Out of Practice (6 page)

She reached over and took a slug of Lizzie’s wine. ‘Which is presumably why I’m behaving like an absolute imbecile on my very first day.’

‘Well, jack it all in then. I’ll give you Julia’s column and you can stay home all day in your ghastly yoga trousers being my roving reporter.’ Lizzie was playing
devil’s advocate and Holly knew it. They were the best of friends, but their approach to work came from opposite ends of the spectrum. Working together was not a good idea.

‘I can see the headlines now,’ said Lizzie, giving her a nudge as she made a rainbow headline with her hands. ‘Local Doc Discovers Chemical Weapon in Laundry Hamper!

‘Or,’ she said enthusiastically, getting into her stride, ‘Local Doc Slays Cheating Husband with Cyanide!’

‘That’s it – I’m cutting you off – no more Agatha Christie for you!’ Holly grinned, glad to be back on lighter, more bantering terms with her oldest friend,
but slightly alarmed at the way Lizzie’s hand had tightened possessively on her jam jar when Holly had proclaimed she was cutting her off.

‘Go on – I dare you,’ said Lizzie, with a glint in her eye. ‘I cannot stand that bitch Channing anyway. I’d much rather work with you. She thinks she’s
oh-so-bloody-perfect. I keep hoping that pride comes before a fall with that one,’ Lizzie confided gleefully, ‘but no . . . It’s just not normal to be that accomplished at
everything.

‘Still, you never know, maybe she’ll burn out and have a complete nervous breakdown by the time she’s forty?’ Lizzie suggested hopefully, a spiteful undertone to her
voice that indicated she wasn’t really joking, which took Holly by surprise.

No matter how many years they were friends, Holly still found it hard to get her head around how competitive Lizzie could be. Woe betide anyone who got on the wrong side of her. Holly was even
ashamed to admit that, on occasion, she’d been known to edit her own stories and news, if she felt there was even a chance of provoking Lizzie’s ire.

Truth be told though, it had been so long since they’d seen each other every day, that Holly had simply assumed it was a trait her friend had grown out of – like leg warmers, dodgy
haircuts and retro music.

Holly watched her friend drain her jam jar and decided to continue as though Lizzie’s outburst had never happened.

‘If we were men, we wouldn’t be worrying about any of this,’ said Holly bluntly. ‘And we wouldn’t have worried about appearances either. We’d be in the pub
now, with a big juicy steak.’

‘And you might be forgiven for wearing tragic shoes and we’d be talking about the new motor, the latest rugby results and our friendship would be about as deep as a puddle,’
countered Lizzie with a grin, following her lead. ‘But alas alack, no. We are instead Mothers-with-Jobs, which roughly translates, as you very well know, as the brave (or possibly futile)
attempt to Have It All, by the simple application of Doing It All.’

‘Speaking of which,’ said Holly, looking at her watch and ignoring the scene of devastation on her plate, ‘I’m on in five.’

Lizzie pushed her chair back, batted Holly’s wallet away and threw a twenty-pound note on the table. She leaned in and kissed Holly firmly on both cheeks, gripping her shoulders hard.
‘Don’t let the bastards get you down, okay. And don’t let them walk all over you either. You’re a bloody good doctor and they’re lucky to have you. As am I. Kitchen
supper at mine tomorrow?

‘Oh and Holly?’ called Lizzie as they parted. ‘No funny business with anyone at work today, okay?’ She grinned like a loon, waggling her fingers in parting, as her mobile
phone began to ring, her Barry O’Connor ringtone blaring cheesy 70s schmaltz across the Market Place. For a stylish, savvy woman, it had to be said that Lizzie had appalling taste in
music.

Holly looked around her new consulting room and breathed a sigh of relief. She’d run the gauntlet of the outer office, remembering everyone’s name and at no point
had she crashed into anything, blushed like a teenager or engaged anyone senior in a battle of wills. Cool. Calm. Confident. How hard could that be?

‘Come on then, Graham. You can do this,’ she murmured. She made sure all her bits and pieces were unpacked, lingering over a photograph of the twins swinging like monkeys from the
climbing frame, Ben’s little face wrinkled with the sheer effort of keeping up with his brother. It was all the incentive Holly needed; if her boys could make the most of their fresh start,
then so could she.

