the chill spring breeze swirling through the valley was only serving to make Holly feel exposed and decidedly vulnerable with every gust. She was quietly glad she’d
rebelled against Lizzie’s advice and stuck a pair of opaque tights on. Okay, so it slightly ruined the look, but it was worth it to avoid the worry about constantly flashing her knickers.

Of course, she’d forgotten to account for the fact that – to go anywhere in Larkford – you had to allow twenty minutes extra for chatting. Seemingly nobody in this town ever
just walked past each other with a cheery hello; there was always stopping and chatting. Often quite a lot of chatting. Holly wondered how anybody got anything done around here and it was taking
quite some getting used to.

Last weekend, it had taken her over an hour to walk a forty-minute loop with the twins.

Today, she’d stopped at the Spar to buy some tights without holes and lost half an hour.

Of course, that had partially been her own fault. Mrs Fry, the lovely organist from the church had been in the queue in front her, letting out volley after volley of rattling coughs.

The words had been out of Holly’s mouth before she could stop herself – are you okay? – it was a rookie mistake.

Any doctor will tell you, that in
any
situation – at a drinks party, a funeral, the supermarket – you should never,
ever
, ask this question, unless you have: (a) a
genuine interest in the answer; (b) some legal liability for their health; or (c) a freely available exit route planned.

After what felt like hours of listening to the minutiae of Mrs Fry’s ongoing battle with phlegm, Holly had only been saved by Mrs Fry’s other ongoing complaint – a bladder the
size of a peanut. Whilst she sympathised with the old lady’s incontinence, Holly had also felt guiltily relieved as Mrs Fry had hared off to the ladies. She hadn’t liked to point out
that all that coughing was probably doing wonders in strengthening those pesky pelvic floor muscles!

‘Right,’ muttered Holly under her breath, smoothing down her skirt yet again, as she reached Elsie’s house. ‘I am a doctor, she is my patient. It does
not matter that she has won an Oscar or that she has quite possibly seen Sean Connery in his birthday suit . . . I am calm and professional and . . . shit, really quite late!’

She knocked on the glossy green door of Number 42, jumping as another intrusive gust of wind whooshed up her skirt, and glanced through the sash window to the side. The house was an absolute gem
and Holly tried not to think about how much something like this would cost. Since renting the house in Orchard Lane, Holly had become obsessed with local property prices and how much she would have
to squirrel away just to get a foot on the property ladder in such a desirable area.

Holly heard the sharp staccato beat of very high heels on a polished stone floor and the heavy front door was yanked open with force.

‘You’re late!’ said Elsie imperiously, fixing her with an uncompromising stare. Leaving the door open, Elsie walked back into the house, her hand trailing along each piece of
furniture as she did so, whether for support or simply to remind herself that they were all still there, Holly wasn’t sure.

After hesitating for a moment on the doorstep, Holly stepped inside and followed, apologies on her lips, emerging from the dark hallway into a beautifully bright and sunny morning room at the
back of the house. Elsie had laid out morning tea on a tray and there was a small toast rack of perfect brown triangles, jam and butter in tiny ramekins. The old lady had settled herself into a
high-backed armchair and she waved carelessly at Holly to take a seat.

‘Ms Townsend, you didn’t need to go to all this trouble!’ exclaimed Holly, sliding obligingly into the appointed chair. Deprived of even a cup of coffee, as she had discarded
outfit after outfit as unsuitable, Holly now felt light-headed and hollow. She flushed, ‘I’m so sorry to be late. I was rather, um, unavoidably detained.’

Elsie soundlessly poured her a cup of tea, adding a splash of milk, and holding it out for Holly to take. She nervously eyed the delicate porcelain cup that looked as fragile as a doll’s
tea set in her hands. Holly gratefully took a sip, and carefully placed it on the table beside her, before she could possibly break it.

‘Well,’ Elsie said eventually, ‘firstly, it’s Elsie and secondly, I rather like morning tea and since Dan Carter thinks I need to have a babysitter, I thought we could
enjoy the whole thing.’ She waved a hand regally. ‘We can always tick the boxes on your dreadful little forms later.’

She passed Holly a plate with a perfectly toasted crumpet, dripping with butter. ‘Now eat up and you can tell me all about the latest scandal. I imagine your arrival has set a few pulses
racing at The Practice, to say the very least?’

