She lowers her voice. ‘Yes! He asked how you were. Hurry up – there’s people in the waiting area.’
I pick up Helen’s purse from the table, charge out the door and dive into my car like Dave Starsky (bet he wishes he was cool enough to pull off the tight plunging V-neck top I’m wearing). The surgery is only a few streets away, but it’s raining so I decide to endure the one-way system for the sake of my hair. Andie MacDowell might have got her man by braving the pissing wet weather, but I’m not risking it. I park up right behind Helen’s car and dash through the front door of the dental surgery, unnecessarily ringing the bell to announce myself. I look around the pristine waiting room for Helen but there’s no sign.
‘Can I help you?’ asks a stern-faced woman behind reception. Her name badge says ‘Margaret’. She must hate that bell, I think. She’s rocking a hair bun so tight, I’m getting a sympathy headache.
‘Yes, hello, I’m looking for my sister. I have her purse.’
‘And does your sister have a name?’
‘Sorry, yes. Helen Walsh.’
I smile sweetly but her face remains unchanged. I admire her dedication to being a po-faced bastard.
‘She went to the bathroom. I can give her the purse if—’
‘No, I’ll wait for her. But thank you.’
Nurse Ratched goes back to typing and I take a seat beside a man who’s clutching at his swollen jaw. After five minutes of listening to the clock ticking on the wall, Helen finally appears and flings her arms around me like I’ve just announced I’m going to pay off her mortgage. I whisper in her ear, ‘Take your time – Tom must be in with a patient. I’m not leaving until he’s seen me, so I can ignore him and then expect his call!’
Helen slowly fumbles around with her bank cards, stalling for time. The receptionist is staring at us, and eventually her burning death glare forces Helen to pay £10.20 for a deep clean she didn’t even need but endured for me.
I’ve just about given up hope when a door opens and Tom appears behind a puffy-mouthed woman who attempts to settle up with Margaret. He looks happy to see me.
‘Cat, I heard you were coming down! I told Helen she could pay next time, but she insisted on calling you.’
‘It’s no problem,’ I reply, flicking my hair over my shoulder. I smooth down my top and his eyes scan down to my cleavage. Boom! Gotcha.
‘You looked nice. Look nice.’ He’s stumbling over his words. This is exciting. I turn and face my sister, who is beaming at the pair of us. It’s time to move before I say or do something stupid.
‘We’d better be going, Helen. I have that thing to get to.’
‘What thing?’
‘I told you earlier? That meeting?’ Jesus, she’s the worst fucking mind-reader ever. ‘Anyway, nice to see you, Tom, and thank you. I like your white coat.’
I turn and walk away with a wiggle that would make Monroe blush and a creeping suspicion that this shit might have just worked.
*
I have time to nip home before I pick Grace up from school and my phone beeps as I walk through the front door. Excitedly I press the tiny envelope symbol.
Well?
Ugh, it’s from Dylan. There then follows a quick succession of texts.
I’m just home. Think it went well. Will have to see.
The book works. He’ll call. Stop being so negative.
I want to reach into the phone and pull him through, scrotum first.
Your book makes no sense. I hate it. DO YOU READ ME? I HATE YOUR STUPID BOOK.
There’s no reply at first and I start to think he’s offended until:
If you really don’t understand, come by tomorrow and I’ll go over everything with you. I’ll train you up, grasshopper.
Fuck off, Mr Miyagi. I’m not going back to your gigolo pad. Besides, maybe Tom will ask me for a date on Wed.