She pushed back her chair and walked through to the waiting room. ‘Prue Hartley?’ she called. This may not be A&E, there may not be much call for her excellent wound cleaning and
stitching skills, but she knew her stuff. It wouldn’t be such a bad thing for her to remember that occasionally.

‘I need to talk to you about my poo.’ Prue settled herself into the seat opposite Holly and shuffled a little to get her generous bulk comfortable as she cradled a
capacious tangerine leather bag on her lap. ‘I’ve been meaning to come in for ages actually and when my Alan told me that the new lady doctor had started, well, I thought it was about
time.’

Holly nodded. ‘Okay. What in particular is worrying you?’ She liked to start out with a few open-ended enquiries, get a more accurate picture of the problem, without any leading
questions.

‘It’s tricky to describe really. It’s just
not quite right
, you know?’

‘I see. In what way do you mean,
not quite right
?’ Holly asked delicately, wondering how to get Prue to open up a little, but her patient seemed more interested in ferreting
around in the enormous handbag.

‘Now before I forget, this is for you, Dr Graham.’

Prue proudly handed Holly a small brown paper bag and nodded encouragingly. Holly tentatively unrolled the top of the bag and looked inside, trying and failing not to look shocked.

‘That’s . . . well, that’s just . . .’ Holly struggled to find the right words. ‘It’s wonderful that you’ve planned ahead for your appointment
obviously, but to be honest, we normally prefer you to use the special plastic pots provided. It’s just a little more, um, sanitary.’

Prue Hartley looked blank for a moment and then a delighted grin rippled across all five of her chins. ‘Oh, Dr Graham, you are such a hoot! You had me going there, you really did. Ooh wait
’til I tell my Alan . . . It’s a brownie, Dr Graham! A brownie!’ She chortled merrily, not in the least offended. ‘Prue Hartley? The clue’s in the name – Hartley
Bakery? My chocolate brownies are the best in Larkford and I thought you could have it for your afternoon tea, by way of a little welcome.’

Holly found herself lost for words. Of course it was a bloody brownie! She was beginning to think that living with two small boys was beginning to warp her view of the world. ‘I’m so
sorry, Mrs Hartley. Do forgive me. I have two-year-old twin boys at home and you’d be surprised how much of my day is spent discussing poo.’

Prue was still tittering away to herself, but at least she now looked relaxed and at ease, even if it hadn’t been achieved by conventional means. ‘That’s the best laugh
I’ve had in days. I knew I was right to wait and see you. That Dr Channing’s a right cold fish.’ Prue shifted her not inconsiderable bulk in the chair and leaned forward
confidingly. ‘When I gave myself an injury trimming my bikini line, she was right sniffy about it. Kept making comments about me in a bikini that I did not appreciate. I didn’t dare
tell her about my purple poo.’

‘And when you say purple,’ replied Holly, without missing a beat, ‘are we talking Professor Plum or Miss Scarlet?’

Prue nodded approvingly, clearly getting Holly’s Cluedo reference straight away. ‘I’d say Professor Plum, in the downstairs cloakroom, for a good half hour, with a rather
pointy candlestick . . .’

Holly started jotting down notes before losing her nerve. ‘So just to clarify – it takes you half an hour to have a bowel movement and when you do, it’s a bit sharp and
uncomfort- able – and of course – purple?’

‘That’s about the size of it,’ said Prue, tapping the round crystal paperweight on Holly’s desk for emphasis.

‘Okay, so nothing else unusual?’

‘No, I mean that paperweight there – that’s about the size of my poo!’

‘Crikey,’ said Holly a little taken aback. ‘Then we need to talk about stool softeners and samples. All very routine. Probably nothing to worry about, but better safe than
sorry.’

Holly began to run through the usual chat about keeping regular and the benefits of lots of water and fruit and veg. Prue took it all in and seemed to be happy with the plan that Holly outlined
for her, even shaking her hand when it was time to go.

‘Do stop by the bakery, Dr Graham. We’ve some lovely unusual bakes – I bet your little lads would love my meringues and if it’s vegetables you’re after, my Alan
does some lovely carrot cakes and his little beetroot cupcakes are to die for. I can’t get enough of them, with a nice cup of tea.’

Holly’s expression lit up with amusement. ‘Erm, Prue? Obviously we’ll stick to the plan we’ve outlined, but to be honest, you might just want to stay away from the
beetroot cakes for a couple of weeks. Just to see if it helps.’

