Like you said, so near to work.
I stared up at your building. The lights went on in the first-floor windows. I imagined you in there. Furious. Tearing off your soaked shirt. Thinking of her.
And already I didn’t like it.
For the remainder of the week, whenever my mind wandered towards romantic notions about you, I forced myself to focus on your negatives. From the microscopic particle of spittle that flew from your mouth and landed on my arm when we discussed Mrs Jamison’s scan to the once-white-now-grey crumpled hanky you’d repeatedly pull from your trouser pocket because of your ‘bloody hay fever’. And on the Thursday you gave me the gift of wearing a salmon-pink jumper around your shoulders.
All may have remained that way, had the following not happened on the Friday.
I was gagging for the weekend, even though I knew it would involve a PlayStation tutorial from Dale. Linda had left early for the dentist, and Alison had taken a day’s holiday to climb Mount Snowdon with her rambling club. Both Dr Short and Dr Franco had said their goodbyes a while back. Harris’s last patient had left some time ago, but he was lingering in his office as always, and you were still in with Mr Brown after a peculiarly long time.
Unable to go home until all patients had left, I tidied reception and gathered my belongings for a quick escape. At five twenty, when I was considering popping out for a desperate fag, Mr Brown finally emerged, unresponsive to my smile or small talk. But I soon regretted mumbling ‘Rude’ under my breath as I turned for the stapler, because when I went into his file, I saw the diagnosis for colon cancer. I wonder if he’s still alive.
When I went to your office to ask permission to leave, your head was in your hands. I was unsure if you were angsting over Mr Brown or her. You looked up at me, your smile as phoney as my own.
‘Yes, of course . . . If you’ve done everything Dr Harris wants you to do?’
I nodded.
‘Well then, get off with you. Enjoy the weekend.’
As usual, the first hit of nicotine made everything better. Aside from my cough. Pausing at the top of the steps, I closed my eyes, relished the sensation. My head light with chemicals, I gathered my senses and set off towards the station.
It’s difficult to relay exactly what occurred next, as it happened in simultaneous fast forward and slow motion. I’m unsure if I made a noise. Or swore. But I recall my arms circling the air one moment, then the next my legs buckling beneath me. Immediate pain dispersed through my ankle, and my cheek burned against the abruptly met slab of cold pavement.
Dazed, I looked beyond the bottle top that brushed my lashes as I blinked towards my bag and its scattered contents. Just able to make out my phone, a Tampax and the Crunchy bar I’d searched everywhere for the previous night.
I’m not sure how long I was down, waiting for someone to come to my aid, but no one did, so I pushed myself up to reveal grazed, bloody palms, ingrained with tiny stones and particles of dirt.
A car sped past. My already pounding heart accelerated faster than the vehicle. Several attempts to stand ended in failure. The agony when I tried to put weight on my right foot was unbearable, making me want to chuck. Shock subsiding, tears came.
After hopping towards my bag, and managing, with difficulty, to bend down and retrieve both it and the contents, I turned back, and noticed the culprit. That same bastard bit of pavement I tripped on with Dale.
Gathering my remaining energy, I hopped back towards the steps and levered myself up the flight, the handrail acting as my crutch, then pushed the door open and called out your name. It must have been loud. Perhaps hysterical. As within seconds both you and Dr Harris were standing in front of me.
‘What on earth, girl?’ said Harris.
You placed my arm around your warm neck. Dipped to even our heights. ‘Constance, what the hell has happened?’
‘Did it happen in here?’ said Dr Harris.
I shook my head and gave in to the sobbing. ‘Outside, on the pavement.’
‘OK. Good . . . Well then, there, there . . . you poor girl.’ He turned to you and said, ‘Will you see to her?’ Then disappeared back into his room.
‘Come on. Let’s look at you.’ Cheek to cheek, an uncomfortable tango, you manoeuvred me into your office and lowered me gently onto the patient’s chair. It was strange being in such proximity to you and I was overwhelmingly self-conscious.
‘So, go on. What the hell did you do?’
I attempted to stop crying, though my words remained staccato. ‘I . . . I don’t know . . . My foot, it’s . . . killing me . . . It was . . . the fucking pavement. Sorry.’
‘That’s OK – you can say “fucking”. I don’t mind.’ You smiled. A smile I knew you wanted me to reciprocate, as if you were attempting to pacify a scriking child. I obliged. You pulled tissues from the box on your desk and handed them to me. Until then, I’d been oblivious to the string of snot hanging from my nostrils. I quickly wiped it away, hoping to erase it from both our memories as well as my nose.
It was then you crouched in front of me. Undid my laces with care. Gentle. Slow. You removed the shoe, like a reverse Cinderella, exposing my sock and the hole in its toe (which definitely never happened in Cinderella). Then you peeled that off with precision, making me wince as it disturbed the bruised skin.
I fixated on you the whole time. Concentrated on you concentrating.
‘Oh dear,’ you said.
My stare was broken and I glanced down. My foot was already bluing and looked as though an egg had been inserted under the skin. Tears rose again.
‘Don’t worry – I’ve seen worse.’
Your cold hands cupped my heel. Cold hands, warm heart, Mum would say. My self-consciousness increased. I hadn’t been touched for so long. And it wasn’t just anyone’s touch; it was yours.
Following your commands, I attempted to flex, point and wiggle my toes. None of which I could do successfully. Or at least not without experiencing pain I wasn’t prepared to inflict on myself. You pushed up the bottom of my trouser leg, but it refused to budge past the ankle.
‘You’ll have to take them off,’ you said.
I was convinced I hadn’t outwardly shown my anguish at this request, but you followed with ‘Don’t be silly, Constance. I’m a doctor.’
After turning away, you gathered various items into a steel tray. I undid my zip. Pulled them down. It proved difficult, as I had to remain seated, and accidentally brought my knickers with them before immediately whipping them back up. I sat there. Stretching my shirt as far over my thighs as I could, noticing how your hair was more unkempt at the back, the bottom strands matted with sweat.
You turned back round, with the pretence it was a coincidence I’d finished undressing. Once dropped into your chair, you wheeled yourself over.
‘OK . . . let’s see what’s going on here. Can you straighten your leg for me?’
You stretched it towards you, my calf in your hands. The sensation trickled towards my inner thigh. You were unaware of my reddened face as your fingertips pressed my pale flesh, inch by inch, downwards from my knee. With each application of pressure, you asked if it hurt. It didn’t, until you reached my ankle and I made it clear with an almighty ‘Jesus, yes.’ You remained silent, focused. Didn’t make eye contact with me once.