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Authors: Jane Costello
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here, but I must say none of them look especially reckless or stupid or – the word on everyone’s tongue – slutty.
The wait is interminable, but my mind is occupied in flipping between several issues. First, Asha: who was at my flat until midnight last night trying, between frenzied sobs, to get hold of Toby
to confess her mistake. He was at a black-tie event – with Christina – and simply reassured her to leave it with him. She was unreassured.
Then there’s my itching, which I’d almost convinced myself I was imagining until I walked through the door here, since when it’s increased tenfold.
And that brings me to the final issue. How I’d never be in this mess if I hadn’t dumped Rob. There’s no way Rob would’ve given me something that made me feel like
I’m wearing a wire-wool G-string, that’s for certain.
How I crave being part of a couple again, without having to deal with this crap. I keep thinking about his arms round me, how warm and loved I felt and what the hell possessed me to do what I
did.
I’m hit by a flashback of the night I introduced him to Cally and Asha at our local pub quiz – and how impressive and lovely they thought he was, without being remotely showy. They
warmed to him instantly – everyone does. I close my eyes at the thought of it. What the hell is wrong with me?
I take out my mobile and scroll down to his number, for a split second considering calling it. I remind myself that phoning from the clap clinic probably wouldn’t make for the most
romantic of reunions.
The doctor I finally see is a skinny, soft-spoken man with an African surname and the same smiley manner as the receptionist. He confirms all my details, before asking me what the problem
is.
‘Right. Well. I had this, um . . .’ I lean in and whisper, ‘
encounter
. . .’
‘You had unprotected sex.’
‘Yes,’ I croak. I clear my throat. ‘I wouldn’t normally. I wouldn’t
dream
of it. I’m not that sort of girl.’
I half expect him to grab me by the shoulders and shout: ‘You had
unprotected sex
? Are you
insane
? In this day and age?
You idiot!
Haven’t you heard that
incidences of chlamydia have gone up by
fifty per cent
since 1999?’
But he doesn’t. He looks at me as if to say: ‘It happens. Now let’s deal with it.’
‘Have you experienced any symptoms you’re worried about?’
‘Hmm. I think I could be . . . possibly . . . maybe . . . itchy. But I might be wrong.’
‘We’ll perform a full screen, shall we?’
‘That’d be lovely,’ I reply, as if he’s offered me a cut and blow-dry.
After a few more relatively painless questions, the doctor leaves and is replaced by a nurse in her late thirties who could win an Olympic medal in talking.
‘Have you
seen
the queue out there?’ She snaps a strap on my arm and starts prodding around for a juicy vein. ‘It’s always like this in summer. Everyone’s
back from their hols. I’m just back from Benidorm. Been anywhere nice yourself?’
‘Italy,’ I reply, because, even though the answer is France with Marianne for two days in March – we both adore the place – I am hit by an incomprehensible desire to not
reveal anything personal in here. Apart from my genitalia, obviously.
I am instructed to undress behind a curtain, then have to grapple with a hospital gown, which has approximately seventeen tabs and is clearly designed for a person with a humpback and five arms.
The doctor arrives ten minutes later, as I am pacing up and down, having now read and memorised the medical abbreviations on the wall for everything from Cardiovascular Syphilis to Sex Worker, and
applied enough hand gel to my palms to peel off a layer of skin.
‘Would you mind if we allowed a medical student to be present?’
I hesitate, then reply breezily: ‘Not at all!’ I don’t want anyone to think I’d be daft enough to let my hang-ups hold back the next generation of medical professionals;
the only sensible, grown-up
The wait is interminable, but my mind is occupied in flipping between several issues. First, Asha: who was at my flat until midnight last night trying, between frenzied sobs, to get hold of Toby
to confess her mistake. He was at a black-tie event – with Christina – and simply reassured her to leave it with him. She was unreassured.
Then there’s my itching, which I’d almost convinced myself I was imagining until I walked through the door here, since when it’s increased tenfold.
And that brings me to the final issue. How I’d never be in this mess if I hadn’t dumped Rob. There’s no way Rob would’ve given me something that made me feel like
I’m wearing a wire-wool G-string, that’s for certain.
How I crave being part of a couple again, without having to deal with this crap. I keep thinking about his arms round me, how warm and loved I felt and what the hell possessed me to do what I
did.
I’m hit by a flashback of the night I introduced him to Cally and Asha at our local pub quiz – and how impressive and lovely they thought he was, without being remotely showy. They
warmed to him instantly – everyone does. I close my eyes at the thought of it. What the hell is wrong with me?
I take out my mobile and scroll down to his number, for a split second considering calling it. I remind myself that phoning from the clap clinic probably wouldn’t make for the most
romantic of reunions.
The doctor I finally see is a skinny, soft-spoken man with an African surname and the same smiley manner as the receptionist. He confirms all my details, before asking me what the problem
is.
‘Right. Well. I had this, um . . .’ I lean in and whisper, ‘
encounter
. . .’
‘You had unprotected sex.’
‘Yes,’ I croak. I clear my throat. ‘I wouldn’t normally. I wouldn’t
dream
of it. I’m not that sort of girl.’
I half expect him to grab me by the shoulders and shout: ‘You had
unprotected sex
? Are you
insane
? In this day and age?
You idiot!
Haven’t you heard that
incidences of chlamydia have gone up by
fifty per cent
since 1999?’
But he doesn’t. He looks at me as if to say: ‘It happens. Now let’s deal with it.’
‘Have you experienced any symptoms you’re worried about?’
‘Hmm. I think I could be . . . possibly . . . maybe . . . itchy. But I might be wrong.’
‘We’ll perform a full screen, shall we?’
‘That’d be lovely,’ I reply, as if he’s offered me a cut and blow-dry.
After a few more relatively painless questions, the doctor leaves and is replaced by a nurse in her late thirties who could win an Olympic medal in talking.
‘Have you
seen
the queue out there?’ She snaps a strap on my arm and starts prodding around for a juicy vein. ‘It’s always like this in summer. Everyone’s
back from their hols. I’m just back from Benidorm. Been anywhere nice yourself?’
‘Italy,’ I reply, because, even though the answer is France with Marianne for two days in March – we both adore the place – I am hit by an incomprehensible desire to not
reveal anything personal in here. Apart from my genitalia, obviously.
I am instructed to undress behind a curtain, then have to grapple with a hospital gown, which has approximately seventeen tabs and is clearly designed for a person with a humpback and five arms.
The doctor arrives ten minutes later, as I am pacing up and down, having now read and memorised the medical abbreviations on the wall for everything from Cardiovascular Syphilis to Sex Worker, and
applied enough hand gel to my palms to peel off a layer of skin.
‘Would you mind if we allowed a medical student to be present?’
I hesitate, then reply breezily: ‘Not at all!’ I don’t want anyone to think I’d be daft enough to let my hang-ups hold back the next generation of medical professionals;
the only sensible, grown-up
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