I Don't Know How She Does It

After my attempt to be friendly to Winston before Christmas, I have no plans to talk to him again. But as I am fighting my way out of the car door, he turns round and, on an exhalation of yellow smoke, says: “I hope they got something strong enough in there to treat you with, lady.”

Bloody cheek. What does he mean by that? Things don’t improve when I get in to see the GP and ask for my annual supply of the Pill. Dr. Dobson taps his computer and the screen starts to flash a green hazard light as though I am some devious criminal mastermind wanted by the CIA.

“Ah, Mrs. Shattock, I see you haven’t had a smear test for… how long is it now?”

“Well, I did have one in ’96 and you broke the slide. I mean, they wrote and said it had broken in transit and could I come in again. But, obviously, I’d already been in and time is very tight, so if I could please just have my pills?”

“And there has been no time in the last four years when you could drop in for another test?” A basset hound in human form, Dr. Dobson has that wet-eyed solicitude common to dogs and caring professionals.

“Well, no. I mean you have to ring for an appointment and hang on for ages because they never seem to answer the phone, and…”

His finger moves to a date halfway down my notes. “And on one occasion you failed to cancel. March twenty-third of last year.”

“Taiwan.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I was in Taiwan. Hard to cancel when it’s the middle of the night in another hemisphere and you haven’t got an hour to hang on the phone hoping the receptionist in Drayton Lane will pick up out of idle curiosity.”

The doctor tugs anxiously on his tie — it is beige and apparently woven from Shreddies. “I see, I see,” he says, clearly not seeing at all. “Well, I don’t think it would be sensible for me to prescribe you another year’s worth of Microgynon until you’ve had your smear, Mrs. Shattock. The Government, as you may have heard, is taking a very proactive role in cervical health.”

“The Government thinks it would be better for me to have another baby?”

He shakes his head sadly. “I wouldn’t put it that way. The Government is merely keen to encourage women to avoid a life-threatening illness with a simple test.”

“Well, if I have another baby I really will be dead.” God, I can’t believe I just said that. What do you mean by that, Kate?

“There’s no need to get upset, Mrs. Shattock.”

“I am not upset,” I insist, rather too shrilly. “I’m just a very busy woman who doesn’t need any more children right at the moment if you don’t mind. So if you could please let me have my pills.”

The doctor takes a slow, careful note with an ancient Biro that has a clump of ink snot on its nose. It gives every word it writes a presmudged outline. He asks me if I have any other symptoms.

“But I’m not ill.”

“Are you sleeping properly? How is your sleep?”

For the first time since Loopy Fay arrived at six this morning, my features relax enough to form a smile. “Well, I have an eleven-month-old son with teeth coming through. Sleep doesn’t really go with the territory, does it?”

Dr. Dobson returns my smile, but with wary creases at the edges — creases that act like inverted commas around the smile. I realize that the look on his face can properly be described as long-suffering. Who is long in suffering if not a doctor? The amount of pain he must see. Anyway, he tells me to come in any time I feel I need to. Any time at all. Says he will ring down to the nurse right away and see if she can fit me in for a smear now. “You can surely spare ten minutes?”

I surely can’t, but I do.

9:06 A.M. OFFICES OF EDWIN MORGAN FORSTER. Arrive late and dying to go to the loo. Will have to wait. Need to submit nine fund reports, having talked to twelve different managers by Wednesday. Also must present in-depth briefing on Japanese Toki Rubber Company fiasco by Wednesday. Then Rod Task pitches up at my desk and tells me I have to go and salvage my career by giving blow job to Jack Abelhammer in New York on — why, Wednesday. Not sure the term blow job was actually used, but he definitely said “on your knees, honey.”

To: Candy Stratton

From: Kate Reddy

Terrific start to the day. Smear test. Like having sex with the Tin Man. Can’t they make that damn probe out of rubber, or would they just get sad women like me queuing up to have it done twice a week?

Got in here sixteen minutes late and Guy is at my desk telling everyone he’s Almost Certain that Kate will be in At Some Point. Felt like Mummy Bear and wanted to growl, Who’s been sitting in my chair? Said nothing. Wouldn’t give the little creep the satisfaction.

Plus I have to go to NYC to “placate” client. Have never met Jack Abelhammer, but I H8 him already.

To: Kate Reddy

From: Candy Stratton

Dear Desdemona, U shd watch Guy “Iago” Chase. Don’t drop that handkerchief, honey. He wants yr job so badly his gums ache.

PS: Have fckd brainless Scarecrow and Cowardly Lion (Sat night, Nobu), but never tried Tin Man. Able Hammer sounds prmsng tho.

To: Debra Richardson

From: Kate Reddy

Glad to hear you’re still alive after Xmas. Not sure I am. (How can I tell?) Sorry about Felix’s knee and Ruby’s ear infection. Can someone pls coin new word for holiday with children that doesn’t imply (a) holiday, (b) rest, (c) pleasure?

helliday? K xxxxx

2:35 P.M. Just as I am going into European Group meeting, Paula calls. Says she thinks she may have caught the sick bug Emily had over Christmas. Is it all right if she leaves early today?

Think: No, that is Absolutely Out of the Question, this is your first day back at work after two whole weeks off.

Say: Yes, of course, you poor thing, you sound terrible.

I ring Richard at the office. He is in a meeting about designing some Peace Pagoda for British Nuclear Fuels. Leave urgent message asking if he can get home and hold the fort soonest.

8:12 P.M. Squeak home in time for Emily’s bed. Bump into Richard in the hall. Says no, he hasn’t sorted out the new parking permit yet. Yes, they both had their hair washed. Run upstairs. Am desperate to make it up to her after this morning’s harsh words over I Spy. All milky warmth, my daughter curls my hair round her finger. “Who is your favorite Tweenie, Mama?”

“I don’t know, sweetheart.”

“Milo is the biggest.”

“Ah. What did you do at school today, love?”

“Nothing.”

“Oh, I’m sure you did. What did you do, Em?”

“I spy with my little eye something beginning with W.”

“Window?”

“No.”

“Wallpaper?”

“No.”