20

Living with a doctor ALERTED MIRIAM to the extent of winter’s treachery. Vomiting, coughs and sore throats were rampaging. The red-tops threatened ‘killer ’flu’. Most days Bing returned from work exhausted and crabby, exasperated at his patients’ failure to understand that antibiotics did nothing to combat viruses. Whilst other doctors caved in to demands for them, Dr. Crosby’s patients were treated to a lecture on global antibiotic resistance, and sent home to tough it out.

Her parents regarded winter as a personal affront. They dosed themselves with vitamins and cod liver oil. They broke out flannelette pyjamas and nighties washed so many times the pattern on them had faded to nothing. They draped heavy-duty curtains across front and back doors. They refused to venture out if it was ‘too cold’ or ‘too wet’ or ‘too dark’, then got in a right old state if, through these self-imposed curfews, they missed their weekly shopping trip. Miriam suggested setting them up with an Ocado account. They were dubious, fretting over delivery charges and the possibility of missing out on special offers. She won them over by explaining that there were even better online deals, and agreeing to add items from her own list if their total spend failed to meet the criteria for ‘free delivery’.

Christmas had begun showing itself in October but Hazel held out until the second week in December before decorating the shop – and then so minimally it was barely noticeable.

‘Our regulars will shop here, regardless,’ she said. ‘They’ll be relieved to get away from fake snow.’

‘How are online sales doing?’ Miriam said.

‘Dismally. I can’t compete with Amazon when it comes to those trashy celebrity books that appear at Christmas and get remaindered by February. Anyway, that’s not what I’m about.’

‘Can retailers afford to be judgemental?’

‘I’m not a retailer – I’m a bookseller.’

As if to prove her right, a middle-aged woman came in and congratulated them on the shop’s serenity. She browsed for twenty minutes and left with a second-hand copy of The Work of Grinling Gibbons and a poetry anthology.

‘What are your Christmas plans?’ Hazel said. She was closing the shop from Christmas Eve until after New Year. Her sister ran a B&B in Newlyn and her entire family convened there every Christmas.

‘Doze off in front of the telly. Overindulge. Go for walks. All those ordinary things we’ve never had the chance to do together.’

‘Do your parents celebrate Christmas?’

‘Oh, yes. Crazy I know but they pretend Christmas has nothing to do with religion. They’re experts in all kinds of self-deception.’

It was a tradition at Monkton Square to give staff members with young families first choice of leave. This meant Bing’s days off were dotted here and there over the holiday period, giving them no time to venture far afield.

‘I think you should ask your children to come here,’ she said, ‘I know they were stand-offish last time but they must be getting used to the idea of me by now and it really is time I met them.’

‘No doubt they’ll have made plans,’ he said.

‘We won’t know unless you ask.’ She handed him the phone and went upstairs to run a bath. He would find it easier were she not listening to their conversations, and she lay in the hot water, pretending to relax, waiting for him to report back.

Ten minutes. Fifteen minutes. Then a tap on the door and he came in and sat on the edge of the bath.

‘Well?’ she said.

‘Pascale is tied up with her in-laws for the entire week. And Camille is off to France. But Leon has a couple of free days between Christmas and New Year, if that suits.’

Leon’s acceptance felt like a major victory and Miriam clapped her hands. ‘That’s wonderful. What’s his partner’s name again?’

‘Bente. She’s Danish. You’ll like her.’

He took a sponge, dipped it in the bath and trickled water across her breasts and down towards her navel. ‘Look at you, lying there shimmering.’ He dipped his head and she realised he was crying.

‘What’s the matter?’ she said. ‘Did Camille say something to upset you?’

‘No. It has nothing to do with them.’ He swiped his nose with the back of his hand.

‘What is it then?’

‘You. Us. For most of my life I lived with the agony of losing you. Now, by some miracle, we’re together. I’m so happy it terrifies me.’

Their first Christmas together was to be a modest affair. Nevertheless, there were things to consider. Cards. Gifts. Catering. When would they see Naomi and the children? And there was Leon’s visit to squeeze in – exciting and intimidating in equal measure.

Bing was all for not bothering to send cards. ‘No one will notice. And as for presents, do we really need more “stuff”?’

‘That’s an appalling thing to say,’ she said. ‘The best part of Christmas is choosing gifts for people I love. What about Finbar? It’s his first Christmas, poor little soul. You have to buy him something.’

‘He’s too young to know the difference between the gift and the wrapping paper.’

‘Stop it. I shan’t go on loving you if you’re going to be such a killjoy.’

His frown dissolved into a grin. ‘Of course we’ll send cards. And I absolutely insist you buy gifts. Sack loads of the things.’

Christmas rituals evolve over many years until, after years of refinement, they jog along on autopilot. But they were starting from scratch. Ground rules needed laying down. Trivial yet fundamental decisions made. Angel or star on top of the tree? Presents opened in a pre-breakfast frenzy or eked out through the day? The meat – turkey? Goose? Beef? And the schedule – eat at two or six or eight o’clock?

