paediatric anaesthetist at St Jude’s, the children’s hospital, and he spoke about patients and their families. They talked about art and film, about which they usually disagreed, and about politics, where they were always in perfect accord with each other, and about which restaurant they wanted to eat Sunday brunch at, which usually went 50/50. Tonight they were talking about their neighbours. More specifically, they were talking about Charlotte Murphy, and playing Pygmalion . Bickering, actually. Greg was Colonel Pickering, bickering.
‘She’s just so very uncomfortable in her skin. She wouldn’t let anyone get anywhere near her at Violet’s meeting. She actually stepped back when I spoke to her. I wondered if I’d forgotten to floss. And she couldn’t look you in the eye.’
‘She’s shy, she’s painfully shy. Agreed. And badly dressed isn’t in it… She needed a complete makeover. But I tell you, under all that, she could be cute.’
‘Hmm.’
‘And she came to Violet’s meeting. That means she’s open.’
‘Open to planting a few containers, not to the attack of the killer queens.’
‘I’m telling you – we should take her under our collective wings. I don’t mean attack – nothing like. When did you ever know me to attack?’
Greg raised an eyebrow.
‘Just, maybe, corner the girl. Have a chat…’
‘She doesn’t need a makeover. She needs a great guy. That’s all. Girls who wear dirndl skirts can find love, too, you know. They just have to find the guys in the stonewash denim jeans.’
‘You’re an old romantic.’
‘And you’re obsessed with appearances. It’s really just an extension of your own vanity, you know, judging the world that way…’
‘I’m not vain.’
‘Right. And I’m not gay.’
Eve
Did making doctor’s appointments as a way to fill the time count as desperate and tragic, or was she just taking full advantage of her new‐found free time and seemingly unlimited insurance policy to make sure she was in great condition, Eve wondered. A New Yorker would definitely go with option 2. They could spin (and not just in the spinning room at the Equinox). She was leaning towards option 1, spinning (of the stationary bicycle or the political varieties) not being a habit with her just yet. But it wasn’t her fault. It was her husband who had started this particular line of dominoes toppling. Ed had made the very first appointment with the first doctor, concerned (slash irritated, let’s be honest) by her persistent cough which was keeping him awake – a cough she had insisted was nothing to worry about. He’d booked her in with an internalist a girl at the office had recommended in their neighbourhood. No such thing as a GP, Eve had learnt. An internalist. Sounded invasive, right there. She knew her lungs, infected or not, technically were inside her, but did they have to be so… literal about it? She’d told herself it was good to have a doctor, just in case, even though she hadn’t been to her GP at home for… well, she couldn’t remember when. And it was something to do… get up, get dressed, hail a cab. Be going somewhere. Everyone else was, all the time.
The internalist was brisk, efficient, and not at all fun. Eve had detailed the symptoms of the cough in the calm, quasi‐knowledgeable manner she historically used with doctors, since her greatest dread was always appearing to be hysterical or hypochondriacal. The ‘doctor’, in green pyjamas, listened for a moment, in what seemed to be amused silence, before she revealed herself to be the nurse, and told her to please put on the green gown and that Dr Cohen would be along shortly to ‘work her up’. Work her over, more like. Appalled by the whole gown thing – she’d worn one once, when she’d had her appendix out as a child, and hadn’t been quite so anxious about having her arse hanging out in the breeze (why would she have been? In those days it didn’t hang…) – but ultimately,
‘She’s just so very uncomfortable in her skin. She wouldn’t let anyone get anywhere near her at Violet’s meeting. She actually stepped back when I spoke to her. I wondered if I’d forgotten to floss. And she couldn’t look you in the eye.’
‘She’s shy, she’s painfully shy. Agreed. And badly dressed isn’t in it… She needed a complete makeover. But I tell you, under all that, she could be cute.’
‘Hmm.’
‘And she came to Violet’s meeting. That means she’s open.’
‘Open to planting a few containers, not to the attack of the killer queens.’
‘I’m telling you – we should take her under our collective wings. I don’t mean attack – nothing like. When did you ever know me to attack?’
Greg raised an eyebrow.
‘Just, maybe, corner the girl. Have a chat…’
‘She doesn’t need a makeover. She needs a great guy. That’s all. Girls who wear dirndl skirts can find love, too, you know. They just have to find the guys in the stonewash denim jeans.’
‘You’re an old romantic.’
‘And you’re obsessed with appearances. It’s really just an extension of your own vanity, you know, judging the world that way…’
‘I’m not vain.’
‘Right. And I’m not gay.’
Eve
Did making doctor’s appointments as a way to fill the time count as desperate and tragic, or was she just taking full advantage of her new‐found free time and seemingly unlimited insurance policy to make sure she was in great condition, Eve wondered. A New Yorker would definitely go with option 2. They could spin (and not just in the spinning room at the Equinox). She was leaning towards option 1, spinning (of the stationary bicycle or the political varieties) not being a habit with her just yet. But it wasn’t her fault. It was her husband who had started this particular line of dominoes toppling. Ed had made the very first appointment with the first doctor, concerned (slash irritated, let’s be honest) by her persistent cough which was keeping him awake – a cough she had insisted was nothing to worry about. He’d booked her in with an internalist a girl at the office had recommended in their neighbourhood. No such thing as a GP, Eve had learnt. An internalist. Sounded invasive, right there. She knew her lungs, infected or not, technically were inside her, but did they have to be so… literal about it? She’d told herself it was good to have a doctor, just in case, even though she hadn’t been to her GP at home for… well, she couldn’t remember when. And it was something to do… get up, get dressed, hail a cab. Be going somewhere. Everyone else was, all the time.
The internalist was brisk, efficient, and not at all fun. Eve had detailed the symptoms of the cough in the calm, quasi‐knowledgeable manner she historically used with doctors, since her greatest dread was always appearing to be hysterical or hypochondriacal. The ‘doctor’, in green pyjamas, listened for a moment, in what seemed to be amused silence, before she revealed herself to be the nurse, and told her to please put on the green gown and that Dr Cohen would be along shortly to ‘work her up’. Work her over, more like. Appalled by the whole gown thing – she’d worn one once, when she’d had her appendix out as a child, and hadn’t been quite so anxious about having her arse hanging out in the breeze (why would she have been? In those days it didn’t hang…) – but ultimately,
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