Prue’s face flushed a decidedly beetroot-y colour and she let rip the most echoing chuckle. ‘Oh for God’s sake, Prudence Hartley, you dolt. Beetroot cake!’ She shook her
head. ‘I’m so sorry, Dr Graham. I just didn’t think . . .’

Holly opened the door to usher her out, making Prue promise to drop in a sample anyway and up her water intake, and the two of them were laughing like old friends by the time they got back to
the waiting room.

‘You seem to be finding your feet there. Nice to see a happy customer,’ said Dan Carter, as he came through to call his next patient. It threw Holly for a moment, to think of her
patients as customers, but of course he was right. It was all about customer service these days, wasn’t it?

It was probably a timely reminder, as her next patient appeared to have more piercings than Holly had thought physically possible. But, in a society where the customer was always right, did it
mean that Holly’s job now was to patch up the one through his nose that was clearly infected, or could she give him a stern lecture on the risks of self-mutilation and refer him for
psychiatric evaluation?

She made do with a brisk talk about hygiene and sent him off with lots of antibiotics and sterile cleansing solution, since it turned out that his Prince Albert was also causing him a bit of
grief in the bedroom since he’d had a few issues with ‘snagging.’ Holly had gamely managed to keep a straight face, showing neither the bubbling humour nor burgeoning disgust,
that was threatening her resolve to remain Cool, Calm and Confident.

It was fair to say though, that she was never going to look at a willie in the same way again. And to be absolutely fair, she didn’t feel terribly keen to eat that brownie either.

Holly pressed rewind on the Bob the Builder DVD, to the twins’ incredulous delight. There was a time to be strict about these things and a time to be practical. At this
anti-socially early hour of the morning, practical beat principles every time.

Although it was only her second day at The Practice, Holly was still determined to get their morning routine running smoothly, even if that meant a few compromises on the television front.
Somehow, tiptoeing round their tiny terraced house while Milo slept on made everything so much harder. Not that he would have been helpful if he’d been awake. It was just that quietly rushing
seemed to be an oxymoron in Holly’s experience, especially when you added a pair of two-year-old boys into the mix. So, as far as Holly was concerned, as long as she could hear Neil
Morrissey’s dulcet tones coming from next door, it meant she had a chance at some breakfast.

Milo’s unprecedented appearance in the kitchen made Holly do a double-take. He lounged back against the kitchen worktop, hair artfully tousled and yawning widely. He stretched his arms
above his head, giving the yawn a deeper resonance and lifting his t-shirt to reveal perfectly honed (and time-consuming) abs. He yawned again, stretching still further and adding in a little
satisfied sigh.

Holly tried to think gracious thoughts as he picked up
her
toast and chomped on it contentedly – she probably wouldn’t have time to make another piece, but it seemed petty
to complain. Milo didn’t like it when she was petty and, to be honest, neither did she.

Pinching the last of her coffee, he dropped a sleepy kiss on her forehead. ‘Morning, Holls. Aren’t you going to be late?’

‘Probably,’ sighed Holly, flicking a glance towards the station clock that took pride of place on her kitchen wall and which dictated her schedule in a more benevolent manner than
her husband or children.

She looked wistfully at the empty coffee machine, forgoing the time to make a fresh cup in favour of shovelling a pile of crockery into the dishwasher, before rushing through to the sitting room
to give the boys their ten-minute warning of imminent departure, as advised by Baby Whisperers everywhere. She wondered if it ever actually made any difference to the mad scramble out of the door,
but nevertheless it had become part of her routine.

Captivated by the sight of the pair of them snuggled up together, Holly simply watched for a moment, pausing in her frantic rush, to focus on committing this picture to memory. She leaned
against the door frame, enchanted as always by her boys, cross-legged in front of the TV, their soft cord trousers riding up their plump little legs. She adored the way their actions unconsciously
mirrored one another, as they always had done, leaning inwards like a pair of book-ends. All the stresses, all the compromises – all totally worth it in moments like these.

The phone pealed suddenly throughout the house, prompting a volley of grumbles from the kitchen about who could be calling at this ungodly hour. Milo had settled down to read the newspaper and
showed no sign of movement so, with a harried glance at her watch, Holly grabbed the receiver before it disturbed Bob the Builder’s big announcement or set Milo off on another one of his
spiels about telephone etiquette.