Trouble (8 page)

‘Honestly, Mum, Monday lunch was just a fluke,’ said Annette.

‘You can’t expect Spicer to be the life and soul of the party all the time. It was really stupid of me to forget he doesn’t drink coffee any more.’

‘You shouldn’t drink coffee either, Annette,’ said her mother. ‘It’s bad for the baby. It isn’t good of you. Sometimes you surprise me by your selfishness. But you were like that even as a child: what Annette wants, Annette has to have. If Spicer’s stopped drinking coffee, it’s probably to set you an example.’

‘I expect that’s what it is, Mum,’ agreed Annette. ‘Honestly, we’re just fine. Don’t worry.’

‘Annette, why haven’t you called me?’

‘Oh hello, Gilda. I’ve been busy, I expect.’

‘Because you weren’t at the Clinic,’ said Gilda.

‘I know,’ said Annette. ‘I felt kind of depleted. I didn’t want to be somehow examined and found wanting.’

‘You sound really low.’

‘I’m just fine.’

‘No, you’re not,’ said Gilda. ‘I can tell from your voice.’

‘Gilda, you won’t tell anyone what I told you last time? You do understand it’s confidential?’

‘Of course I fucking understand it’s fucking confidential. What’s the matter with you?’

‘Don’t be so emotional,’ said Annette.

‘You are so
English,’
said Gilda.

‘You’re English too.’

‘But I don’t feel it,’ said Gilda. ‘I was born an outsider. You always want to be an insider. You like to be accepted.’

‘Gilda, I don’t know why I didn’t ring you before. It’s a great relief talking to you. You make me laugh. I just kind of get muddled in my head all the time.’

‘That’s being pregnant,’ said Gilda. ‘It will get better.’

‘Dr Herman Marks says I’m very English. I always thought it was a compliment, but apparently in a woman it means cut off, repressed. I had the oddest dream about him: we were waiting for a whole lot of vague people to leave his consulting room so we could make love. But we never quite got there. You know how these dreams are. I’m not really in therapy, either: I’ve only been to see him once. All the touching and hugging somehow got him into my head: but he’s disgusting, really.’

‘When are you going again?’ asked Gilda.

‘This afternoon. Gilda, I shouldn’t tell you. I meant not to. Everything gets so gossipy.’

‘Thanks a million, Annette.’

‘I don’t mean you gossip—oh God, everything with you gets so involved.’

‘Steve says that too. He says it’s my lesbian past. He is quite convinced I have a lesbian past, and I expect he has told Spicer. That kind of thing quite turns men on. All I did when I was fifteen was share a bed with a prefect who touched me all over, most beautifully, and I won’t say I didn’t like it because I did. Okay? Shall we now forget my being over-emotional, etcetera, etcetera?’

‘Sometimes I’m glad I’m a repressed English woman, Gilda,’ said Annette. ‘And you won’t tell Steve what I said about you know what, because what’s happened, which I didn’t mean to tell you, is that that therapist Spicer has been going to see is Herman Marks’s wife, a Dr Rhea Marks, the one with all the letters after her name. They share consulting rooms.’

‘Oh my God, Annette,’ said Gilda.

‘You don’t think this phone is bugged?’

‘No.’

‘Because I saw a TV programme about private detectives,’ said Annette, ‘and it’s the easiest thing in the world to bug telephones.’

‘Who would want to do such a thing?’ asked Gilda.

‘Spicer, of course,’ said Annette.

‘Annette, Spicer is right, you’ve gone nuts.’

‘You mean Spicer told Steve I’d gone nuts?’ asked Annette.

‘Not exactly,’ said Gilda.

‘It’s as if I’m not standing on the proper ground,’ said Annette, ‘but on a rug, and people keep snatching it from under my feet.’

‘Don’t cry, Annette. Shall I come round?’

‘No, you’d better not,’ said Annette.

‘Why not? Wouldn’t Spicer like it, because of my lesbian past?’

‘I’m so muddled, Gilda,’ said Annette.

‘I can tell. What time are you seeing this Dr Herman Marks again? Because the sooner the better.’

‘It just seems so peculiar,’ said Annette, ‘that I’m going to the husband, and Spicer’s going to the wife. And Spicer knowing but doing nothing to stop me. Is it ethical?’

‘I don’t see much wrong with it,’ said Gilda.

‘Not in itself,’ said Annette. ‘But wouldn’t they be tempted to talk to one another about their patients?’

