Clare
Monday 4th February, 4.10 p.m.
The final bell rings and I move fast, slipping my biology textbook into my bag and walking quickly ahead of Lauren, claiming I have to get home early tonight for dinner.
‘See you tomorrow!’ she says, giving me a little hug, and I blow a kiss in her direction. As I slip out of the gate, I see Harry Goodwin looking at me, then catch sight of Lauren looking at him. God, I wish he’d just switch his attentions over to her. It’d make her so happy. And get him off my back.
I feel weird as I walk towards Low Road Surgery, my hat pulled down over my hair. It’s the same practice I’ve been going to since I was a little girl – I think I can even remember early visits, clutching onto Mum’s hand, terrified at the prospect of the sliding doors and the sterile seats and the smiling man with his stethoscope and needles and thermometers. Mum was always fully made up, long-sleeved, nervously dodging questions. Still, there was always a red lollipop at the end. The building looks more modern than most of the houses in Ashdon – they did a big refurbishment two years ago. Set back from the road, it shines in the weak wintery sunlight, a neat box hedgerow surrounding the stone path leading to the door. Once inside, I am suddenly and irrationally nervous, as though out of nowhere Ian or Mum might appear, bearing down on me in anger, dragging me from the surgery, stopping my adulthood firmly in its tracks.
Approaching reception, I clear my throat and carefully, quietly announce my name in a soft voice to the lady on reception, who has long, manicured nails painted a silvery grey and a little name badge with ‘Danielle’ written on it in a round, cursive font. She writes it down without even looking up at me, her attention on an iPhone beside her that keeps flashing up with WhatsApp and Bumble notifications. The receptionist taps her nails onto a form on the desk and I scribble my signature, then the silver nails whisk the form away. Instinctively, I close my fingers together, making a fist to hide my own nails, which by contrast are bitten, bare, childish. Once tonight is over I’ll paint them, perhaps even do something with my hair, which is long and blonde and boring.
‘Take a seat, won’t be long,’ the woman announces casually, then picks up the phone and begins chatting to someone who is presumably a friend rather than a patient, judging by the bouts of sing-song laughter that permeate the waiting room. I sit, keeping my hat on over my blonde hair, gingerly parking myself with my back to Danielle next to the pile of glossy magazines, which, disappointingly, date back to 2014. I’ve barely flicked open the cover of a slightly decaying Elle when I hear him – Dr Goodwin – saying my name, smiling at me invitingly. I stand and walk towards him. The door closes behind me.