Maggie arrives early for her appointment in Harley Street.
Thanks to Aimee, she has more work than time in which to do it today, and she is not in the mood for a so-called doctor to feed her any more excuses or lies about why they need to delay her surgery. It’s her body, she should be allowed to do whatever she wants to it. She isn’t asking others to pay for her self-improvements, so why should she need their permission?
Maggie thinks the whole country has tied itself in knots with red tape, so consumed with checks and bloody balances that nothing gets done anymore. She tuts and shakes her head and only realizes that she has been muttering beneath her breath when she notices a woman in the waiting room staring at her. Maggie lifts her chin and stares back, until the woman’s eyes retreat and look down at the magazine she is pretending to read. The next person to look at Maggie the wrong way today is going to regret it.
Everything in the clinic is white. The walls, the floor, the strange modern chairs in the waiting room, the staff, the patients, and the lengthy invoices she receives after each visit. All white. Sterile. The place is too white and too quiet. There is no music, just the maddening and monotonous sound of the receptionist tapping away on her keyboard, with her pretty little hands. Maggie always thinks there ought to be music, something to help take your mind off your present, forget your past, and daydream about a fantasy future. Without anything to listen to, she kills her time observing the other people waiting for their appointments, wondering what they are here for, wondering what they want to have done. She finds them all rather fascinating and tries to guess from looking at their faces and bodies—nose job, tummy tuck, hair transplant. Almost anything is possible nowadays, you can completely reinvent yourself. Start again.
“The doctor will see you now,” says the receptionist, fourteen minutes after Maggie’s appointment should have started. Doctor. Doctor my arse, thinks Maggie, hearing the cracking sound her knees make when she stands up from the uncomfortable white chair, wishing the clinic had invested in some white cushions. Maggie can see that the receptionist has also had some work done. Her crease-free brow screams Botox, and the face-lift is good, subtle, the skin on her cheeks hasn’t been pulled too tight. Only the skin on her neck gives the age game away. Maggie wonders whether the receptionist gets a staff discount, but thinks it might be rude to ask. Instead, she forces herself to smile and say, “Thank you,” before shuffling along the white corridor to room three.
He smiles when she walks into the room. He’s practiced that white smile so often, it almost seems real. “Hello, how are you?” he asks, as though he cares.
He’s younger than her and has already made far more of his life than she can ever hope to now. His tan is real, unlike his concern for her well-being, and his floppy blond hair looks as though it might have been blow-dried. Photos of a smiling wife and two perfect-looking children adorn his desk, reinforcing the image of all-round success.
Maggie knows the man is busy, she has seen all the people waiting in reception to become better versions of themselves. Maggie is busy too; she might not be a doctor, but she has things she needs to fix and mend, important things, so she would rather they didn’t waste any more of his time or hers with unnecessary small talk.
“Why have you postponed my surgery again?” She leans as far forward in her chair as she can without falling off, as though she might hear his answer sooner if her ears are closer to his mouth.
He sits a fraction backwards in his own chair, but keeps his eyes fixed on hers. They are deep blue and look wonderfully wise for such a young man.
“Having some excess breast tissue is incredibly common after dramatic weight loss, like you experienced after having a gastric band fitted—”
“Yes, well, I don’t want to look common, I want to look more like this.” She thrusts a crumpled magazine page from her pocket onto his desk.
He gives the glossy picture of a celebrity he vaguely recognizes a cursory glance. “The surgery you wanted is relatively noninvasive, and I would have been happy to go ahead, but do you remember the scan that we did the last time you were here?” He carries on without waiting for an answer. “And do you remember the unexpected mass that we found, and the biopsy I performed?”
Maggie does remember, she’s not senile. It was how she imagined it must feel to have a staple gun used on your naked flesh: a sharp stabbing pain and then a dull ache for the rest of the day.
“There is nothing wrong with my memory … thank you.” She’s even more cross with him now, but tries to remain polite; she needs this man to help her become who she wants to be. “You said the biopsy was just a precaution, nothing to worry about.”
The doctor looks down, as though he’s forgotten his lines and thinks they might be written on the palms of his hands. His thumbs revolve around each other in some hypnotic spinning dance.
It is all Maggie can do to stop herself from tutting. He is going to say no to my surgery again, she thinks, and can feel her crossness inflate inside her. She has never been good at controlling her temper; when she is cross with someone, it can literally last a lifetime. She knows that this is neither a clever or a kind way to be, but she cannot help it. She inherited her anger from her father, who inherited it from his, like a genetic disorder of wrath. She sits up a little straighter, trying, but failing to remain calm.
“If you won’t perform my surgery, then I’ll find someone who—”
“I’m so sorry, but what we found was a tumor.”
The room, and everything in it, has become perfectly still and silent, as though his words have created a vacuum and sucked anything she might have had left to say clean away.
“Right. So then take it out at the same time as the procedure.”
“I’m afraid that isn’t possible. You have breast cancer.” He says the words so kindly, she thinks she might actually cry.
“I don’t understand,” she whispers.
“Tests on the tissue sample have confirmed the cells are malignant. From what I can tell, it has spread further than your chest, but there are treatments that might be suitable for you either on the NHS, or privately…”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’ve written to your GP. I recommend that you make an appointment to see them as soon as possible.”
“I don’t understand! How can this be happening to me?” Maggie’s voice is louder than before, cracking a little, as though some part of her just got broken. Her eyes fill with tears, and she permits them to spill down her cheeks. It must be over thirty years since she let a man see her cry, but she doesn’t care about that right now, she doesn’t care about anything.
The doctor nods. She can see him trying to arrange some words inside his head, trying to press and fold them into something a little neater, before letting them out of his mouth.
“It’s a lot more common than people realize.”
Maggie hates that word, common. She wishes he would stop using it.
“How long have I got?”
“Your GP will be able to advise you on—”
Maggie leans across the table. “How. Long. Have. I. Got?”
He looks away, then shakes his head before meeting her eyes again.
“It is impossible for any doctor to tell you that, but based on what I have seen, not very long. I’m so sorry.”