The Ex-Wives by Deborah Moggach Page B

prostate probed. Hunched on his side, staring at the moquette wallpaper, he felt Mr Woolley’s warm finger goosing him. This was far from dignified, but not entirely unpleasant either.
    â€˜I said to my wife: that’s him. Advertising something or other . . . relax . . . that’s better. What were you extolling the virtues of this time?’
    â€˜Barbecued Niblets,’ said Buffy.
    â€˜I never remember what it is, do you? Wonder anyone remembers what to buy.’ His finger slid deeper.
    â€˜What’s it like?’ asked Buffy.
    â€˜Enlarged, yes. Feel that?’
    Buffy nodded.
    â€˜Enlarged, but not inordinately so.’
    Buffy had explained to him in detail his difficulties when passing water – a vaguely Biblical phrase he liked using with medical men. How the whole process, the scattered grapeshot nature of it, took so long nowadays that by the time he was finished it was practically time to start all over again. Mae West said
I like a man who takes his time.
But this was ridiculous.
    â€˜And then there’s the dry rot.’
    â€˜What?’ Buffy froze.
    â€˜Dry rot, isn’t it? Rising damp, that sort of thing.’
    â€˜What? Where?’
    â€˜Always a problem, in old buildings. Dry rot, wet rot.’
    For a moment Buffy thought he was being addressed in some hideous metaphor. Was the fellow trying to tell him something? Then he realized.
    â€˜Ah,’ he said. ‘The advertisements, you mean. Rot-Away Damp Proof Courses.’
    â€˜Must keep the wolf from the door. I said to my wife, I said with that voice our Mr Buffery could sell diet pills to the Somalians.’
    Buffy’s breathing had returned to normal. Not for the first time, he wondered why private consultantsmade such terrible jokes. The more expensive they were, the more tasteless their sense of humour. They looked so pleased with themselves, too, with their shiny faces and bow ties. Not surprisingly, really. How could one answer back if one’s mouth was stuffed with cotton wool or one’s spine was being ruthlessly pummelled? How could one interrupt the unfunny patter for which one was paying, as it were, an arm and a leg? He had had a wide experience with consultants – his heart, his teeth, his gums, his waterworks. Just when you thought everything was all right another bit of the old body packed up. He was familiar with all the properties for sale in
Country Life,
read tensely in waiting rooms from Knightsbridge to Wigmore Street. He even knew which Right Honourable was marrying which.
    â€˜No need for any further action at this point,’ said. Mr Woolley, ‘but see me again in six months.’
    â€˜What further action had you in mind?’
    â€˜You really want me to describe it?’
    â€˜No, no!’ said Buffy hastily.
    Mr Woolley’s finger was withdrawn; the glove crackled as it was peeled off.
    â€˜Haemorrhoids okay?’ asked Buffy.
    â€˜Fine. Nothing much the matter with you, really, old chap. Only the things one would expect . . .’
    â€˜. . . at my age. I know, I know.’
    Buffy paid a large cheque to the receptionist and emerged into the sunshine. Outside Jaguars waited, their engines throbbing. He felt both relieved and obscurely disappointed that there was nothing really wrong with him. Just the ordinary depredations of age.
    He walked down the street. One didn’t exactly grow old; it wasn’t as simple as that. One just felt a growing irritation with a whole lot of things which nowadays seemed designed to baffle and frustrate, like the impossibly-sealed plastic around a Marks and Spencer sandwich. The way that books seemed to be published with smaller and smaller print. The way that when he switched on Radio 3 and got settled into something it promptly changed to organ music. It probably had in the past, but not with such crowing regularity. Did other people feel any of this, or was he entirely alone? Why, when he paid for