Holly busied herself taking a bite of crumpet, wondering how on earth to respond.

‘Ah, the blushes rather give you away, my darling. You really need to work on your poker face or you’ll give the local gossips a field day. Is it the glorious Dr Carter who’s
caught your attention then?’ enquired Elsie innocently, nibbling gently at a corner of toast.

‘Elsie,’ Holly remonstrated. ‘I’ve known Dan Carter since forever and besides, you seem to be forgetting that I’m married.’

Elsie shrugged lightly. ‘Married, yes. Dead? No. So drink your tea and when you’ve finished you can tell me all about your glorious morning romp?

Holly nearly choked on her crumpet. ‘My what?’

‘My dear girl,’ Elsie smiled at her benevolently, ‘I wasn’t born yesterday and it’s perfectly clear to me that you’re either running late after a lovely
session of morning nookie or you’ve recently been flirting with someone out of bounds.’ This last was delivered in a stage whisper, laced with delighted merriment. ‘Now, my late
husband, Arthur – not the last one, the one before – he was always up for a morning tumble. I’m more of an afternoon person myself,’ she said thoughtfully, trailing off
mid-sentence. ‘Anyway, you’ve clearly been having a lovely time and I’m terribly bored, my darling, so I thought the least you could do was entertain me.’

Holly swallowed the last crumbs of the crumpet and licked her sticky fingers, earning a raised eyebrow from Elsie and causing the blood to rush to Holly’s cheeks again.

‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, Elsie. I feel terribly pedestrian even saying it now, but I was late because the twins wouldn’t get dressed and then I had a little wardrobe
malfunction myself.’

‘Ah of course . . .
la vie domestique
! So draining, no? But then all the more reason to find passion in your work?’

Holly couldn’t help but smile. Elsie was so delightfully, deliberately eccentric. She also seemed determined to converse as though they had known each other for ages. Holly admitted
defeat, under Elsie’s enquiring gaze. ‘If you must know, the only feathers I’ve managed to ruffle at The Practice seem to be Dr Channing’s. I don’t think she’s
terribly pleased with me.’

‘Of course she won’t be,’ Elsie replied gleefully. ‘She’s beautiful and clearly very intelligent, but she has a very brittle quality, don’t you think? All
terribly ice maiden and by all accounts, a total bitch.’

‘Elsie!’ said Holly, shocked but also trying not to laugh.

Elsie waved away her protests. ‘Let’s call a spade a spade at least. She is not a very kind woman. An excellent doctor, no doubt, but she comes with baggage that one, I promise you.
Now you, on the other hand,’ Elsie looked at Holly appraisingly, ‘you come with baggage of a different kind.’

Holly slowly drained her teacup, suddenly wrong-footed by the turn of conversation. She’d come here to assess Elsie for goodness’ sake, not for a session of psychoanalysis.

‘I can assure you that my life is terribly mundane and there are no fabulous skeletons tucked away anywhere.’ Holly mentally discounted Milo’s issues as she spoke, but it was
clear she wasn’t fooling anyone.

‘We’ll see,’ said Elsie. ‘Perhaps that’s something I can help you with? A wife should always have two things, in my opinion, Holly Graham: some running-away money
and someone who admires them from afar. I suspect that those two things alone, might give you a little more confidence in both your abilities and your attractiveness.’

Holly said nothing, her mind running in confusing loops as Elsie’s words carried a certain resonance. She could certainly identify with the need for financial independence from Milo, even
if the notion of an admirer seemed a little ridiculous.

It was as though Elsie was reading her mind, as she leaned forward and took Holly’s hand. ‘I’m too old and too nosey to stand on ceremony, Holly. I know, I know, we’ve
barely met, but please – let me help you a little, while you’re so sweetly helping me. There simply isn’t time to make all one’s own mistakes in life, so please do feel free
to learn from mine.

‘Cheating husbands are my speciality. And when it comes to money? Well, let’s just say that I do know what I’m talking about,’ she said firmly, gazing around her
stunningly decorated room. ‘All of this, you see, came from Husband Number Four, after Husband Number Three cleaned me out. All my movie money, all my life savings . . . All quite, quite
gone. That was Arthur, he of the morning glory, but I will say this,’ she gave Holly a frank stare, ‘he may have been a useless bastard with money, but by God, he made me
happy.’