Stuck on Me (9 page)

But she isn’t listening. She’s gone into autopilot (or rather, doctor) mode. ‘Right, well, whatever we choose, the first thing I need to do is take your blood
pressure.’

‘Um, oh, OK. It’s just that . . .’ Try as I might, I can’t find the words.

She swivels around in her chair and takes something out of a drawer. ‘Roll up your sleeve and make a fist.’

I sigh and decide to let her do it, anyway. I’ve never had my blood pressure done before and I’m quite curious about it. And, frankly, giving her my arm is a lot easier than trying
to correct our misunderstanding. She attaches a black cuff to my arm and plugs a wire into it. The other end is attached to a little machine. Then she presses a button on the machine and the cuff
begins to squeeze my arm, tighter and tighter. It grips so hard that it hurts. Still, this must be less painful than having bits of my nose shaved off.

‘Good,’ she says, approvingly, and the air deflates from the cuff, freeing my arm. I rub it. ‘So have you thought about what you’d like to try?’

‘The thing is . . . I, er, I don’t . . . want . . . the pill or, er, any of them,’ I manage to say. ‘I’m actually here about an operation.’

‘An
operation
? Isn’t that a little drastic?’

‘Yes, maybe it is. But, um, I don’t think there’s any other way to make my nose smaller. You know – they can shave a bit off, so it’s straighter and not so
beaky.’

Dr Buttery’s face changes. The serious look disappears, then, as if she’s unable to stop herself, she starts chortling. She might even be choking. ‘Sky,’ she begins, when
she can finally form some words, ‘tell me again, what exactly are we talking about here?’

I feel suddenly self-conscious. I don’t like drawing attention to my problem. ‘My nose, of course. I was trying to tell you, but . . .’

‘Your
nose
?’ She can hardly breathe for laughing. It feels like she’s laughing at my nose, even though I know she isn’t. I don’t think I’ve ever seen
her laugh before, so this is really quite unnerving. She’s shaking so much I think she’s going to fall off her chair. ‘I thought . . . I thought . . . that you wanted
contraceptive advice.’

I cringe again. ‘I know you did! God, no! I don’t! No way! I’m here because I want a nose job. A rhino-wotsit. You know.’

‘I’m so sorry, Sky,’ says Dr Buttery, clearing her throat. ‘I just assumed. From what you said. I never actually asked, did I? That’s terribly unprofessional of me.
Right, your nose.’ Another giggle escapes. She clears her throat again.

‘It’s not funny,’ I say. I feel like crying. ‘My nose isn’t funny. It’s deformed. Hideous.’

Dr Buttery finally seems to get a grip on herself. She stares at me, her eyes flickering as she scans my face from top to bottom. ‘Sky, dear, there’s really nothing wrong with your
nose. It’s a perfectly normal nose.’

‘No, it’s not. It’s ugly and huge and wonky, and I want rid of it.’

‘Really, it’s in perfect proportion. It suits your face.’

‘That’s what everyone says. To make me feel better. I thought at least a doctor would be honest.’

She sighs. ‘I really don’t see how I can help you, Sky. Can you breathe through it OK?’

I nod. My eyes are brimming with tears.

‘Has it been broken in an accident?’

I shake my head.

‘Then really, Sky, there’s nothing I can do for you. You don’t need surgery. Your mum is right: give yourself time to get used to it. Wait a few years. You can make a decision
when you’re older. But, until then, no reputable surgeon will touch your nose. You’re still growing, after all. It will probably be fully grown by the time you’re sixteen,
seventeen, or so.’

STILL GROWING?
STILL GROWING!
No way! So my nose
is
going to grow even bigger? I’ve got to wait until it’s even larger? How much larger? That’s the worst possible
thing she could have told me. Ever.

‘O-Oh,’ I stutter.

‘We could chat about counselling if you’d like. Maybe you’d like to talk to someone about how you feel. It seems to me that the problem is in your head.’

My problem isn’t
in
my head, it’s
on
my head! ‘I don’t want counselling, I want a new nose,’ I say. I get up and grab my jacket so fast that my chair
tips back. Dr Buttery catches it.

‘Sky . . .’ she begins. ‘Let’s talk about this. Stop . . .’ But I’ve already closed the door behind me and fled into the corridor.

What did she say? No reputable surgeon would touch my nose? She must be wrong. I’m just going to have to try to find one for myself.

set out to meet Rosie and Vix on the corner of our street at three, just as we’ve arranged. As I walk
down Paradise Avenue, I feel distracted. Although I’ve had time to calm down since the doctor’s appointment, my head is chock full of finding Dad and getting my nose fixed and worrying
about the way things are with Rich. My brains are in such a mush that I’m not sure which of my worries is the most important, or even if they’re each just one part of the same big
problem: my mess of a life.

My friends are both there, waiting for me, when I arrive, and it cheers me to see them. We kiss each other and, as we walk, catch up on the morning’s gossip. We’ve already texted and
messaged each other, so there isn’t much news to report. They’ve told me what they think of Rich following our disastrous anniversary dinner, and I’m sure they’ll bring it
up again over coffee, later. I haven’t told them about my visit to the doctor yet. First things first . . .

Dot’s Music Shop is tucked away behind Kentish Town Road and Camden Road, on a corner facing a little grass-covered traffic island with an old, red telephone box. I’ve walked past it
many times, but I’ve never been inside. You can hardly see through the windows for all the posters and pictures pasted up on them, and the guitars that hang enticingly behind, just out of
reach. Even the steps are painted black and white, like piano keys.

‘Do you know what?’ says Rosie, pausing at the bottom of the steps. ‘I think I might have been here before, when I was a kid. I think my mum brought me here to buy a
recorder.’

Vix giggles. ‘You can buy another one now if you like.’