But before all that, there was the Monkton Square Christmas party. Last Christmas had been Bing’s first at the practice. He was still very much the ‘new boy’ and he acknowledged it was the one social event they couldn’t avoid. It was customary to hold the party at the surgery. When the old house had been converted, the top floor had been made into a self-contained flat for Doctor Leyshon, the practice founder. He’d retired years ago but the flat had been retained for employees or visitors needing temporary accommodation. (Bing had spent a few weeks there whilst he was looking for a place to buy.) A perfectly good flat lying empty for months on end was an extravagance but the consensus was that it added to the smooth running of the practice.

Miriam was looking forward to the party but when the invitation arrived – heavy cream card edged with gold, Dr Paul Crosby and Mrs Miriam Siskin handwritten in dark green ink – she was taken aback. She’d anticipated an informal do. Not exactly ‘bring a plate’ but certainly not ‘black tie’. When she asked what sort of thing she should wear, he said ‘You’ll look stunning whatever you wear.’

‘Sweet of you to say so but not helpful.’

‘Okay. A dress. Something sparkly. Wafty. High heels. How’s that?’

‘Oh dear. When I cleared the house, I couldn’t imagine ever going to another party. I ditched all but one of my party frocks. Stay where you are. I’ll slip it on.’

Sam had adored parties – as host or guest. He loved watching her get ready, suggesting what she might wear and how she should do her hair, whilst she, in turn, advised on his shirt and tie. She was quite able to make her own decisions but, gin-and-tonics to hand, the ritual had become an agreeable precursor to an evening out. The dress in question had been Sam’s favourite – enough to earmark it for the charity bag – but she’d hung on to it because she couldn’t bear anyone else to have it. She’d spotted it in a tiny shop in Chester when they were on holiday. (Naomi was thirteen or fourteen, hating every second she was forced to spend with them and they’d bought her a portable CD player to stop her whinging.) The dress was a simple shift. Velvet with silk trim at neck, sleeve and hem. Dusky pinkish-grey. When the fabric caught the light, it made her think of a pigeon’s feathered breast. She tended to be drawn to bolder colours – dark red or purple – but from the moment she’d tried it on, it had belonged to her.

She twirled around. ‘Will I do?’

From the front, the dress was demure, grazing her collar bone, sleeves reaching her elbows. But turn around and the neckline looped down below her shoulder blades in a soft fold.

‘Mmmm,’ he said. ‘It’s very… Actually I’m not sure I want everyone seeing so much of you.’

She was irritated by his put-down. ‘They see a great deal more of me when I go to the swimming pool.’

By the time they arrived, the party was underway. Caterers hovered with champagne and canapés. A frilly-shirted lutenist sat next to the Christmas tree playing something medieval. Open fire. Discreet decorations. Expensive perfumes. Animated conversation. It was a swish do.

‘You look stunning,’ Bing murmured, squeezing Miriam’s arm. ‘We can slip away when you’ve had enough. Just tip me the wink.’

She called in on Bing if she were anywhere near Monkton Square, and he’d introduced her to several of his colleagues. She recognised some of them this evening despite their unaccustomed finery. She had no idea whether they were aware of Dr Crosby’s back story. He certainly wouldn’t have told them himself but a version might have filtered back via the friend of Angela’s friend.

The room spanned the front of the house and she estimated there were fifty or sixty guests. A group standing near the fireplace beckoned them and she was bombarded with a flurry of names she couldn’t hope to remember. There was the usual party chit-chat – weather, school concerts, travel plans. From jokes and body language it was evident these people knew each other well. They were welcoming if slightly guarded as might be expected with a newcomer. Someone asked what she did, looking nonplussed when she told them she worked in a bookshop, as if Dr Crosby’s partner should do something more worthwhile.

Groups dispersed and reformed and introductions were repeated. Bing was affable but contributed little to the conversation. She’d noted how rarely he passed on work gossip and, as far as she could make out, he wasn’t pally with any of his colleagues. ‘Wouldn’t you like a “mate”? Someone to share a beer with?’ she’d said. But, not for the first time, he insisted she was the only ‘mate’ he needed.

Around nine, when she was on the point of breaking out her emergency energy bar, waiters appeared with platters of snacks, delicious but barely bite-sized. In her teaching days, Christmas parties tended to get pretty ‘lively’. On one occasion, following a few rounds of ‘Truth, Dare or Promise’, they’d been blacklisted and banned from ever returning to the restaurant. This party couldn’t have been more different. Being on home turf seemed to ensure immaculate behaviour – the very opposite of what was generally expected from a house party.

She leaned close to Bing. ‘I think they must all be on tranquilisers.’

‘Perks of the job.’ He ran a finger across the back of her neck. ‘We can make our excuses if you’ve had enough.’

‘What, and miss the karaoke?’

