Patsy!’) But this Mannix Taylor had just given me my first hard fact – that myelin sheaths grew at half an inch a month. How many inches did they need to grow? Were they growing already?
‘Today,’ Mannix Taylor said, ‘I’m going to work on your feet.’
I almost levitated in shock.
Not the feet! Anything but the feet!
Thanks to a lifetime of high heels, I had the worst feet in the world – bunions, corns and misshapen toes – and since I’d come into hospital, no one had even cut my toenails.
No, no, no, Mr Narky Range Rover Man. Back away from the feet.
But he was loosening the blankets and out came my right foot. He sprayed something onto it – some sort of disinfectant, I was hoping for his sake – and then he had taken my foot in his hands, the heel of his thumb pressing into the tender arch. He held it still for a moment, the pressure warm and firm, then he began to move his fingers in slow confident circles, pressing and pulling the tendons beneath the skin in a way that was almost but not quite painful.
I closed my eyes. Thrills of electricity moved through me. My lips felt numb and tingly and my scalp crawled with delight.
Placing the flat of his palm against the sole of my foot, he pressed hard so that every muscle stretched and the bones cracked in joyful relief.
With his thumbnail, he bit little nips of pleasure along the top of my big toe. The movements were tiny, a delicious sort of agony.
I didn’t care about my bunions, about my hard skin, about the funny lump on my small toe that might be a chilblain. All I wanted was to stay with these beautiful feelings for ever.
I felt myself getting warmer, then I realized that it wasn’t me, it was him.
He wiggled his finger between the big toe and the second toe and when it slotted into the space, a jolt of sensation zipped straight to my lady-centre. In shock, my eyes flew open. He was staring right at me and he looked surprised. He dropped my foot onto the bed with unexpected haste and tucked it back under the blanket. ‘We’ll leave it there for today.’
18.11
Karen drops me home. I let myself into the empty house and I’m hit by a slap of agonizing loneliness which my new lady chinos do nothing to assuage.
What can I do to make myself feel better? I could ring Zoe, but I feel sort of poisoned every time I talk to her. I could watch
Nurse Jackie
and eat biscuits, but in my current bellied-up state, I’m going to have to knock off the biscuits. My biscuit days are over. I’ll have to go back to that high-protein, carb-free misery, where I ate salmon for breakfast and told myself that doughnuts were like unicorns: mythical things that only existed in fairy tales.
I was once able to live like that. I should be able for it again. But I had had Gilda to make me do it, to oversee my meals and say encouraging things like, ‘Delicious cottage cheese! With delicious prawns. Remember, nothing tastes as good as skinny feels!’
I’d depended on her entirely and she’d taken such wonderful care of me; there was no way I could recreate that support on my own.
And maybe I’m too old to be thin. I know forty-one is the new eighteen, but tell that to my metabolism.
I’ve been brave for the last twelve weeks, I’ve ploughed blindly forward, but, all of a sudden, I feel like giving up.
If only I could talk to him … I live in a state of perpetual longing for him – I still feel like nothing has really ‘happened’ until I’ve told him.
I stare at my phone, trying to hold onto the facts, reminding myself of my reality. Ringing him would achieve nothing. It would probably make me feel worse.
My life is over, I realize. I accept it, but there are still somany years to live. Unless something intervenes, I’ll probably live until I’m at least eighty. How am I going to fill the time?
Maybe I should take my cue from the clothes in the shops and disappear for twenty years. I could eat whatever I wanted and watch an endless
‘Today,’ Mannix Taylor said, ‘I’m going to work on your feet.’
I almost levitated in shock.
Not the feet! Anything but the feet!
Thanks to a lifetime of high heels, I had the worst feet in the world – bunions, corns and misshapen toes – and since I’d come into hospital, no one had even cut my toenails.
No, no, no, Mr Narky Range Rover Man. Back away from the feet.
But he was loosening the blankets and out came my right foot. He sprayed something onto it – some sort of disinfectant, I was hoping for his sake – and then he had taken my foot in his hands, the heel of his thumb pressing into the tender arch. He held it still for a moment, the pressure warm and firm, then he began to move his fingers in slow confident circles, pressing and pulling the tendons beneath the skin in a way that was almost but not quite painful.
I closed my eyes. Thrills of electricity moved through me. My lips felt numb and tingly and my scalp crawled with delight.
Placing the flat of his palm against the sole of my foot, he pressed hard so that every muscle stretched and the bones cracked in joyful relief.
With his thumbnail, he bit little nips of pleasure along the top of my big toe. The movements were tiny, a delicious sort of agony.
I didn’t care about my bunions, about my hard skin, about the funny lump on my small toe that might be a chilblain. All I wanted was to stay with these beautiful feelings for ever.
I felt myself getting warmer, then I realized that it wasn’t me, it was him.
He wiggled his finger between the big toe and the second toe and when it slotted into the space, a jolt of sensation zipped straight to my lady-centre. In shock, my eyes flew open. He was staring right at me and he looked surprised. He dropped my foot onto the bed with unexpected haste and tucked it back under the blanket. ‘We’ll leave it there for today.’
18.11
Karen drops me home. I let myself into the empty house and I’m hit by a slap of agonizing loneliness which my new lady chinos do nothing to assuage.
What can I do to make myself feel better? I could ring Zoe, but I feel sort of poisoned every time I talk to her. I could watch
Nurse Jackie
and eat biscuits, but in my current bellied-up state, I’m going to have to knock off the biscuits. My biscuit days are over. I’ll have to go back to that high-protein, carb-free misery, where I ate salmon for breakfast and told myself that doughnuts were like unicorns: mythical things that only existed in fairy tales.
I was once able to live like that. I should be able for it again. But I had had Gilda to make me do it, to oversee my meals and say encouraging things like, ‘Delicious cottage cheese! With delicious prawns. Remember, nothing tastes as good as skinny feels!’
I’d depended on her entirely and she’d taken such wonderful care of me; there was no way I could recreate that support on my own.
And maybe I’m too old to be thin. I know forty-one is the new eighteen, but tell that to my metabolism.
I’ve been brave for the last twelve weeks, I’ve ploughed blindly forward, but, all of a sudden, I feel like giving up.
If only I could talk to him … I live in a state of perpetual longing for him – I still feel like nothing has really ‘happened’ until I’ve told him.
I stare at my phone, trying to hold onto the facts, reminding myself of my reality. Ringing him would achieve nothing. It would probably make me feel worse.
My life is over, I realize. I accept it, but there are still somany years to live. Unless something intervenes, I’ll probably live until I’m at least eighty. How am I going to fill the time?
Maybe I should take my cue from the clothes in the shops and disappear for twenty years. I could eat whatever I wanted and watch an endless
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