‘It does happen,’ said Gilda gloomily. ‘All London knows about Ernie Gromback’s herpes because a gossip columnist happened to be sitting in a restaurant at the next table to a group of therapists discussing case histories, with names. But I’m sure the Doctors Marks aren’t like that. They’re original Hampstead types, from the sound of them, and old-fashionedly professional. So no one except themselves would understand the jargon they spoke. What do you think she looks like?’

‘She didn’t seem to make much impression on Spicer,’ said Annette. ‘It doesn’t sound exactly sexy: a New Age homeopathic therapist astrologer. But I suppose one never knows. What I can’t stand is Spicer being so gullible. He never used to be. I hold Dr Rhea Marks responsible for sapping his intellect.’

‘Annette,’ said Gilda, ‘if you take my advice, you won’t speak against his therapist, or he’ll side with her against you.’

‘But I’m his wife.’

‘For a man to be close to his therapist might be worse than his having a mistress. An affair without sex. A meeting of minds. What could you do about it? Nothing. There are no laws against it; nobody to socially disapprove; nobody to cut dead in the street.’

‘I do see,’ said Annette, ‘that I might have a real problem.’

‘Is that Dr Herman Marks?’ said Annette over the phone. ‘This is Mrs Horrocks speaking. I have an appointment with you this afternoon but if you don’t mind I think I’ll cancel. I’m not feeling very well.’

‘All the more reason to come and see me,’ said Dr Herman Marks. ‘A young woman in the full flood of pregnancy should be the happiest, healthiest creature in the world. If such a person is ill, the distress seeps out from the mind, not the body. I will see you at three this afternoon. I went to some trouble making space for you, as you will understand. There are many calls upon my time from people in serious need.’

‘Believe me, I understand that.’

‘As we arranged, Mrs Horrocks. Annette. So I’ll see you at three, as we planned.’

‘Yes, Dr Marks.’

At 2.52 Annette knocked on the door of the Doctors Marks, and was admitted by a woman in her mid-thirties. She had a sweet face and a gentle, welcoming smile. Her lashes were colourless, her eyes protruded, her face was without make-up, her clothes indeterminate dove-grey, and her mousy hair was pulled back in a bun. Her movements were graceful and her demeanour was peaceful.

‘I will show you into my husband’s surgery, Mrs Horrocks,’ said Dr Rhea Marks. ‘Although you are a few minutes early.’ Her voice was agreeably soft, low and tentative. ‘We do like patients to arrive at the appointed time.’

‘It is difficult to time one’s arrival to the dot,’ said Annette, ‘traffic being what it is, and random.’

‘Patients sometimes just park and sit in their cars outside and wait,’ said Dr Rhea Marks, ‘and take the opportunity to relax, or meditate if they are in touch with their inner being, until the proper time.’

‘I came by public transport,’ said Annette.

‘What a nuisance for you!’ said Dr Marks sympathetically.

Annette sat in the leather chair facing Dr Herman Marks’s desk. The Persian carpet was worn. The room was hot and the ceiling yellow from cigarette smoke. She fell asleep.

‘Oh, Dr Marks, you startled me!’

‘Do please call me Herman. Otherwise I might mistake myself for my wife and that would never do. Two Doctors Marks in one house! When I married, my wife was my student; the merest miss. Now she outstrips me in everything, including doctorates. You were asleep, my dear. How flattering. How at home you must feel!’

‘Well, I’m awake now, Dr Marks. If you don’t mind, I won’t call you Herman. It seems so informal.’

‘You are very nervous today, I can tell. In a very English mood,’ said Dr Herman.

‘I told you I was not feeling very well,’ said Annette.

‘And how does this mysterious “not well” affect you?’

‘I have a permanent headache,’ said Annette. ‘There seems to be a kind of space in my head where things aren’t connecting.’

‘You put it very well,’ said Dr Herman. ‘Things “not connecting”. Well, we will help if we can. Do you often get these headaches?’

‘No.’

‘But you have today. I wonder why?’

‘I’m not getting enough sleep,’ said Annette. ‘And when I do sleep I get dreams which wake me up. Or else it’s the baby kicking. I don’t know.’

‘And I figure in these dreams?’

‘Well, yes, come to think of it.’

‘In what way?’ asked Dr Herman. He bent towards her. The hairs in his nostrils were black, thick and curly. There was grey in his head hair but not in his nostrils.

‘Do we have to go into all this?’

‘I think perhaps we do,’ said Dr Herman. ‘And in some detail. You must learn to trust me; not to hold back. There is no blame in our sexual fantasies. You have already trusted me with many confidences. I really would prefer you to call me Herman. See me as a father: be a good daughter: call me what I ask.’

