Practice Makes Perfect Read online

  She’d hit the nail on the head herself only the other day – this project was Dan’s baby – and she’d just called it ugly.

  ‘Listen,’ he said, a muscle in his jaw working hard, ‘I know you’ve a busy day, but you and I need to find a time to talk. It’s all very well you considering this other job, but you have to stay committed to the life you’ve chosen here – at least until you choose something different.’

  He didn’t even try to hide the subtext in his words – The Practice, Dan, Larkford. He obviously felt that she already had one foot out of the door and judging by the expression on his face, it was only a matter of time before he made the decision for her.

  ‘Dan,’ she said, hating the supplicating tone in her voice, ‘that’s not what I meant at all, it’s just that—’

  ‘It’s just that there’s always something, Jules. Always. Let’s at least grab a sandwich and talk over lunch?’

  Her eyes flickered down to the entry she’d only written in her diary minutes before. ‘I’d love to. I would. But I have plans over lunch and to be honest, I really need to keep them.’

  He stopped, wrong-footed by her apologetic tone and obvious discomfort. ‘Are you okay? You’re not – unwell?’ It was a reasonable question. The last time Julia had been so cagey about her diary was because she’d thought she was pregnant and had quietly taken herself to see an Ob/Gyn on the other side of Bristol. A false alarm, but when Dan had found out the lengths she had gone to keep it quiet, he had jumped to the logical conclusion of what she had been considering.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said, knowing exactly what he was thinking. She crossed the room and took his hands. ‘I would love to have lunch and I am categorically not sneaking off anywhere.’ Even as she said the words out loud, she knew they were only partly true. She reached back for her diary and placed it in Dan’s hands.

  The entry was easy to read: Al-Anon counsellor 1 p.m.

  ‘Al-anon?’ Dan said, the penny dropping. ‘Oh God, Jules, of course you must go.’ He knew only too well from some of their patients, how beneficial a support group could be for children and spouses of alcoholics. ‘Do you want me to come with you?’ His voice was tender and caring, apologetic even, for jumping to conclusions.

  She shook her head. ‘I want to do this on my own.’ She sighed at the very thought. ‘But thank you.’

  It was the politeness between them that killed her, the distance that seemed to be growing, despite all her best efforts. Short of pulling out of filming, turning down the job and ovulating on command, Julia honestly didn’t know what else might work in crossing the divide.

  She reached out a hand and he clasped hers briefly. ‘I love you,’ she said.

  ‘You know where I am if you change your mind,’ he answered.

  It wasn’t until he’d left the room, that Julia even realised he might not have been talking about lunch.

  Chapter 21

  Dan tried hard to put all thoughts of Julia, her mother and Quentin-the-Twat aside and focus on his patients. His argument with her earlier was preying on his mind and he hated the guilt that had prickled him since they spoke.

  He washed his hands for the third time since looking after Mary Darnley, but he did wonder if they would ever feel clean again. He was beginning to regret throwing down the gauntlet as to who would get to deal with Mary’s infected fat flaps earlier, having forgotten Taffy’s undeniable luck with Rock-Paper-Scissors. Perhaps he and Taffy might need to find a better way of divvying up their patients – at least until Taffy’s winning streak ended and there was a little more parity in the arrangement?

  Still, Dan sighed, sometimes it was worth the gamble just for a little light relief. Just because they were doctors and supposedly beyond reproach, didn’t mean they weren’t human. Some stuff was just plain gross, even with a professional hat on.

  He dried his hands and ushered in his next patient, trying not to look shocked at the young lad’s appearance.

  He considered the emaciated teenager in front of him and checked his file. Everybody knew about girls and the risk of anorexia, but nobody talked about the growing incidence amongst teenaged boys, especially athletes and perfectionist high-achievers. It was a fair assumption that Henry Holt was both, thought Dan. He sat in the chair by Dan’s desk, chewing gum like a reflective cow, and looking shocking.

  Needless to say, he hadn’t made this appointment to discuss his tragically low BMI or his flaking, malnourished skin. ‘I need some antibiotics, Doc, please. My throat is so sore and it’s been like it for weeks.’