I’m too stressed to chat about recorders. ‘Here goes,’ I say to my friends. I take a deep breath and lean against the front door. It opens with a pleasing, old-fashioned
tinkle.

‘Hello, girls, what can I do for you?’ asks a kind-looking woman, with rosy cheeks and greying hair, who must be Dot.

Hesitantly, I walk up to the counter, with Rosie and Vix on either side of me. ‘Um, we, er, don’t need to buy anything. Sorry. We just wanted some help.’ I’m flustered
and not quite sure where to start. Asking someone to help you find your long lost dad isn’t quite the same as asking if they’ve seen your missing cat.

Rosie steps forward. ‘She wants to find her dad. She wonders if you can help.’

‘Her
dad
?’

‘Yes, he’s a musician,’ explains Vix. ‘He used to live in Camden and play gigs here too. She hasn’t seen him for years.’

‘Right,’ says Dot. She looks intrigued. I guess this isn’t the type of request she gets every day. She smiles at me. ‘And how can I help?’

‘We thought you might know him,’ says Rosie. She clears her throat, which is what she always does when she’s about to name-drop someone famous. ‘My friend Rufus Justice
from Fieldstar – he lives next door – told me know you all the musicians in Camden.’

Dot laughs. ‘Ah, Rufus, yes. He comes in sometimes. But I don’t know about
all
of them.’ She makes eye contact with me. ‘So what’s your dad’s name?
Sorry, what’s
your
name? I’m Dot.’

‘Hi Dot. I’m Sky, and this is Vix and Rosie,’ I say, nodding towards my friends. ‘My dad is called Connor Carter. He lived in Camden until about six years ago. I think he
might have been in a band called The Four Horsemen. I don’t know much else. He was Irish. Oh, and he played loads of different instruments, so maybe he came in for strings or music, or
something.’

Dot furrows her brow, concentrating hard. I think she’s trying to work out if she remembers Connor Carter, or The Four Horsemen. ‘It doesn’t ring a bell,’ she says.
‘I’m sorry.’

‘Oh.’ I’m disappointed. Then I remember the photograph I have folded up in my pocket. ‘I have a picture. Do you want to see it?’

‘Sure.’ I pass it to her and she studies it for a minute.

‘He looks a lot like you.’

I blush. She means the nose. ‘I know.’

‘But I don’t recognise him, I’m afraid. He might not have come in here, or I might never have seen his band play.’

‘He might have been in other bands, I think, but I don’t know their names.’

‘Her mum won’t help,’ Rosie pipes up. ‘She doesn’t want Sky to find him.’

I nudge her. ‘Too much information,’ I whisper.

Dot looks like she feels sorry for me. ‘Hmm. Another thought. He might be a member of something called the Musicians’ Union. I have a directory in the back here . . . hang on.’
She goes behind the counter and bends down for a moment, re-emerging with a battered, old book. ‘Right, let’s have a look. Carter. C. Hmm . . .’

I crane my neck so I can see what she’s reading. It’s a long list of names and addresses. Carey. Carson . . . I scroll down them, following her finger with my eyes.

‘There’s a few Carters, but no Connor. Are you sure he didn’t use any other name?’

‘I’m not sure,’ I say, again acutely aware of how little I know about my dad. ‘I don’t think so.’

Dot must sense my disappointment. She smiles kindly and says, ‘I’m sorry, love, he’s not here.’ She snaps the book shut and replaces it behind the counter. ‘It just
means he isn’t a member. Not everybody joins.’

‘Right.’ I stand awkwardly, shifting from foot to foot, unsure what to say or do next. I guess it’s time to thank Dot and leave. Another dead end. Vix gives me a sympathetic
smile and takes my arm. Rosie must have grown bored, because she’s gone to the front of the shop, where she’s rifling through a stand of sheet music.

‘I tell you what,’ says Dot. ‘I can put a note in the window for you if you like.’ She points to a board displaying adverts for concerts, guitar lessons and everything
else related to music in Camden. ‘You never know, someone might spot it and get in touch.’

‘Really? Like a missing person’s poster? Would you do that for me? That would be fantastic. Thank you.’

Dot sticks Dad’s picture to a blank, A4 sheet and then, underneath it, we write a note together. It reads,
If anyone has any information on the whereabouts of musician Connor Carter,
formerly of bands including The Four Horsemen, please tell Dot or another member of staff.

‘You’d better give me your phone number,’ says Dot. ‘I won’t put it in the window, it’s just so I can call you if anybody does know anything.’

‘Sure, thank you.’ I write it on a bit of paper and hand it over. ‘Right,’ I say. I feel dejected now, and the lack of sleep is catching up on me. ‘I guess
we’ve taken up enough of your time. Thanks so much for everything. Please call me if you hear anything. Come on, Rosie . . .’

I start to turn towards the door and then I backtrack. I feel like I should buy something, to thank Dot for her help. There are some sets of earplugs on the counter, five pounds a pair.
‘Actually, I could do with these,’ I say, handing over the five shiny pound coins that were meant for Starbucks. They might be useful, I think, to drown out the noise of Mum’s
singing when she has her medieval music group round to the flat.

Dot smiles and wraps the ear plugs in a paper bag for me. ‘Good luck,’ she says. ‘I promise I’ll be in touch if I can help.’

‘Fingers crossed,’ I say, under my breath, as the door tinkles shut behind me.

I link arms with my friends and we head back onto Kentish Town Road, towards Camden High Street.

‘She was lovely,’ says Vix.

‘Yeah.’ I nod.

‘And you never know, that poster might work.’

‘Yeah.’

‘You seem really quiet. You OK?’

‘Yeah, I’m fine. I think I’m just starting to realise finding Dad’s not going to be easy.’

‘I know what you need,’ says Rosie. ‘Retail therapy. Come on . . .’