‘I could call you Doctor Herman,’ said Annette.

‘Thank you, Annette,’ said Dr Herman. ‘That is a satisfactory compromise. Many of your troubles stem from yourself as the daughter of a perhaps too loving father.’

‘That simply is not the case,’ said Annette. ‘He seemed to love me just about right. Still does.’

‘These memories are often buried,’ said Dr Herman. ‘It does not mean they are not there, simply that you have overlaid them. See what has just happened? I instructed you to call me Herman: at first you refuse: then you change your mind and obey, from which I deduce that you see me as the father, you oblige me with your obedience. You were unwilling; but how easily I am able to override you.’

‘I just wanted you to stop going on about it,’ said Annette.

‘You just wanted the father to stop,’ said Dr Herman. ‘How often do we not hear that story?’

‘Now hang on a minute,’ said Annette.

‘I think you protest too much, Annette. You identify me with your father; then you dream of me in intimate terms: now what are we to make of that? It was almost the first thing you told me. Practically bursting out of your lips.’

‘Actually, I’ve got too bad a headache to make much of anything, Dr Marks. Dr Herman. But I can promise you I was not the victim of child abuse at the hands of my father.’

‘At the hands of your father? Or something worse than hands?’

‘Do you have any aspirin?’ asked Annette.

‘Perhaps we should take your blood-pressure,’ said Dr Herman. ‘If you are having headaches. Just stand here beside me. There is no need to be nervous of physical contact. I am not your father in the real world, though in your dreams you fantasise that I am.’

‘I can go to my own doctor to have my blood-pressure taken. Really, I’d rather.’

‘But will you? Since you are avoiding treatment for both yourself and your baby?’

‘How do you know I’m avoiding treatment?’

‘You see! I am right. You are ambivalent about your baby. So others must look after it! Roll up your sleeve, please: I will wrap this black collar round your arm. The sleeve higher, please. It won’t roll up any further? Then I think you should take your blouse off altogether. When I have taken your blood-pressure, I will need to listen to your heart anyway. Don’t be prudish. I am a medical doctor. I have seen many a bare bosom in my time, even younger and prettier than yours—what are you ashamed of?’

‘Gilda,’ wept Annette, ‘please come and help me.’

‘Where are you? What’s the matter?’

‘I’m in a phone box at Finchley Road station.’

‘What’s happened?’

‘Gilda, it’s terrible. Awful. I’m in such a state.’

‘Shall I get hold of Spicer?’

‘No, just you. Quickly, please.’

‘Oh, thank you, Gilda. You are so kind,’ said Annette.

‘Just lie and soak in the bath, Annette. It will stop you trembling. Are you hurt anywhere? He didn’t actually rape you?’

‘Oh no, no,’ said Annette. ‘Of course not. His wife was in the house.’

‘Well, what?’

‘First he made me stand there without anything at all on top—’

‘Not even your bra? Most doctors let you keep your bra on when they take your blood-pressure.’

‘He forgot about my blood-pressure as soon as my blouse was off. He kept saying he wanted to listen to my heart,’ said Annette.

‘Then he complained about the little wired metal rose in the centre of my bra: he said it was interfering with the electronics of his stethoscope, so would I take the bra off, and I felt stupid not wanting to, as if I was seeing sexual implications when there weren’t any. What made me think I was so attractive anyway: pregnant women aren’t exactly fanciable by all and sundry, are they? A breast’s a breast in a medical context. So I took the bra off, but then he said there was something wrong with his stethoscope after all, and I just had to stand there while he found another, not sure whether I was meant to put my bra back on. There comes a moment when modesty is almost more suggestive than anything else. Then he did listen to my heart, and to my back while I coughed. He said my heart was okay. So what else was new! Then he felt my nipples, and said they were very engorged, and not very attractive, and my husband could hardly like them in that state. Then he pinched them; first one, then the other; he told me to see if they’d retract—’

‘Why didn’t you just kick him in the balls and run?’

‘I was kind of paralysed. It was so hard to believe. I thought it might be genuine, some kind of middle-European nipple test. How was I to know? He told me he was just making sure they were healthy,’ said Annette. ‘That it was extra-oestrogen not malignancy which was smudging them.’

‘So you just stood there?’

‘I was so taken by surprise,’ said Annette. ‘He seemed to be suggesting the reason I had marital difficulties was because Spicer must find me unattractive.’