curtain, and the chair squeaks as she gets up. “No no! Stay there! Please!” She can hear his breathing. “I feel so ... free after your visits; you can’t imagine how comforting it is for me to know that I can actually get an erection again; that everything still works. But I have this wave of nausea, of disgust even, at what I am putting you through; at what I’m doing. ”
“Please you don’t ha...”
“Don’t talk! Don’t talk!
Veronica waits.
“I just want you to know I appreciate your attention to detail, your commitment. Commitment to ... me.” She can hear noises from his throat, through his breathy words and knows he is crying. “I feel so lost sometimes, less of a ... man - oh, if you only knew how hard it is for me to say that word. Man. I am a ... man. You make me feel like a man again. Oha ... Oha.” And then only the breathing remains. “I just wanted to say,” with hardly any breath at all, just breathing, breathing, and then nothing. Silence. The toes of his shoes are all she sees under the hem of the curtain. Finally the doctor emerges. He clothes are fully restored. He walks to his seat, sits and attends to his keyboard never once looking at her. The on-line transactions are confirmed and he remains silent as he tends to these little formalities. She continues to glance at the photo and she becomes aware of a little pain in her temples. She recognises it as envy and worry: envious of what he has and worry at what he may be fucking up. She takes a deep breath and straightens her back as if to shed herself of something annoying. Whatever she is reading into the photo the fact remains that they are a family, something Jack doesn’t completely have. His softness, reticence and shyness worry her and especially at times like this when she sees evidence of an alternative, and more conventional, relationship but one that she would not fuck up. Her intelligence, education and common sense tell her that. Jack is not only the reason but also the excuse, she knows this: she also needs a man in her life.
“Thank you Susan,” says the doctor calmly, “very satisfactory.”
“Thank you, Charles,” says Veronica, her Mrs. Abbott voice is no longer needed.
“OK. Transfer completed, with a little bonus. Very satisfactory indeed.”
“I’m glad you’re pleased,” says Veronica with a smile.
“Now, present this slip to my receptionist and I will email you as usual with details of our next appointment.”
“Fine,” says Veronica as she takes the proffered piece of paper. “Have a nice day.” She stands.
“And you too,” says the doctor and still without looking directly at her. He has never once looked into her eyes. This, now, annoys her.
“Charles,” she says softly.
“Yes?” He replies only half turning towards her.
“Charles,” she repeats a little more forcefully.
“Yes?" He says again and, this time, he turns to face her. Veronica holds his gaze for a moment and she can see the vulnerability, the hurt and humiliation in his eyes. He looks away.
“Remember that any changes you would like to make, for any reason, just include them in your email. The session is yours, Charles; you are the one in control.” She knows this is not true but she feels he needs to hear it. There’s more to work on with this man than a long lost love. Veronica leaves the room and closes the door quietly. She stops off at the toilet, washes her hands thoroughly, checks herself in the mirror, avoiding her own gaze, and returns to the waiting room.
Back at the receptionist’s desk, she handed the piece of paper to the receptionist, who politely took it and referred to her screen. Veronica tried to imagine the man in this woman’s life. She assessed the woman’s features, small chin, pinched mouth, hair tending to oiliness and decided that her man is someone very busy and not much at home. The three rings, engagement, wedding and eternity, an old-fashioned cipher, seemed to suggest otherwise. She then handed back Veronica’s Medicare card and politely wished her a good afternoon. Veronica smiled in reply and left the suite.
It took her only half an hour this time to get back to her office; the traffic was unusually sparse, a good omen? She allowed herself a little self-indulgence: a calm feeling of a job well done, a satisfied customer, and a little lift to her growing reputation. Back in her office, she turned on her laptop and disappeared into the bathroom for a quick shower. As she dressed in her house clothes, she logged onto internet banking to check her account; the doctor’s transfer wouldn’t be there until tomorrow but she got a little buzz to see her bank balance and its reflection of her enterprise, her self-confidence and her firm grasp on the future. She had done this on her own. She was earning a living, supporting her son, and living, not extravagantly, but she had few money worries and if an emergency arrived she could deal with it. She then clicked on the Google icon and searched for dating websites. She was not surprised by the incredibly large number of possibilities but decided that she needed more time to deal with this properly. If each of these websites could supply twenty possible male-matches to her profile it indicated that there were thousands of male possibilities, why then did she think that finding one was not going to be easy? She closed down her computer.
Instead she studied her work clothes and decided to hang them back in the wardrobe but she put the wig in a plastic bag in her shoulder bag: it needed a wash.
As she locked her front door, her mobile phone rang its distinctive tone: “Knowing me, knowing you, ha-hah.....” Mother. And walked with it to the stairs, avoiding the lift.
“How are you?”
“I’m fine but you sound like you’re in a drum.”
“I’m walking down the fire escape.”
“Why? Have you stopped going to the gym?”
“No, but I was walking to the lift when you called, so, in order to take your call, I decided on the stairs: there’s no reception in lifts. Aren’t I considerate?”
“Yes, I suppose you are. The days, since we last spoke have been exactly the same as each other so there’s been nothing really to ring you about. Until now.”
“What’s happened?”
“I’ll tell you when you’re here.”
“OK. I’m on my way to an appointment now” she didn’t say that it was just coffee with Diane, “so I could be there at about two. OK?”
“You don’t need to make an appointment. I don’t go anywhere. I’m always here. You can just drop in, you know.” Veronica knew that that was exactly what she couldn’t do: Why didn’t you call? You think I’m just sitting here waiting for you to drop in?
“My life is run by appointments. You taught me that.”
“Yes, I suppose I did,” says her mother with a sigh.
“See you at two then. Bye.” She put her mobile back in her bag. She had to stop for a moment and adjust her gait: she was walking too fast and with steps that loudly proclaimed indignation, or was it exoneration? Mothers! Anyway, by now she was walking along the street to a small cafe called Flora where Diane was waiting for her and she quickly forgot about her mother and Diane took her place.
3
She slowed as she could see Diane up ahead, sitting at one of Flora’s footpath tables. The woman was unaware of her approach. Diane was a little younger, 31, but looked a little older, she thought. Veronica was worried about her: she was very thin and a lack of meat on her bones was taking its toll on her face. She was also one of those women who dressed and cared for themselves in a style that had passed: she had followed fashionable trends like the rest of her contemporaries but at some point it was as if she decided that ‘now’ she looked the best she would ever look and so ‘this’ was the look she would forever have. The trouble was the ‘now’ happened seven years ago when pony tails and big patterned skirts had a brief revival (she was so pleased about this at the time) but the fad had gone as quickly as it had