Rebound (6 page)

Wispa keeps avoiding me; she lies on her bed with her back turned pointedly towards me. She’s pissed off with me, I know, but somehow I don’t care as much as I would normally. I
don’t even feel like taking her out for a walk; she’ll have to make do with short trips to the garden.

I dread Monday, having to deal with the Americans at work, having to deal with any people. And, of course, there’s the nasty scab on my face and there will be questions. I decide to invent
a spectacular fall while jogging, involving a crazy sausage dog and a fallen tree. Claire won’t buy it, but even in her wildest dream she wouldn’t guess how I really got it.

And then it’s Monday morning and I drag myself out of bed, force down some black coffee and drive to work, the Monday-morning traffic making me want to scream. The scab
itches on my cheek under the layers of Clinique foundation, concealer and powder. It’s still as obtrusive as a rotten brushstroke on a masterpiece. Masterpiece being my face this morning,
after a prolonged make-up session at home.

‘Ouch,’ says Claire, looking at my cheek when I walk into the office. She’s wise enough not to ask questions.

‘Too much wine,’ I volunteer and instantly hate myself for it. Why volunteer a lie if she’s not even asking?

She nods with understanding and goes back to her typing. She’s good.

The morning drags on with the first meeting with the Americans. They are mildly amused by my story of the crazy sausage dog that ran into my feet and made me fall flat on my face, catching a
fallen tree trunk with my cheek. They are impressed I go jogging every day and suggest I sue the owner of the dog, bless their litigious American hearts. As the meeting spills into the lunch break,
I begin to feel unwell. I plough through the afternoon presentation, trying to ignore alarming twinges in my body. By the final PowerPoint slide my lower abdomen feels really strange. I excuse
myself from the meeting and call the Marie Stopes Clinic in Fitzrovia. They can fit me in tomorrow at 9 a.m. Damn, the shoot at Pinewood. The sensible part of me tells me I should really be there.
But the same sensible part tells me to see a doctor. A missed opportunity to collect some brownie points, but it can’t be helped, I decide. The Americans will have to fend for themselves
tomorrow morning.

‘I can’t really see anything unusual, but let’s do a smear just in case,’ says the gynaecologist, an older Indian woman with a patient face and delicate
hands. ‘The pain you’ve described has been most likely caused by a working cyst on your ovary. In most cases the cysts are harmless and disappear on their own. But if the pain persists,
do come back to see me.’

Once I’m fully clothed and back on a chair by her desk she asks me kindly, ‘Is there anything else?’

I’m grateful for the way in.

‘There is, actually. I’ve had unprotected sex with a stranger.’

‘And when was that, my child?’

She doesn’t make a judgement, she’s not shocked, she just asks a question. I don’t mind her calling me ‘my child’, it actually makes me feel a little tearful. She
listens patiently and then suggests I go to the Sexual Health Centre at St Bart’s. I can book an appointment online or just drop in. And they can do all the tests straight away.

The Centre is bright, efficient and full of women like me. I’m surprised and I don’t quite know why. Surely I haven’t been expecting a bunch of seedy-looking slappers with
matted hair and no teeth? I’m seen quite quickly by a young female doctor. I have a feeling I may have seen her somewhere before, but I can’t place her. She’s friendly and
professional and she doesn’t beat around the bush.

‘Any chance of unwanted pregnancy?’

‘No, I’m on the Pill.’

She nods and marks something on the form.

‘We’ll need to test you for STIs, primarily chlamydia, gonorrhoea, trichomoniasis, herpes . . .’

‘HIV?’

‘Well, it’s a bit early for a test. But if you’re really concerned you could take PEPSE, that’s post-exposure prophylaxis, a four-week course of HIV medication you can
take after unprotected sex to reduce the chance of becoming HIV positive.’ She looks at her notes. ‘You’re just within the seventy-two hours’ time limit. Otherwise you
should come back for a test. It can show positive as early as two weeks after infection, but HIV infection cannot be excluded until twelve weeks after exposure.’

I feel very hot and a bit faint. I decide to opt out of PEPSE, but make a note in my iPhone to come back for a blood test in twelve weeks. She asks if I’ve been vaccinated against Hep A
and B, then takes a blood sample and sends me off to the toilet to do a swab. Quick, efficient, matter-of-fact. When I return, she smiles at the top of my head. I wonder if she does it to avoid the
sight of the scab on my cheek.

