book a pap-smear test press one.
‘To receive results of a recent pap-smear test only, press two; do not press this number if you require results from any other test.
‘To book a hospital appointment needing your doctor’s consent press three.
‘To change the date or time of a hospital appointment press four.
‘To request a repeat prescription press five.
‘To request a new prescription press six.
‘To request information for legal reasons which may be confidential from your personal file, press seven.
‘All those needing to speak with an operator press eight and stay on the line.’
I press eight to be greeted by a short burst of Barbra Streisand singing ‘Evergreen’, quickly interrupted by another message.
‘Thank you for calling. All our operators are busy. Please call back later. Our office hours are from 9.30 a.m. until 5 p.m.’
I phone back again. And again, swearing as I hit the redial button. Would it be quicker to walk there? At 1.28 p.m. I finally get through and ask for Donna, the technician.
‘Hello, Jo-wanna,’ she says, uncertainly. ‘How you doin’ today?’
‘Oh fine. I was just calling to get my results from the blood tests on Friday.’
‘Right, just hang on, Joanna, I’m gonna get Dr Beth to explain them to ya. Stay right where y’are.’ And before I can say anything I hear her pick up another receiver. ‘Dr Beth? Ya gotta minute? I got Joanna Coles on the line, you said to call you when she got through?’
‘Hi, Joanna,’ says Dr Beth. ‘It’s not good news I’m afraid.’
I feel my insides deflate.
‘To be honest with you, hun, I don’t know exactly what’s going on, you’re certainly something – but it’s not pregnant. We need you to come back and have another blood test. Can you come in soon, like this afternoon?’
‘How do you mean it’s certainly something?’ I ask, feeling weak.
‘Are you OK, hun?’ asks Dr Beth.
‘Um, yes, just a bit disappointed,’ I mumble. ‘I could be there in about ten minutes? Do you think it’s something serious?’
‘Nah, probably not, but we need to make sure, OK? I’ll tell Donna to expect you,’ she says, before adding gently, ‘I’ll speak to you tomorrow, when we’ve got the new results in. And take care, OK?’
I call Peter, but he’s out so I leave a message. ‘I’ve got to go back for more blood tests,’ I say melodramatically. ‘But apparently I’m still not pregnant.’
Ovarian cysts, cancer, fibroids, early menopause … I run through the list in the cab as we hurtle down Fifth, past New York’s glorious Public Library, which my mother once compared unfavourably to Leeds Town Hall, and swing onto 30th Street in front of the surgery.
After taking a photocopy of my insurance card, the receptionist sends me straight through to Donna. ‘Did you wanna be pregnant?’ she asks sympathetically.
I nod, suddenly realizing that after years of denying it, I really do.
‘What do you think is wrong?’ I manage.
‘Well, a reading of under five is definitely negative. Your score was eleven, which is too low to be positive but too high to be negative, so that’s why we’re doing you another test. Do you feel pregnant?’
I shrug, suddenly exhausted, as she snaps on her gloves again and taps my arm. ‘This time call me on my direct line and I’ll give you the results myself,’ she whispers, handing me her card.
Friday, 15 May Peter
I am determined not to allow the wait for my test results to paralyse me into a state of limbo. I must keep active. Physically active. Today I decide to go rollerblading along Riverside Walk. This stretch of sidewalk from Chelsea Piers down to Battery Park must be one of the most congenial rollerblading courses in the world. It is a safe, level, cement strip with views on one side across the Hudson River and on the other over to Greenwich Village then TriBeCa, City Hall and the World Trade Towers.
I am a reasonable blader, about intermediate level, I think. I very seldom fall, but I take no chances, strapping myself into my matte black safety gear: helmet, elbow pads, wrist protectors with Velcro fasteners and plastic reinforcers, mittens, and knee pads with black plastic cups over the joints themselves. Thus attired, I can blade for about fifteen minutes before I need to rest, or else I risk cramping up. I think there is something wrong with my blading posture. I have even been to blading school at Chelsea Piers, once. I went to the intermediate class, where I found myself surrounded by large middle-aged women and small children. I was the only adult male. Since then I have tried to self-tutor by watching other, more advanced bladers and attempting to ape them, straightening my back and assuming a more open, balletic posture. Invariably I soon revert to my clenched, bent stance.
There is one physical barrier that seriously blights my blading enjoyment. It is the West Side Highway, the eight-lane stream of traffic that I am forced to cross to get to the river walk. Although there is a pedestrian crossing, the flashing green man has been wrongly adjusted by the Traffic Department. For intermediate bladers like myself, he provides an inadequately fleeting window of opportunity in which to blade across, and the impatient traffic sits on the line revving up for their green, like racing cars waiting for a chequered starting-flag to fall. Nor is it unknown for them to jump the lights. I find that under the close scrutiny of eight rows of New York drivers, my blading deteriorates significantly. I wobble nervously and falter like a beginner. Once I reach the other side I feel triumphant, liberated. Until the time approaches to cross again, as it always does.
But today, today is my last crossing of the West Side Highway. Today I have almost reached the other side when, unaccountably, my left skate jams and I fall heavily – just as the lights turn in favour of a grid of trucks. The Mack truck nearest me releases its brakes with a menacing pneumatic wheeze, kicks into gear and advances. I look up desperately, but my perspective is too low to allow me to see the driver, too low to fix him with pleading eyes. The truck looms dangerously and then emits a vast, throaty, customized hoot. My whole body resonates, right to the fillings in my molars. I scuttle desperately to the kerb, a spidery, Gothic figure in my matte black safety outfit and the goat’s hooves of my black skates. I felt that I must look like one of those Calcutta pavement cripples, cosmetically enhanced by callous relatives for more proficient begging. I haul myself up over the concrete lip to safety, where I sit, feeling the laughter of the driver wash over me. Fast, proficient skaters, the ones I have been trying to emulate, blade gracefully past me.
‘Bad blades, man. You OK?’ yells one cheerily, as he whisks past shirtless, and without any safety gear, casually ramping some substantial obstacle. He is well out of earshot before I can reply.
I bend down to examine my recalcitrant skate, expecting to find a shard of gravel from the nearby roadworks, wedged in my axle. Instead I find a used condom has wrapped itself around a wheel with the aid of a puce blob of chewing gum. I gingerly peel off the condom and its attendant gluey tendrils of gum, remove my skates and hobble home in my socks.
I check for phone messages, but my test results still aren’t in.
Monday, 18 May Joanna
Though part of me wants to sit and obsess until the next set of results comes through, Peter persuades me that I would be better kept busy and so, at 7 p.m., we set off for the Royal Shakespeare Company’s summer fund-raiser organized by Tina Brown, the editor of the New Yorker. It takes place at the Manhattan Center, a vast indoor stadium in midtown. As we arrive, a motorcade of stretch limos is disgorging its passengers.