pushes her thumb in. ‘It’s almost solid. I’ve got permanent indentations on each side from my bra straps.’
She reaches beneath her blouse and hooks the right strap out from where it’s become embedded within the muscle. The relief is temporary as she gives the skin a quick rub. She slides her index finger inside the groove the strap has made; it’s half an inch deep. It feels fiery hot to the touch.
‘Does it affect your work?’ he asks.
‘Sometimes.’
She doesn’t want to tell him in what way. Doesn’t really want to share that she can’t run without feeling humiliated, can’t conduct an interview without first feeling embarrassed. She’s done her best to put a brave face on things in the past and not let this get in the way, but it seems now that she’s approaching her late thirties, the fear of being viewed with ridicule is not so easy to shrug off.
Doctor Ravenscroft nods gravely. ‘You know you won’t be able to breastfeed.’
‘I don’t even have a boyfriend … breastfeeding’s not exactly top of my agenda.’
‘It might be one day,’ he says, his tone suddenly breezy. ‘Nice chap comes along, sweeps you off your feet …’
Joanne just looks at him.
‘Never say “never”!’ he says. ‘Lovely girl like you, there’s bound to be some fellow waiting in the wings, ready to take you home and make you his wife …’
‘But where would I put the unicorn?’ Joanne says flatly.
Joanne gets her referral to the plastic surgeon.
Leaving Dr Ravenscroft’s room, she walks past the phlebotomist, past the treatment room where all the oldies are having their flu jabs, past the cleaner’s store cupboard and back through to the main waiting area. She’s about to leave through the double glass doors when she hears something that makes her stop.
‘Do you pay for your prescriptions?’ the assistant in the pharmacy is asking the man.
‘Yes,’ comes the reply. Then, ‘Oh, actually, no. I don’t pay for this one … it’s for a child … see?’
Apologetically, the assistant says, ‘Of course it is. It’ll be ready in just a moment.’
It’s Guy – Guy Riverty – who’s waiting for a prescription. What is he doing here? Wasn’t he supposed to be out with the search parties?
The first thing that pops into Joanne’s head is that he must be picking something up for Kate. Something to calm her nerves, to make her sleep. But then he’s just said it’s for a child. No prescription charge. It’s exempt.
Joanne decides to wait inside her car.
She climbs in, and the temperature gauge reads minus seven. She turns the ignition to get the heat going and automatically there’s a blast of music. One of Auntie Jackie’s Michael Bublé CDs that she’s been listening to. ‘Smug bastard,’ Joanne mutters, and kills the stereo.
She switches her headlights on so she can’t be seen so easilyinside the car, and remembers something Lisa Kallisto said earlier in the day. She said Kate’s son had health problems. ‘Been sickly for as long as they’d been friends,’ was more or less what she’d said, and Joanne decides that’s the reason for Guy being here.
So she calls it a day. Guy must be here for a prescription for their son, she thinks, and dips the clutch, puts the car into gear. Just as she edges forward, though, she sees Guy Riverty emerge. He’s looking harried.
To be expected, she thinks.
He’s glancing around furtively.
His daughter’s missing, she reasons.
He drives off in his Audi Q7 V12 – a hundred grand’s worth of car – without his headlights on.
Yeah, well, he’s distracted.
But then, at the top of the road, instead of taking a left towards home, he goes right.
Bit odd, Joanne thinks. So she follows him.
13
J OANNE KEEPS WELL back. Stays a safe distance behind Guy Riverty. If he were to slow down for any reason, and she were to get too close, he’d see her in his rear-view mirror. He has a personalized numberplate – GR 658 – and his
She reaches beneath her blouse and hooks the right strap out from where it’s become embedded within the muscle. The relief is temporary as she gives the skin a quick rub. She slides her index finger inside the groove the strap has made; it’s half an inch deep. It feels fiery hot to the touch.
‘Does it affect your work?’ he asks.
‘Sometimes.’
She doesn’t want to tell him in what way. Doesn’t really want to share that she can’t run without feeling humiliated, can’t conduct an interview without first feeling embarrassed. She’s done her best to put a brave face on things in the past and not let this get in the way, but it seems now that she’s approaching her late thirties, the fear of being viewed with ridicule is not so easy to shrug off.
Doctor Ravenscroft nods gravely. ‘You know you won’t be able to breastfeed.’
‘I don’t even have a boyfriend … breastfeeding’s not exactly top of my agenda.’
‘It might be one day,’ he says, his tone suddenly breezy. ‘Nice chap comes along, sweeps you off your feet …’
Joanne just looks at him.
‘Never say “never”!’ he says. ‘Lovely girl like you, there’s bound to be some fellow waiting in the wings, ready to take you home and make you his wife …’
‘But where would I put the unicorn?’ Joanne says flatly.
Joanne gets her referral to the plastic surgeon.
Leaving Dr Ravenscroft’s room, she walks past the phlebotomist, past the treatment room where all the oldies are having their flu jabs, past the cleaner’s store cupboard and back through to the main waiting area. She’s about to leave through the double glass doors when she hears something that makes her stop.
‘Do you pay for your prescriptions?’ the assistant in the pharmacy is asking the man.
‘Yes,’ comes the reply. Then, ‘Oh, actually, no. I don’t pay for this one … it’s for a child … see?’
Apologetically, the assistant says, ‘Of course it is. It’ll be ready in just a moment.’
It’s Guy – Guy Riverty – who’s waiting for a prescription. What is he doing here? Wasn’t he supposed to be out with the search parties?
The first thing that pops into Joanne’s head is that he must be picking something up for Kate. Something to calm her nerves, to make her sleep. But then he’s just said it’s for a child. No prescription charge. It’s exempt.
Joanne decides to wait inside her car.
She climbs in, and the temperature gauge reads minus seven. She turns the ignition to get the heat going and automatically there’s a blast of music. One of Auntie Jackie’s Michael Bublé CDs that she’s been listening to. ‘Smug bastard,’ Joanne mutters, and kills the stereo.
She switches her headlights on so she can’t be seen so easilyinside the car, and remembers something Lisa Kallisto said earlier in the day. She said Kate’s son had health problems. ‘Been sickly for as long as they’d been friends,’ was more or less what she’d said, and Joanne decides that’s the reason for Guy being here.
So she calls it a day. Guy must be here for a prescription for their son, she thinks, and dips the clutch, puts the car into gear. Just as she edges forward, though, she sees Guy Riverty emerge. He’s looking harried.
To be expected, she thinks.
He’s glancing around furtively.
His daughter’s missing, she reasons.
He drives off in his Audi Q7 V12 – a hundred grand’s worth of car – without his headlights on.
Yeah, well, he’s distracted.
But then, at the top of the road, instead of taking a left towards home, he goes right.
Bit odd, Joanne thinks. So she follows him.
13
J OANNE KEEPS WELL back. Stays a safe distance behind Guy Riverty. If he were to slow down for any reason, and she were to get too close, he’d see her in his rear-view mirror. He has a personalized numberplate – GR 658 – and his
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