Doctor. Doctor my arse, thinks Maggie, hearing the cracking sound her knees make when she stands up from the uncomfortable white chair, wishing the clinic had invested in some white cushions. Maggie can see that the receptionist has also had some work done. Her crease-free brow screams Botox, and the face-lift is good, subtle, the skin on her cheeks hasn’t been pulled too tight. Only the skin on her neck gives the age game away. Maggie wonders whether the receptionist gets a staff discount, but thinks it might be rude to ask. Instead, she forces herself to smile and say, “Thank you,” before shuffling along the white corridor to room three.
He smiles when she walks into the room. He’s practiced that white smile so often, it almost seems real. “Hello, how are you?” he asks, as though he cares.
He’s younger than her and has already made far more of his life than she can ever hope to now. His tan is real, unlike his concern for her well-being, and his floppy blond hair looks as though it might have been blow-dried. Photos of a smiling wife and two perfect-looking children adorn his desk, reinforcing the image of all-round success.
Maggie knows the man is busy, she has seen all the people waiting in reception to become better versions of themselves. Maggie is busy too; she might not be a doctor, but she has things she needs to fix and mend, important things, so she would rather they didn’t waste any more of his time or hers with unnecessary small talk.
“Why have you postponed my surgery again?” She leans as far forward in her chair as she can without falling off, as though she might hear his answer sooner if her ears are closer to his mouth.
He sits a fraction backwards in his own chair, but keeps his eyes fixed on hers. They are deep blue and look wonderfully wise for such a young man.
“Having some excess breast tissue is incredibly common after dramatic weight loss, like you experienced after having a gastric band fitted—”
“Yes, well, I don’t want to look common, I want to look more like this.” She thrusts a crumpled magazine page from her pocket onto his desk.
He gives the glossy picture of a celebrity he vaguely recognizes a cursory glance. “The surgery you wanted is relatively noninvasive, and I would have been happy to go ahead, but do you remember the scan that we did the last time you were here?” He carries on without waiting for an answer. “And do you remember the unexpected mass that we found, and the biopsy I performed?”
Maggie does remember, she’s not senile. It was how she imagined it must feel to have a staple gun used on your naked flesh: a sharp stabbing pain and then a dull ache for the rest of the day.
“There is nothing wrong with my memory … thank you.” She’s even more cross with him now, but tries to remain polite; she needs this man to help her become who she wants to be. “You said the biopsy was just a precaution, nothing to worry about.”
The doctor looks down, as though he’s forgotten his lines and thinks they might be written on the palms of his hands. His thumbs revolve around each other in some hypnotic spinning dance.
It is all Maggie can do to stop herself from tutting. He is going to say no to my surgery again, she thinks, and can feel her crossness inflate inside her. She has never been good at controlling her temper; when she is cross with someone, it can literally last a lifetime. She knows that this is neither a clever or a kind way to be, but she cannot help it. She inherited her anger from her father, who inherited it from his, like a genetic disorder of wrath. She sits up a little straighter, trying, but failing to remain calm.
“If you won’t perform my surgery, then I’ll find someone who—”
“I’m so sorry, but what we found was a tumor.”
The room, and everything in it, has become perfectly still and silent, as though his words have created a vacuum and sucked anything she might have had left to say clean away.
“Right. So then take it out at the same time as the procedure.”
“I’m afraid that isn’t possible. You have breast cancer.” He says the words so kindly, she thinks she might actually cry.
“I don’t understand,” she whispers.
“Tests on the tissue sample have confirmed the cells are malignant. From what