I swallowed again as the tears that had been an ache behind my eyes since he said it sounds like it has been hard for a long time began to spill down my face. Robert picked up a box of tissues and because it turned out to be empty, he took out his own handkerchief and passed it across the distance of carpet between us. I wiped my face and wondered who ironed this man’s handkerchiefs for him.
I asked him why no one else had thought of it, apart from the Scottish doctor who wasn’t even sure.
‘I would say it’s because you’ve been managing it so well, for many years.’
I could not stop crying because the only thing I thought I had managed well was being a difficult, too-sensitive person. Robert got up and poured me a glass of water. I made myself sit up straight and say thank you. I drank half of it, then said —— out loud to see what it felt like, applying that word to myself.
He returned to his chair, smoothed out his tie and said, ‘That’s my sense, yes.’
‘Well.’ I breathed in slowly and out again. ‘Hopefully it’s just the twenty-four-hour kind.’
Robert smiled. ‘I hear it’s been going around. Would you be interested to try what I generally prescribe for that, Martha? It tends to be very effective.’
I said alright and quietly looked out the window at the Victorian buildings on the other side of Harley Street while he began my prescription. They were so beautiful. I did not know if they had been built for sick people. I didn’t think so much trouble would have been taken if they had been. I turned back to Robert saying, ‘You’ll have to pardon the speed of my typing. I had a contretemps with a tomato.’ I asked him if he’d needed stitches. As he loaded the printer, he said a half a dozen in fact.
At the end, we came together at the door and Robert said he would look forward to seeing me again in six weeks. I wanted to say something more than thank you but all I said was, ‘You are a nice person’ in a way that embarrassed us both, and after shaking hands again, I turned and walked quickly back to the waiting room.
The receptionist took my payment and said, ‘That turned into a double appointment but it seems the doctor has put it through as a single.’
I asked her if that was rare. She said very.
*
Outside, I put on my coat against a wet mist and walked slowly towards the chemist on Wigmore Street. Part way, I stopped in the middle of the footpath and got out my phone. A man coming towards me on a scooter had to swerve out of the way. He said fuckssake watch it. I stepped back into the doorway of a closed-down restaurant and Googled ——， clicking on an American medical website that presents all its information in quiz format, or as articles with headings that read like a supermarket women’s magazine if you imagine them with exclamation marks. Ingrid used it before Hamish blocked it on her browser because, she told me, literally whatever symptoms you put in, you always have cancer.
I sat down on the step and scrolled down.
——： Symptoms, Treatments and More!
——： Myths and Facts!
Living with ——？ Nine Foods to Avoid!
I wished my sister was with me, to take my phone and pretend to read on. Easy Weeknight Meals for People with ——！ Five Weeks to a Flat Stomach for —— Havers. Think You’ve Got ——？ It’s Probably Just Cancer!
I scrolled past —— and Pregnancy because I already knew what it would say and clicked on —— Symptoms: How Many Can You Name? I could name them all. If it were a game show, I would have a chance at the car.
*
I walked out of the chemist and, reaching the station, realised I didn’t want to go home. I decided to walk to Notting Hill instead. I had no reason for going there, except it would take a long time. It was starting to get dark when I got to the edge of the park. I walked along the cycle path, waiting to cry. The pill bottle rattled inside my bag with every step. I didn’t cry. I just looked up at the trees, their black branches dripping rain, and held Robert’s dry handkerchief inside my pocket.
At the top of the Broad Walk, I thought about Patrick accidently hitting Ingrid in the chest when we were teenagers, and now, at the Executive Home, cleaning up the mess I had left, waiting for me to get back from wherever I was.
I got my phone out as I walked. Contacts, Favourites, Patrick as HUSBAND. I did not know what he was going to say or what I hoped he would say. Continuing ahead I imagined him hugging me, asking me if I was okay. Being shocked, contesting Robert’s diagnosis, saying obviously we need a second opinion. Or ‘now I think about it, that makes sense.’ I put my phone away and left the park at the next gate.