  ‘Let’s have a little look then,’ said Dan, half wondering whether he would see the tell-tale signs of acid regurgitation and he should change his preliminary diagnosis to bulimia. He picked up a tongue depressor and his little flashlight and swivelled round until he was facing Henry head-on.

  ‘I did everything the poster said first,’ Henry said. ‘Over the counter stuff, you know, but it’s been weeks . . .’

  ‘That’s great, Henry, well done. I wish half my patients were as sensible as you.’ It was true. Since every appointment at The Practice cost the NHS around fifty quid, the number of slots that tallied up each week that were, bluntly, a waste of his time, was ridiculous. Hayfever, sore throats, mild tummy upsets . . . there was no need for otherwise healthy patients to be taking up slots that others might genuinely need.

  There was a huge traffic light poster in the waiting room now: green for pharmacy, amber for your GP and red for A&E. At least Henry Holt seemed to have read it, but he was one of the few.

  As expected, the throat was red and inflamed, but there was no sign of infection or acid erosion and Dan genuinely didn’t want to throw him some antibiotics, when he suspected deep down that there was an easier way to fix the problem. Easier for him; not necessarily easier for Henry.

  He leaned forward, elbows on knees. ‘How’s the athletics training going?’ he asked, catching Henry off guard.

  ‘Good, yeah, I mean, okay . . . My coach’s been getting a bit frustrated with my times this season, but otherwise . . .’ There was a stilted silence.

  ‘Henry, I’m going to be blunt with you, okay, because I know how much your sport means to you and I can probably look at things in a more objective way. I know you want to be lean and fit, but when you take it too far, your body has no fuel to run off. Do you know what happens then?’

  Henry looked incredibly awkward, avoiding all eye contact. ‘You get tired and ill?’

  ‘You do indeed, but more than that, your body has to run on something, so it starts eating away at your muscle. So you might be lighter, but you’re losing muscle-tone, so ultimately you’ll be slower. Do you see? And when you get into this vicious circle, your body has to prioritise the systems it needs most – your breathing for example – so your immunity to bugs gets depleted . . .’

  Henry looked up. ‘I know everything you’re saying, Dr Carter. I do. I study biology. I read the websites. But the problem is, I just can’t stop.’ He blurted out that last sentence as if ripping off a Band-Aid. He was a sensible lad and he knew that this wasn’t right, but his condition had clearly got out of his control.

  Now pleased that Henry had wangled the slot before his afternoon break, Dan ignored the clock ticking beside him and got that strange buzz he sometimes felt when his job became rewarding again. He stood up and grabbed a tissue from the box on the side, holding it out to Henry. ‘Spit that vile gum out in there and we can talk properly. If we’re going to be open and honest about this, then let’s talk about the gum as well.’ Dan had clocked the practically empty Jumbo Pack in Henry’s top pocket as soon as he entered.

  ‘I want to take some bloods to check your electrolytes, Henry. I’m guessing you chew that gum pretty much constantly?’

  Henry shrugged. ‘Stops me eating.’

  ‘I can imagine. But it also depletes your calcium, your magnesium and your potassium. Now these are really important, Henry, they keep all the major functions in the body running smooth
ly. Without them, you would actually die. Now, I don’t want to scare you, but I’m guessing you’ve been getting some cracking headaches lately, no?’

  Henry nodded. ‘Bad ones, yeah. Just thought it was being hungry. Am I, I mean, does that mean . . .?’

  ‘It means that you’re here and we can help, before anything too disastrous happens.’

  Henry nodded. ‘That thing about eating muscle – isn’t your heart a muscle?’

  ‘It is, Henry, yes and quite an important one, so shall we be scientific about this and get you on the path to recovery and then I think we should look at the emotional reasons behind where this all started. We won’t fix you in a day and it’s going to take some effort, maybe some counselling, but you are an incredibly bright boy, Henry. This sore throat may yet turn out to be the best thing that ever happened to you.’

  Henry looked pensive for a moment. ‘I’m not like the girls, Dr Carter, this isn’t about fitting in, or wearing tight clothes. I knew I needed to drop a few pounds to get my times down – I’m a sport scholar at my school – if I lose my scholarship . . .’