‘I’d like you to wait in the waiting area for the results of the immediate tests. If we think you need treatment for anything, we will give it to you before you go. The other results
will be texted to you as soon as we have them.’

She closes her file and shows me to the door. I go back to the waiting room and sit down among other patients, avoiding eye contact with everybody.

If I survive this, I think, I’m going to be a nun for the rest of my life.

By the time I get to work it’s far too late to drive out to Pinewood. Too bad, especially as, Claire tells me, a legendary producer from the US is there, overseeing the
shoot. No brownie points and no autograph for me this time. But there is plenty of chaos produced by Cadenca Global to keep me busy for the rest of the day.

I get home late, totally exhausted. I normally enjoy work, the corporate hustle and bustle, enriched with human emotions, ambitions and jealousies. But the last two weeks have been unbearable,
the heavy weight of the looming restructure taking all life and colour out of daily routines. Throw in a crazy Hampstead Heath encounter and my whole world seems out of kilter, an unsafe and
unpleasant place. Would having James around help? I pick up the phone, then put it down. No, I decide, I have no space for teddy bears, however sweet, in my life.

I don’t feel like going for the evening walk with Wispa. She’s disappointed when I let her out to the back garden, but she’ll have to live with it for tonight. I only hope she
had a good walk with Nicole earlier in the day. I take a long bath, then dig an old tub of ice cream out of the freezer. It’s going to be one of those nights. I’m just settling on the
sofa when my phone rings. A number I don’t recognize. Probably someone offering me a free upgrade or a new mobile. I ignore it, but a few minutes later it rings again. The upgrade people
normally wait at least a day before they call back. I answer it.

‘Oh, hi.’ A male voice, hesitant, polite. ‘Are you the owner of a chocolate Labrador named Wispa?’

Oh shit, Wispa. I rush to the back door and open it. She’s not in the garden.

‘Yes,’ I say breathlessly to the phone. ‘Did something happen to her?’

‘No, she’s fine.’ The voice sounds reassuring now. ‘She’s here with me, I found her wandering Highgate Hill, looking a bit distressed. Found your phone number on
her name tag.’

A wave of relief washes over me. The guy offers to drop her off and I give him my address. He rings my doorbell five minutes later, Wispa happily wagging her tail by his side. I hesitate, not
knowing whether I should invite him in, but he makes it easy for me, saying he is on his way to pick up his daughter from a piano lesson and he’s already running late.

‘I’m so grateful. I have no idea how she managed to escape from the garden. It’s never happened before.’

‘Dogs and children,’ he says with a smile and I notice he’s quite handsome. He has dark, curly hair, pale skin and strikingly green eyes with long, dark lashes. ‘We could
spend hours swapping tales of joy and woe. Actually,’ he hesitates for a second, ‘why don’t you pop round for a drink sometime? You and your partner, I mean,’ he adds
awkwardly. ‘My wife and I would be delighted. We live just round the corner.’

I say yes, it would be a pleasure, and we agree to arrange a date by phone as we already have each other’s phone numbers, thanks to Wispa’s tag. His name is Tom, by the way, Tom
Collins, like the cocktail. His dad loved gin and his mum lemonade, he tells me with a grin. I close the door and have a serious chat with Wispa. Of course it’s far too late to tell her off
for running away, she wouldn’t be able to connect the events and draw a conclusion; she’s a dog, after all, not a child. And it’s my fault for leaving her out in the garden for
too long. But how did she manage to escape? I find a torch in the cupboard under the stairs and venture out into the dark garden. In the shaky beam of the torch the walls and the fence look fine.
I’ll have another look in the morning. I decide to give Wispa a rawhide bone as a peace offering and settle with her in front of the TV. I don’t know what I would do if she got
lost.

The results are back and I don’t have chlamydia, gonorrhoea, herpes or any of the other STDs with long and scary names. The only test I’ll still have to do in three
months is the HIV, but I suddenly feel purged and elated. I want to celebrate, to tell the world, but ‘I’m STD-free’ doesn’t really have the right celebratory ring to it. I
call Michael instead and invite him to dinner ‘somewhere really nice’. My treat. He’s free and delighted to accept. By fluke I get a table at Ottolenghi in Islington because
someone has just cancelled tonight’s reservation. It’s an 8.30 slot, so I’ll have time to give Wispa a proper walk before I go out tonight. I feel lucky, not only because
I’ve managed to get in on a whim to Ottolenghi.

