Chasing Charlie by Linda McLaughlan

whole evening. Actually I got chatting to some suits about what you’re up to. They might be keen to kick some funds in – so my night wasn’t a complete waste of time!
    As requested, I’ve attached a photo of sisters with crazy niece and nephew. You must be really desperate, mate, to want to see a photo of my family though. We’re nowhere near as flash as your one ;)
    Oh, and one of the vixen. See what I mean?
    Ed

18
    CLAUDIA
    I left Hampstead tube station walking briskly but as I neared the surgery, I slowed right down, and the walk that should have taken five minutes took at least ten. If only I hadn’t watched that damn programme last night, I could still be burying deeper into snuggly denial.
    The programme in question, Embarrassing Bodies , was exactly the vapid watch I needed. I got home early from the pub. I had my hot-water bottle. My phone was off. I was all set to escape. But then the spanners started coming, fast and furious.
    First up: Dr Jessen. A big blonde hunk. He looked so much like John Morgan he could be his brother and I couldn’t believe I hadn’t noticed this before. My finger hovered over the remote for a moment. It was escape I was after, not art imitating life. Or, more to the point, not a probing medical series into other people’s unfortunate ailments imitating life. The whole aim of this show was to gasp in horror at some woman’s elephantine knees, murmuring to oneself, ‘That poor, poor woman,’ while quietly feeling comforted that your own knees are really quite supermodel in comparison. Wasn’t it? You weren’t meant to recognise the symptoms that other people – always other people – had as yours.
    But that damn chisel-faced doctor had fixed me with his unflinching gaze and spoken to me directly. The remote slipped, forgotten, onto my blanket while I started comparing my symptoms to those on the TV. Sore down there. More scheidenausfluss than usual (I hate the English word, won’t even think it if I can help it). And itchy.
    So I was on the phone booking an appointment with my GP first thing this morning, and a few hours later I was walking down the quiet residential street I’d walked down countless times before, watching my royal-blue Pollini peep-toes taking one step at a time and wishing it was further away from the station so I wouldn’t be there any second. But there it was. Number twenty in a well-kept Victorian terrace. One freshly painted door to open and I’d be inside, no turning back. I paused, just for a moment, and walked in.
    The waiting room was warm and smelt clean and reassuring. Sitting at the reception desk was a woman with a neat dark bob and glasses, and I was pleased to see I didn’t know her. I checked in and took a seat, picking up a Vogue from a coffee table on the way. The table looked spotless, as did the chairs and carpet. I breathed in deeply and started flicking absently through the magazine.
    Gradually my eyes started wandering, taking little sideways peeps at the other people waiting. I was careful not to catch anyone’s eye. Any one of them could be someone I knew or, worse, someone my parents knew, waiting to have their boils inspected or moan about their IBS or to be told to lose some weight. I had no doubt there would be no one in their social circle here for the same reason as myself.
    The decor had been updated since I’d last been and it was definitely an improvement. The walls had been painted deep terracotta, and the lighting was what my mother would refer to as thoughtful. Which sounds so pompous but I have to say, in this setting, it was just that. There were a couple of standing lights tucked into corners, and spotlights beneath a handful of well-executed (another word overused by Mother) oils. The room somehow managed to feel open and cosy at the same time. There was soft music – Bach, I think – playing in the background. All very lovely. If I