  Dan poured him a glass of water and gave Henry a moment to compose himself, the conversation reminding him of all the reasons he had chosen General Practice in the first place. This was his forté – looking further than the obvious to meet his patients’ needs. This was the one area of his life that made him feel fulfilled and truly present. ‘Quite a lot of pressure then, I’m guessing,’ Dan said.

  ‘You could say that,’ said Henry in a strangled sob. ‘My parents would freak if I got kicked out and I love my school, it’s just . . . Sometimes, I feel like a fraud. I’ve got this scholarship and I’m not the best. Everyone’s talking about Nationals and I know I’m not the best.’

  ‘Have you ever heard the expression fake-it-till-you-make-it, Henry? Well, that’s what everybody else is doing and nine times out of ten, the ones who brag the most are the ones who are riddled with insecurities. I think you should have a chat with my colleague, you’ve met him before I think – Taffy Jones? He’s got a cracking approach to Sports Psychology that might really help you.’

  Henry looked relieved. ‘So, when you said counselling, you didn’t mean sitting around with all the Lollipop Girls from school, talking calories and weight-shakes?’

  Dan shook his head. ‘We’ll take a different approach with you, young man. But I will remind you of this – those “Lollipop Girls”? Their battles are just as real and just as painful for them as yours is to you. It’s only the motivation that varies. So maybe, you could cut them some slack as well, yeah?’

  Henry looked mortified and Dan took pity on him. ‘Hey look, we all have our demons. Sometimes people choose to share their private battles and then you might understand, but a little empathy goes a very long way.’

  Even as he ushered Henry into reception, to make appointments with Taffy and the Nurse Dietician, Dan’s own words were echoing in his head.

  He thought about Julia with anger and frustration; he thought about her with pity, but even as an adult, it hadn’t occurred to him to think about her with empathy. It was an illuminating but disappointing revelation.

  Dan set up camp in the doctors’ lounge, with every intention of taking his afternoon break to double check the finer details of the impending Health in the Community launch party – budget or no budget. And of course, he wanted to write the best speech he could – persuade others that this wasn’t the flash in the pan that Julia was predicting.

  The lift he’d felt just now from helping Henry, had reminded him what he loved about this job. It was just so easy to lose sight of that when confronted with all the other aspects of General Practice. Even his excitement about the Model Surgery nomination seemed to have died down a little lately in the face of all everyone’s concerns – was it really going to benefit their patients, or was it just another drain on their time and resources? It was only the addition of Alice to their team that was making it feel like a worthwhile proposition at the moment.

  Taffy came in looking pale and tired and slumped down beside him. ‘Jesus, I need a holiday to get over my holiday.’

  Dan looked up. ‘You do look like shit actually,’ he said supportively. ‘Any news from the hospital?’

  Taffy shrugged. ‘Scans looked good, but she’s not out of the woods yet. More tests, I reckon. Poor Elsie.’

  ‘Not the best end to your holiday. How did it go? Meeting the folks?’ Dan asked.

  Taffy grinned. ‘Great actually. They just seemed to fit, you know. I mean, obviously Aldwyn had to be a total dickhead, but that’s par for the course. And to be fair, it was kind of full-on, but Holly was a trouper. There’s even a small chance that she actually enjoyed it. And I know my mum was in seventh heaven having the twins around.’ Taffy flicked quickly through the e-mails on his phone, avoiding eye contact. ‘But to be honest, it was probably a horrible mistake to go, because all I’m hearing from Mum now is how wonderful Holly is and how I’d be a fool to let her go. As if I didn’t know that,’ he said with feeling. ‘And I’m bloody starving,’ he groaned.

  Dan screwed up the first draft of his speech for the launch and tossed it expertly across the room into the bin: if this was to be his convincing proposition to the town, then he’d need to do a better job of it than that.

  ‘Well, if you’re on the scrounge for food, there’s a lemon tart going begging,’ Dan volunteered. ‘Mrs Bowe brought it in as a thank you for lancing that horrific boil, but I can’t quite bring myself to eat it . . . It’s a bit too reminiscent of her procedure, to be honest.’

