of sight at the moment, but which the specialist would no doubt expose when he examined her, were the ring on her right nipple, the one through her belly button and the one in the front of her vagina, the insertion of which she had coyly confessed to her mother, in one of their rare moments ofcloseness, had been rather embarrassing .
This truly had turned into the day from hell, Lynn thought. Since leaving Dr Hunter’s surgery this morning, then returning with Caitlin this afternoon, her whole life seemed to have been upended, as if it had gone through a seismic shift.
And now her phone was ringing. She pulled it out of her handbag and looked at the display. It was Mal.
‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Where are you?’
‘Just coming through the lock at Shoreham. We’ve had a shitty day–dredged up a corpse. But tellme about Caitlin.’
She filled him in on her consultations with Dr Hunter, all the time eyeing Caitlin, who was still pacing around the waiting room, which was about a third of the size of Dr Hunter’s. She was now picking up and putting down one magazine after the other with great urgency, as if she needed to read all of them but could not decide where to begin.
‘I’ll actually know more in about an hour. We’ve just come from Dr Hunter straight to the specialist. Are you going to be in range for a while?’
‘At least four hours,’ he said. ‘Might be longer.’
‘OK.’
Dr Granger’s secretary appeared. A matronly woman in her fifties, with her hair in a tight bun, she had a distancing smile on her face. ‘Dr Granger will see you both now.’
‘I’ll call you back,’ Lynn said.
Unlike Ross Hunter’s spacious surgery, Dr Granger’s consulting room was a cramped space, on the first floor, with barely enough room for the two chairs in front of his small desk. Angled so that they could be clearly seen by all his patients were framed photographs of a perfect, smiling consultant’s wife and three equally perfect, smiling children.
Dr Granger was a tall man in his forties, with a big nose and a thinning thatch of hair, dressed in a pinstriped suit, with a crisp shirt and a neat tie. There was a slight aloofness about him, which made Lynn think he could as easily have passed for a barrister as a doctor.
‘Please sit down,’ he said, opening a brown folder, inside which Lynn could see a letter from Ross Hunter. He then sat down himself, reading it.
Lynn took and gently squeezed Caitlin’s hand, and her daughter made no effort to remove it. Dr Granger was making her feel uncomfortable. She didn’t like his coldness, or the over-the-top display of family photos. They seemed to give out a message that read, I am OK and you are not. What I have to say will make no difference to my life. I will go home tonight and have dinner and watch TV and then perhaps tell my wife I want sex with her, and you–well, tough…you will wake up tomorrow in your private hell, and I will wake up as I do every morning, full of the joys of spring and with my happy children.
Having finished reading, he leaned forward with the faintest thaw in his expression. ‘How are you feeling, Caitlin?’
She shrugged, then was silent for some moments. Lynn waited for her to speak. Caitlin extracted her hand from her mother’s and began scratching the back of each hand in rotation.
‘I itch,’ she said. ‘I itch everywhere. Even my lips itch.’
‘Anything else?’
‘I’m tired.’ She looked sulky suddenly. Her normal look. ‘I want to feel better,’ she said.
‘Do you feel a little unsteady?’
She bit her lip, then nodded.
‘I think Dr Hunter has told you the results of the tests.’
Caitlin nodded again, without making eye contact, then rummaged in her soft, zebra-striped handbag and pulled out her mobile phone.
The consultant’s eyes widened as Caitlin stabbed some buttons, reading the display. ‘Yes,’ she said distantly, as if to herself. ‘Yup, he told me.’
‘Yes,’ Lynn stepped in hastily.
This truly had turned into the day from hell, Lynn thought. Since leaving Dr Hunter’s surgery this morning, then returning with Caitlin this afternoon, her whole life seemed to have been upended, as if it had gone through a seismic shift.
And now her phone was ringing. She pulled it out of her handbag and looked at the display. It was Mal.
‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Where are you?’
‘Just coming through the lock at Shoreham. We’ve had a shitty day–dredged up a corpse. But tellme about Caitlin.’
She filled him in on her consultations with Dr Hunter, all the time eyeing Caitlin, who was still pacing around the waiting room, which was about a third of the size of Dr Hunter’s. She was now picking up and putting down one magazine after the other with great urgency, as if she needed to read all of them but could not decide where to begin.
‘I’ll actually know more in about an hour. We’ve just come from Dr Hunter straight to the specialist. Are you going to be in range for a while?’
‘At least four hours,’ he said. ‘Might be longer.’
‘OK.’
Dr Granger’s secretary appeared. A matronly woman in her fifties, with her hair in a tight bun, she had a distancing smile on her face. ‘Dr Granger will see you both now.’
‘I’ll call you back,’ Lynn said.
Unlike Ross Hunter’s spacious surgery, Dr Granger’s consulting room was a cramped space, on the first floor, with barely enough room for the two chairs in front of his small desk. Angled so that they could be clearly seen by all his patients were framed photographs of a perfect, smiling consultant’s wife and three equally perfect, smiling children.
Dr Granger was a tall man in his forties, with a big nose and a thinning thatch of hair, dressed in a pinstriped suit, with a crisp shirt and a neat tie. There was a slight aloofness about him, which made Lynn think he could as easily have passed for a barrister as a doctor.
‘Please sit down,’ he said, opening a brown folder, inside which Lynn could see a letter from Ross Hunter. He then sat down himself, reading it.
Lynn took and gently squeezed Caitlin’s hand, and her daughter made no effort to remove it. Dr Granger was making her feel uncomfortable. She didn’t like his coldness, or the over-the-top display of family photos. They seemed to give out a message that read, I am OK and you are not. What I have to say will make no difference to my life. I will go home tonight and have dinner and watch TV and then perhaps tell my wife I want sex with her, and you–well, tough…you will wake up tomorrow in your private hell, and I will wake up as I do every morning, full of the joys of spring and with my happy children.
Having finished reading, he leaned forward with the faintest thaw in his expression. ‘How are you feeling, Caitlin?’
She shrugged, then was silent for some moments. Lynn waited for her to speak. Caitlin extracted her hand from her mother’s and began scratching the back of each hand in rotation.
‘I itch,’ she said. ‘I itch everywhere. Even my lips itch.’
‘Anything else?’
‘I’m tired.’ She looked sulky suddenly. Her normal look. ‘I want to feel better,’ she said.
‘Do you feel a little unsteady?’
She bit her lip, then nodded.
‘I think Dr Hunter has told you the results of the tests.’
Caitlin nodded again, without making eye contact, then rummaged in her soft, zebra-striped handbag and pulled out her mobile phone.
The consultant’s eyes widened as Caitlin stabbed some buttons, reading the display. ‘Yes,’ she said distantly, as if to herself. ‘Yup, he told me.’
‘Yes,’ Lynn stepped in hastily.
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