Bing went off to the bathroom. Almost immediately, a man to whom she’d been introduced earlier – Alan? Adam? Selway? Salter? – joined her. He was perhaps in his mid-fifties, handsome in an obvious way.

‘First impressions?’ he said.

‘Of?’

‘Monkton Square at play.’

‘Honestly? You seem a very self-possessed crowd.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘What’s that old adage? Don’t foul your own patch. This is only the warm-up session. Some of us are going on to a club. Well actually it’s a dive. But the music’s good – blues, mainly, and the drinks are cheap. Why don’t you come along?’

‘Thanks but my clubbing days are done,’ she said, ‘not that they ever began.’

‘Nonsense. A gorgeous-looking woman like you.’

She felt her cheeks colour and she looked towards the door, relieved to see Bing coming to her rescue. He handed her a glass of champagne and nodded curtly to her companion. ‘Your wife’s not here, Stanway?’

‘Clashing fixtures. You know how it is near Christmas. Look, we’re going on to The Basement as soon as we can escape. Why don’t you two come?’

Bing turned to her, his face impassive, yet there was no doubt what he wanted her to say. ‘Miriam?’

‘It’s sweet of you to invite us,’ she said, ‘but I’ve an early start tomorrow.’

‘Next time, maybe,’ Stanway said. ‘You’re a lucky man, Crosby.’ He gave an awkward bow and for one ghastly moment she thought he was going to kiss her hand.

Bing waited until he’d moved away. ‘You look flustered.’

‘It’s hot in here.’ She took a sip of champagne knowing it would make things worse. ‘What does Stanway do? Surely he’s not a medic.’

‘Solicitor. We call him in when we need legal advice. I’m told he’s good but I can’t stand the man.’

‘He is rather smarmy.’

‘Was he bothering you? I’ll break his bloody neck.’

She looped her arm through his. ‘He’s tipsy, that’s all. And picking a fight with a lawyer wouldn’t be a smart move.’

On the dot of eleven, the lutenist stowed his instrument in its case and the partygoers gathered up their possessions. Stanway and his clubbing pals already had their coats on and were edging towards the door. He turned and scanned the room and she tried not to catch his eye but he came over and made a big thing of saying how much he’d enjoyed meeting her and how he hoped to see her soon.

‘The man’s a creep,’ Bing muttered at Stanway’s retreating back and an echo of adolescent jealousy reverberated across four decades.

They shared a taxi home with Della, one of the receptionists, and her boyfriend. Miriam sat in the back, sandwiched between Bing and Della, Bing sitting bolt upright, staring out of the window. Conversation was perfunctory, Bing’s input next to nothing. She guessed he was still miffed at seeing her with Stanway, unfair as she couldn’t be blamed for the man’s flirty behaviour.

The driver dropped them off first and, by the time they were getting ready for bed, a cold silence had settled between them.

‘Would you unzip me, please?’ she said.

‘Turn around,’ he said and yanked the zip so roughly she feared he’d tear the fabric.

‘For goodness sake,’ she said, ‘what’s eating you?’

‘This dress,’ he said. ‘It’s too revealing. I’ll buy you something more suitable.’

‘Suitable? Perhaps you’d prefer me to wear a burqa.’

‘You’re being melodramatic. I simply mean showing so much flesh is unbecoming.’

‘My back is unlikely to drive men wild.’

‘Well Stanway’s tongue was hanging out.’

She picked up the dress, snatched her pyjamas off the bed and, not trusting herself to speak, went into the spare room, and lay in bed sobbing with anger and frustration.

Around four o’clock, she fell heavily asleep, only waking at eight when the front door banged. She hurried to the window in time to see Bing driving away. How absurd that a man like Stanway and an old dress had come between them. The dress was draped over the back of a chair, limp and inoffensive. Maybe she should chuck it out before it caused any more trouble. But why should she? No matter what Bing thought, it was a lovely thing. She threaded the dress onto its hanger and hung it at the back of her wardrobe behind her winter coat. One day Rosa might want to go ‘retro’ and she would be able to provide the perfect item.

She showered and went downstairs. Several sheets of paper were spread across the table, dense with Bing’s handwriting.

Paul Crosby is an idiot.

Paul Crosby is an idiot.

Paul Crosby is an idiot.

Line after line – one hundred? two hundred? – the final line as painstakingly written as the first. He must have been at it for hours. She reached for her phone. She’d call him and they’d laugh and she’d forgive him.

And yet. This wasn’t the first time he’d lost it then come crawling back with an apology trying to gloss over the whole thing. To carry on as if nothing had happened. Their last bust-up had been when Frankie had visited.

Another thing. When she went out on her own, he’d started asking where she was going – with whom – what time she’d be back. When she got home he’d want to know who had been there. Sam had his faults but he’d always trusted her. She couldn’t recall his ever cross-questioning her on her movements, or her friends. Perhaps he hadn’t given a toss but she was more inclined to think he knew that in order to keep her she must have the freedom to be herself.

She placed her phone on the table. It would do him good to stew for a while.