Read Online Golden Boy by Abigail Tarttelin - Free Book Online Page B

Walker.’
    Max sits down in the chair opposite me.
    ‘No, Walker. W-a-l-k-e-r.’
    I roll my eyes at the phone for Max’s benefit. He gives a weak grin and looks ready to burst into tears.
    ‘Yes, that’s it,’ I say into the phone, and replace the receiver.
    Max is staring worriedly at an appointment slip left on my desk and wriggling uncomfortably on the chair.
    I sit in my chair opposite him. ‘Now, what have you come to talk to me about today?’
    Max takes a deep breath, but falters. ‘Is this confidential?’
    ‘Yes.’
    This is not strictly true. There are various grounds on which I am able to break confidentiality, and I have done so before. But, by and large, confidentiality is key to being trusted, so I don’t explain the nuances of that statement. Particularly when it comes to helping young people.
    He looks doubtful, but swallows, attempting to smile. I watch it fading gradually from his face, beat by beat, coming back as he pushes for it, fading away as he loses faith.
    ‘OK, um . . .’ he says, wetting his lips. ‘I need a morning-after pill.’
    The click of the door interrupts us, and we are silent as the receptionist slips in and places Max’s file on my desk. She leaves, closing the door behind her.
    I nod. ‘May I ask why?’
    He swallows and shifts forward then backward in the chair.
    ‘Is it for a girl? Because I’m afraid she has to come in.’
    He shakes his head. ‘No, it’s for me.’ He pauses. ‘You should probably read my file.’
    I reach for his file. The cover reads: Max Walker, D.O.B 25 September 1996. I look up.
    ‘It’s alright, I’ll wait.’ He looks over at the window. I watch him struggling to smile to himself, to grin, like it’s a drag, like it’s an irony. I close the file without reading it.
    ‘Don’t you just want to tell me what is relevant?’
    He looks back at me, alarmed, then breathes out slowly, calming himself. ‘Alright.’ His hand brushes his hair behind his ear and he blinks. ‘I’m intersex.’
    ‘I see.’
    ‘Like, a hermaphrodite.’
    ‘I understand. I haven’t seen you before, have I? We run a clinic on Tuesdays and Thur—’
    He interrupts me. ‘I had specialists. I mean, I have specialists. So I haven’t seen you about . . . anything to do with this before. I came in once when I had a stomach bug, but I think you weren’t here. I saw a nurse.’
    I nod. ‘Wouldn’t you prefer to see your specialists now?’
    ‘Well . . . I can’t drive. They’re in London. On Harley Street.’
    ‘Do you want me to arrange for someone to take you to the train station in Oxford?’
    ‘I don’t want to see them. They’re . . . they ask a lot of questions and stuff.’
    ‘I see.’
    ‘Can’t I just see you?’
    ‘Yes, of course you can. I deal with all sorts of conditions. I have to warn you, I haven’t had too much experience with intersexuality.’
    ‘Have you had any?’
    ‘Yes, I have. I’ve worked with some cases featuring genital variations when I was training. But if you like we can talk about anything you want to and then if I feel I don’t know enough to advise you, we can look at specialists – with your permission. Does that sound good?’
    Max tucks a leg underneath himself, shifting nervously, and nods.
    ‘I’m just going to scan your file, now I know what I’m looking for.’
    ‘’Kay,’ he whispers.
    I look down at his file again and open it. Max is quiet while I flip through. Most people have fairly slim A5 files. Max’s is bulging out of the cardboard folder, most of it faxed over from several NHS hospitals and, later, a private clinic on Harley Street. The papers include: possible diagnoses from his birth, then final diagnosis with several addendums added in later years, advice and opinions of a number of doctors on operations, what should be done, what could be done, preserving fertility, later references to a consensus statement on management of intersex patients with a redefined diagnosis for Max, then a