The Rachel Incident(83)

My editor saw me struggling to put my coat on one day, my Velcro hand sticking to the inside lining.

“Rachel, for fuck’s sake,” he said. “Go see a physio.”

I was pretty sure that my injury had come from typing, on the kitchen counter, on the coffee table, and in my bed. I made an appointment for a physiotherapist, only after my editor confirmed that they would pay for it. I took myself and my Velcro hand to Pimlico and sat in a treatment room with a fibreglass model of the human spine.

“Rachel Murray?”

I looked up, still cradling my huge hand.

And there, eight years after he left me in Shandon Street, was James Carey.

James Carey, thirty-five years old, with lines on his forehead.

James Carey, built like a terrier and just as common, somehow wider and squarer than I had ever known him, the strawberry-blond hair shorter, but all him, all Carey.

James Carey, who once told me that I did not understand the point of loving people, who said that when you loved them you loved all of them.

James Carey, the first sexual partner I had legitimately orgasmed with. Here he was, holding a clipboard that said I was experiencing wrist trouble, had no history of blood clots, and was not allergic to penicillin.

“Carey,” I said.

It was like the word had opened a portal, and he had to decide whether or not to step through it. I remembered that I was the only one to ever call him that. He stepped through the portal.

“Rachel,” he said. “Your hair.”

It was still short, a little longer than a pixie cut, and ashy blonde.

“I cut it,” I said.

“When?”

“Um…” I thought about it carefully. “Twenty thirteen?”

He put his clipboard down, and started to laugh. I laughed, too, out of awkwardness. I wasn’t really sure what we were laughing at, my hair or the year 2013.

“Well, give me a hug then, you silly cow.”

He smelled like a person who showers every day, and like a man who puts a scent on, and both the cleanliness and the scent were so alien to me that I wondered if this really was the James Carey who broke my heart. But the hug went on, and my nose picked up on that faint earthiness living under the clean body. I wondered if he was doing the same, if that was the reason that the hug was going on six seconds longer than the hug of old friends. I wondered if he could find the Rachel underneath the patient who had just walked into his office.

When we parted, we could not stop laughing at each other. “What the fuck is this all about?” I spluttered. “Why are you pretending to be my physiotherapist?”

“Because I am your fucking physiotherapist.”

“I’m sorry. Last time I saw James Carey, he worked in a bread shop.”

I almost bit my lip in the lie. No, I thought. The last time I saw James Carey, he was gazing out the window of Shandon Street, wondering if there was anything left of the girl he thought he loved.

“I didn’t even know you were interested in this…” I gestured to the model of the human spine. “Stuff.”

“I know, I know. But it was either this or prison, wasn’t it?”

“I actually imagined something more glamorous and squalid, like you’d end up drinking yourself to death under a bridge.”

“Was I really such a fuck-up, then?”

“This from the man who shoplifted grains of salt from Paul Street Shopping Centre.”

“God, Rache, even as I was doing that, I knew: this girl is going to put it in a book one day.”

I grinned, overcome with happiness at seeing him.

“Carey,” I said, “what are you doing here?”

“Well, according to this chart, I’ve got to see a woman with RSI.”

“What’s that?”

“Repetitive Strain Injury. From typing, I assume? Are you a writer now, something like that? Working in books, like you wanted?”

“Journalist,” I answered. “I’m actually working overtime at the moment, covering Repeal.”

He nodded. “My sisters are doing loads for that back home. Getting it in the North, you know.”

“The women in the North tend to get ignored in this debate,” I said, sounding like I was on a panel for women in media.

“Yes, and all they get told is how ignored they are.” We both laughed again, amazed that we could sound so grown up with one another.

“Sorry, how are we talking about this?” I said.

“I know!

“Look,” he said, “I need to look at your fucking wrist. I’m off at six. We could get a drink after?”

It was four o’clock. Could I wait around for two hours for James Carey? Was I still that Rachel Murray?

“I actually have to go back to work,” I said. “But I could meet you this weekend? Proper catch-up?”

He looked disappointed. “Yeah. Yeah, yeah. The weekend. Look, I’ll give you my number, and we can sort it. Let’s look at the wrist, will we?” He gestured at my horrible Velcro glove. “Take off that thing.”

I wondered if he was married, or had children, or a girlfriend. He was a man in his thirties, and men in their thirties are never single unless there’s something wrong with them. I had heard this from many trusted sources.

He sat down on the chair opposite me, and took my wrist in his hands. The warm circle of his fingers like a bracelet.