Over a growing number of beautiful small dishes on our table I tell Michael about the stress at work. He listens sympathetically, nibbling on roasted aubergine with feta yoghurt and seared
yellow fin tuna with soy and ginger sauce. I never have an opportunity to reciprocate his good listening, as he never complains about his job. He runs his own web design company, and I’m sure
he’d have plenty to moan about if he chose to, but he never does. Our grilled quail with smoked chilli chocolate sauce arrives and I have to stop my saga of corporate woe. The food is simply
too good to taint with everyday misery.

‘Sometimes I think I should just quit and start my own business, I don’t know, garden landscaping or selling hand-knitted teddy bears on the Internet, anything but TV and
media.’

‘No, hon, you should sit tight and wait until they make you redundant. And then hire a good redundancy lawyer and make them double their offer.’

‘Sounds like a good plan.’ I scoop a bite of black-peppered tofu with saffron dashi onto my fork.

‘I’m serious, darling. Nobody just quits in television. You always manoeuvre yourself into the most lucrative position to be pushed from.’

‘Did you get pushed?’ I have never asked him why he left his full-time job and started his own business.

‘Of course I did, although it may have looked quite innocent to the naked eye.’

‘Did you make some money out of it?’

‘Not enough, darling, not enough.’ Michael takes a sip of his wine. ‘But there are other compensations, you know. Like being able to take a stroll in the park in the middle of
the day, when everyone else is at work, for instance. Well, not everyone.’ He has a mischievous grin on his face now.

‘You didn’t!’ I exclaim a bit too loud for the intimate space of the restaurant and get some curious glances.

‘Yes, I did.’

‘You met someone,’ I whisper, the leftover bits of our delicious dinner suddenly forgotten.

‘He met me, to be precise.’

‘Enough riddles, hon, I want the whole story.’

‘Well . . . I was sitting in a beautiful spot, reading the new Ian McEwan book—’

‘Where?’

‘Richmond, darling.’

‘What were you doing in Richmond? It’s miles away from your house.’

Michael looks at me with mock reproach. ‘Do you want to hear what happened or not?’

‘I do, sorry.’

‘So I’m sitting there under a tree with Ian McEwan, when suddenly this rather gorgeous man appears out of nowhere and asks me if he can sit next to me, as apparently I hog the best
spot in the whole park. Considering that the park is nearly four square miles, it’s quite an achievement to stumble upon the best spot without even trying, so I let him know I’m happy
to share my precious spot with him. He unfolds his blanket, chatting rather pleasantly all the time, drawing me away from Ian and into a conversation with him.’

A waitress clears our table and offers some dessert. I quickly choose a coffee pecan financier with maple cream for us to share, keen to hear the rest of Michael’s story.

‘He offers to share his blanket with me as the ground is getting a bit chilly. I move to his blanket and . . . we cuddle a bit.’

‘Cuddle?!’ I’m too loud again.

‘Yes, darling, cuddle. Light petting, really, nothing more.’

Our dessert arrives and it silences us. We savour the nutty texture, slightly crisp on the top and edges, soft and moist inside, luxuriating in the maple cream. When it’s all gone, I nudge
Michael to continue his story.

‘So you “cuddled” . . .’ I make inverted commas in the air.

‘Believe it or not, we did.’ He’s slightly annoyed by me teasing him. ‘Not all gay men have the urge to jump into the bushes with the first stranger that comes along. And
to be honest, once I start talking to someone and he turns out nice, interesting, engaging, once I get to know him a bit, I don’t really feel like a quick handjob. I actually prefer warmth
and intimacy to the thrill of the unknown.’ Michael pauses. ‘Perhaps I’m getting old . . .’

He looks sad and I feel a bit guilty about teasing him earlier.

‘I do miss what I had with Phil. The companionship, camaraderie, love. I miss having a partner, Anna.’

‘I’m sorry.’ I reach out and touch his hand. I see his eyes glaze with tears, then he straightens up, waves at the waitress and orders two espressos. He knows we both like to
finish our dinners with a small injection of caffeine.