probably confused as to what’s going on, but I have a full schedule today thanks to the absent Dr Abara and really don’t have time for this debate. Can we please get on with this, ladies?’
The first time I met Lucy was on the second day of university when she staggered into me and my three Smirnoff Ices after literally headbutting a disgusting boy called Vernon who was trying to take a photo up her skirt in the student union. Lucy was an iron fist in a velvet glove, wasted in peace time really, she would have absolutely shone during the war. And yet, here she was with one single, perfect tear trickling down her beautiful rosy, red cheek all because of this absolute twat in his dogshit-brown suit.
I wasn’t having it.
‘I’m sure you’re very qualified, but we’d be much more comfortable seeing our usual doctor,’ I replied. ‘Wouldn’t we, Luce?’
She nodded fiercely. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I think so.’
Mr Appleton put down the lube with a look I imagined had passed over the faces of many men who had been made to put down lube when they really wanted to use it. He inhaled sharply through his nose, a sour look on his face.
‘I would be more comfortable seeing my doctor,’ Lucy reiterated, as I helped her out of the stirrups. Being really pregnant looked properly shit at times like this. Just when you wanted to make a speedy and dignified exit, you were forced to roll around on an elevated bed like an oversized Weeble.
‘Also, you’re very rude,’ I added. ‘Just so you know.’
Without another word, he snapped off the surgical gloves and tossed them in the bin, marching straight out the door and leaving it swinging behind him.
‘That was great but what if they don’t let me come back again?’ Lucy asked as she struggled back into her pants. ‘This little bugger could make an appearance any day, I don’t want to get blacklisted. This is the best maternity hospital in London, you know.’
‘So help me god, don’t you dare mention Meghan Markle,’ I warned.
She pouted. No one loved Meghan Markle as much as Lucy loved Meghan Markle.
‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ I assured her. ‘If they kick up a fuss, we tell Sumi about the condescending doctor and have her write a threatening letter. Honestly, it’s like you forget you’ve got a lawyer for a best friend on purpose.’
‘You should get shagged more often, you know,’ she said as she forced her swollen feet back into her flip-flops. ‘I like this Ros.’
I smiled and held my arm out to my friend.
‘Thanks,’ I said, escorting her out the room. ‘I like her too.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
Three sharp knocks on my shed door woke me up at seven a.m. on Tuesday morning. I blinked at my Bart Simpson alarm clock, quite prepared to have a cow. Between reliving every moment of my weekend and stressing about work, I had barely slept a wink.
‘Morning, Sleeping Beauty,’ my mother opened the door and poked her head inside. ‘Are you still in bed?’
‘Yes,’ I replied, pulling a pillow over my face. ‘Because it is the crack of dawn. Please go away now.’
What was the point in being banished to the bottom of the garden like a common Womble if my parents could still let themselves in my room whenever they wanted? Surely that kind of intrusion warranted full-time washing machine rights?
‘I thought you’d want these,’ she said, throwing the door open wide and carrying in the most enormous bouquet of flowers in sunset colours. ‘They came yesterday but you got home so late and the lights were out by the time I looked in on you.’
‘They’re for me?’ I asked, bouncing out of bed. Flowers! I had flowers! But that didn’t mean the flowers were from Patrick, they could be from Lucy for kicking that awful doctor’s metaphorical backside or from that man on the 521 bus who put his hand a little bit too deep into his trouser pocket every morning when I got on. Not even a very meaningful glance at my #TimesUp badge had put him off.
‘They’re for you,’ Mum confirmed, setting them on the collapsible dining table and handing me the little white envelope that only ever came with flowers.
There was no name on the card, just a quote.
Oh, do not ask, ‘What is it?’ Let us go and make our visit.
A line from his favourite T.S. Eliot poem. No doubt about it, they were from Patrick.
‘All right then, what