behind the shield they afforded her. It felt like an age before Janet came through and shut the door behind them.
‘Gaynor, go home,’ said Janet.
‘I just don’t believe that Mick’s moved back into the area,
my area
, with
her
,’ snarled Gaynor, none too quietly.
‘Shhh.’ Janet was aware that Gaynor was very much her senior in experience, position and years but Janet liked her. Okay, so Gaynor was frosty and not the girly-chat sort of person, but she was a good boss, brilliant at her job and she’d heard via the grapevine (i.e. the gossipy Dr Gilhooley) what was happening in Gaynor’s personal life. ‘Please, Gaynor. I’ve dealt with it. She’s sitting and waiting out there. Go out of the back door. You look really tired and you know you aren’t yourself.’
‘Oh, if only,’ Gaynor half-laughed, half-cried as she raised her head up to the ceiling. ‘If only I were someone else, anyone else but Gaynor Pollock, I might not be in this mess.’ When her eyes drifted back to Janet, it was to see her holding Gaynor’s coat and handbag out for her.
‘Go home, Gaynor. I can manage.’
Gaynor put on her coat with the weariness of a knackered pensioner and slipped the loop of her handbag over her shoulder.
‘I’ll see you in the morning,’ she said, walking slowly away and through the door. She hadn’t had a day off sick in five years but she felt as if the events of the past year had suddenly all joined together and thrown themselves at her in one big lump. As she zapped her car door unlocked, a male voice – a familiar voice – called her name. She turned, and there was Mick.
‘Gaynor,’ he said. The word hung in the air, as alone and isolated as the owner of that name felt. Mick scratched his head. His hair looked darker and was shiny and spiky. He’d had it cut in a new style meant to offset the thinning and make himself appear younger in the process.
Gaynor didn’t say anything. She opened the car door and again he said her name and took a step forwards.
Her appearance shocked him, she could see that. She didn’t have a stone and a half to lose and her cheeks were hollow. All her clothes hung loosely on her: the thin mac she was wearing looked two sizes too big. He’d bought her that mac, she suddenly remembered. He hadn’t intended to but she’d forgotten her Visa card and he’d put it on his and said it could be part of her fifty-second birthday present.
‘Gaynor, are you all right?’
The ludicrousness of the question gave her a quick shot of anger.
‘Am I all right? Am I all right?’ She opened her mouth to say more then stopped and forced herself to take a breath. He had approached her: she had his attention for the first in a long time and she didn’t want to throw it away. She sighed and the breath seemed to take all the strength she had left. ‘No, I’m not all right,’ she said, her voice a wisp, a croak.
‘We could have signed up to another surgery as we’re in the middle of two but my records are still here so . . . I thought . . . I’m sorry.’
‘Sorry, for what?’ Gaynor asked. She desperately wanted to hear him answer that he was sorry for hurting her, for dragging her through the mud, for turning her into a bitter, envious, miserable cow, so could he please come home.
‘For buying a house near you. It was the only one we liked. It was a good price.’ His voice tailed off. Even he, with his blunted sensitivities, realised these details were surplus to Gaynor’s requirements.
Gaynor wanted to take his hand, press it against her cheek. She would do anything in her power to have him come home. But he had heard her say that at least ten times now and it hadn’t changed his mind. She had shown him the full spectrum of her emotional range, all except this empty, hollow shell of herself. She felt as if someone had stuck a spoon inside her and scooped everything out.
‘We’ll sign up with the other practice. We won’t use this one. It’s wrong.’
‘Gaynor, go home,’ said Janet.
‘I just don’t believe that Mick’s moved back into the area,
my area
, with
her
,’ snarled Gaynor, none too quietly.
‘Shhh.’ Janet was aware that Gaynor was very much her senior in experience, position and years but Janet liked her. Okay, so Gaynor was frosty and not the girly-chat sort of person, but she was a good boss, brilliant at her job and she’d heard via the grapevine (i.e. the gossipy Dr Gilhooley) what was happening in Gaynor’s personal life. ‘Please, Gaynor. I’ve dealt with it. She’s sitting and waiting out there. Go out of the back door. You look really tired and you know you aren’t yourself.’
‘Oh, if only,’ Gaynor half-laughed, half-cried as she raised her head up to the ceiling. ‘If only I were someone else, anyone else but Gaynor Pollock, I might not be in this mess.’ When her eyes drifted back to Janet, it was to see her holding Gaynor’s coat and handbag out for her.
‘Go home, Gaynor. I can manage.’
Gaynor put on her coat with the weariness of a knackered pensioner and slipped the loop of her handbag over her shoulder.
‘I’ll see you in the morning,’ she said, walking slowly away and through the door. She hadn’t had a day off sick in five years but she felt as if the events of the past year had suddenly all joined together and thrown themselves at her in one big lump. As she zapped her car door unlocked, a male voice – a familiar voice – called her name. She turned, and there was Mick.
‘Gaynor,’ he said. The word hung in the air, as alone and isolated as the owner of that name felt. Mick scratched his head. His hair looked darker and was shiny and spiky. He’d had it cut in a new style meant to offset the thinning and make himself appear younger in the process.
Gaynor didn’t say anything. She opened the car door and again he said her name and took a step forwards.
Her appearance shocked him, she could see that. She didn’t have a stone and a half to lose and her cheeks were hollow. All her clothes hung loosely on her: the thin mac she was wearing looked two sizes too big. He’d bought her that mac, she suddenly remembered. He hadn’t intended to but she’d forgotten her Visa card and he’d put it on his and said it could be part of her fifty-second birthday present.
‘Gaynor, are you all right?’
The ludicrousness of the question gave her a quick shot of anger.
‘Am I all right? Am I all right?’ She opened her mouth to say more then stopped and forced herself to take a breath. He had approached her: she had his attention for the first in a long time and she didn’t want to throw it away. She sighed and the breath seemed to take all the strength she had left. ‘No, I’m not all right,’ she said, her voice a wisp, a croak.
‘We could have signed up to another surgery as we’re in the middle of two but my records are still here so . . . I thought . . . I’m sorry.’
‘Sorry, for what?’ Gaynor asked. She desperately wanted to hear him answer that he was sorry for hurting her, for dragging her through the mud, for turning her into a bitter, envious, miserable cow, so could he please come home.
‘For buying a house near you. It was the only one we liked. It was a good price.’ His voice tailed off. Even he, with his blunted sensitivities, realised these details were surplus to Gaynor’s requirements.
Gaynor wanted to take his hand, press it against her cheek. She would do anything in her power to have him come home. But he had heard her say that at least ten times now and it hadn’t changed his mind. She had shown him the full spectrum of her emotional range, all except this empty, hollow shell of herself. She felt as if someone had stuck a spoon inside her and scooped everything out.
‘We’ll sign up with the other practice. We won’t use this one. It’s wrong.’
Similar Books