  Taffy scowled. ‘Odd choice, I’ll agree. Could I overcome my squeamishness for a bit of tarte au boil? Yeah, go on then. I’ll have it. What are you working on there?’

  ‘Thought I’d better get started on my speech for the Health in the Community launch – God knows what else we’ll be juggling over the next few days. I have to be honest, though – this speech isn’t exactly coming together.’

  Taffy grinned. ‘I’ll have a look if you like.’

  Dan gave him a sideways look. ‘Nah, I’ve got it. I think you’ve got enough on your plate. But I did find a few adverts for second-hand vans to convert, if you fancy having a look later?’

  ‘Can we call her Big Bertha?’ asked Taffy hopefully. ‘I’ve always wanted a big van called Bertha. Odd ambition, I know. I blame the insomnia.’

  Dan gave up on any hope of concentrating and muddled through the coffee table in front of him, digging out a quiz to keep his mind busy – the women’s magazines from the waiting room having a strangely addictive quality that neither man could resist. They sat in comfortable silence for a while, flicking through the pages and letting their minds wander.

  Dan sighed and tapped the pages of the magazine. ‘Are you happy, Taff?’ he asked.

  Taffy yawned and stretched. ‘Well, I’m a bit peckish, but otherwise—’

  ‘No. I mean, with your life choices – are you happy?’ Dan attempted to look casual by leaning back into the sofa, but it was obvious that this was a question that required an answer.

  Taffy thought for a moment then began ticking points off on his fingers. ‘Gorgeous girlfriend, great mates, good job . . . Holly’s lads are kind of fun. The rugby team’s looking pretty good this season . . .’ He stopped to check he hadn’t missed anything. ‘Yup. If you and Channing stopped scrapping and you handed over that lemon tart, I reckon life would be pretty darned perfect really.’ He looked a little reflective for a second and his cheeks coloured slightly. ‘Course, it would be nice if Elsie was okay and my girlfriend wasn’t actually still married to somebody else, but you can’t have everything, right?’ He paused, looking anything but happy. ‘Don’t tell Holly I said that, okay?’

  Dan stopped flicking through the pages. ‘Okay. But if you talk about it with her, you’ll have to do it without your ears turning red, because that’s a dead give-away when you’re flustered. Maybe wear a hat?’

  Taffy lobbed The People’s Friend
at him and Dan ducked without flinching. ‘I don’t think she’s worked that out yet.’

  Dan grinned. ‘Ooh the power . . . Although, you know Taffs, it is pretty obvious and Holly’s nothing if not observant.’

  Watching his friend’s ears turn an even brighter shade of scarlet, Dan began to wonder how observant he himself had actually been of late. Taffy seemed to be moving on, making big life choices and decisions. In contrast, Dan felt as though he were playing musical chairs, waiting for everybody else to pick their seats when the music stopped, so he could choose from what was left.

  Stumped by the unusual tumult of emotions, Dan tried his age-old technique to settle himself: he picked up his magazine quiz again and grabbed a biro. ‘Okay then, let’s put this idyllic happiness to the test, you big girl. Three Steps To Perfect Happiness. One: do you own the perfect pair of jeans?’

  Taffy nodded, completely at ease with the abrupt change of pace. ‘I believe I do.’

  Dan ticked a box and continued to read. ‘Do you own a well-fitting bra that makes you feel beautiful and supported?’

  Taffy hesitated just long enough to make Dan look up and laugh.

  ‘Sadly, I do not. But then, I feel beautiful and supported most days, even without structural engineering. So, I’ll call it a yes, shall I?’

  Dan shook his head, the laughter lightening his features and his mood. ‘Okay then, last question to ascertain whether you are, as you claim, perfectly happy . . . Do you consider yourself to have confidence in your body, your relationships and your achievements?’

  Taffy shrugged, actually giving the question proper consideration. ‘I would have to say, on balance, that I do.’

  Dan tossed the magazine down on the sofa beside him. ‘Well then, it’s official.’

  Taffy picked up the quiz and tried to work out Dan’ scribbles in the margin. ‘What did you score then?’

  Dan sighed. ‘One out of three. It’s not bad I suppose.’