Out of Practice Page 4

  ‘Right then, Holly, lunch will be here in a sec. Now spill,’ ordered Lizzie in full executive boss mode.

  Holly didn’t really know where to start. All she’d known was that there was a forty-minute window in her day and her best friend worked around the corner. The opportunity for moral support had seemed too good to pass up.

  ‘How great is this – having lunch together on a work day?’ she dodged. ‘It’s like being back at uni.’

  Lizzie’s glamorous façade wobbled for a second and Holly saw a flash of the girl she used to be: the girl who had dodgy braces and flat brown hair. This Lizzie sitting in front of her now was altogether more glamorous, as her job as Editor of local glossy magazine Larkford Life dictated. But the twinkle in her eye was sheer retro and Holly felt instantly more comforted and less intimidated.

  The downside to having a best friend whose life revolved around material gratification was that Holly genuinely struggled to give a stuff and it sometimes put a strain on their friendship. She’d rather look nice than ghastly, of course, but she’d also rather read her boys a bedtime story than blow-dry her hair to perfection. In a way – a way that she would never confess to – she felt a bit sorry for Lizzie. The pressure to be perfect, to live the dream, must be exhausting, but she’d tentatively mentioned it once and been instantly shot down. She wouldn’t be mentioning it again.

  ‘I have to confess, your call came at the perfect time,’ Lizzie confided. She looked around the room as if checking for eavesdroppers. ‘Work’s hellish at the moment.’ She talked about print deadlines, fluctuating ad revenues and temperamental columnists until she ground to a halt. ‘But that’s old news. Tell me then – how’s the first day going?’

  ‘In a sec, but I’m starving. What did you order? Pasta? Panini? Pie? I’m in need of comfort food.’

  Lizzie wrinkled her nose apologetically. ‘Oh. I didn’t think you meant it! I’ve ordered you a goat’s cheese salad. It’s organic and the goat is called Betsy and lives down the road, if that helps.’

  Holly shook her head and smiled. ‘Good old Betsy. Where would we be without her? I don’t suppose there’s an Aberdeen Angus around here who’s planning to give his life for the enjoyment of others, is there? I could literally kill for a burger.’

  ‘Nope, not in here anyway . . . Strictly veggie. But I am reliably informed that there’s an organic grapevine in Herefordshire whose self-sacrificing actions have made this possible . . .’ Lizzie proudly produced a bottle of cloudy liquid that claimed to be Organic Sauvignon Blanc. She unscrewed the lid and waved the bottle vaguely in Holly’s direction before pouring herself a large glassful.

  Well, glassful wasn’t really the word, thought Holly, as she put a hand over the top of her own vintage jam jar and sighed. ‘Not for me. I’ve got my first solo clinic after this and I’m not sure that turning up sozzled is the right note to start on. Although, frankly a bit of Dutch courage might just be what the doctor ordered.’

  Their meals arrived and Holly sighed deeply, poking at her salad without enthusiasm. ‘I am not my best self today, Lizzie. You know how you only get one chance to make a first impression? Well, if that’s actually true, then I’m a little bit screwed.’

  Holly recounted her morning, starting with denting the Mercedes and ending up with her Life on Earth stand-off with Julia Channing.

  She grimaced slightly as she ran out of steam. ‘Be honest. How bad is it?’

  Lizzie clapped a hand over her mouth and tried to stifle the laughter. ‘Oh Holls, what are we going to do with you? It’s not that bad, honestly. I mean, given, when you string it all together like that, it’s not really ideal . . . Did you really stand up to Julia?’

  ‘Yup,’ said Holly despondently. ‘I just didn’t want her to think she could walk all over me, like she does every other female at The Practice.’

  ‘Well then, hats off to you – she’s horrifically ambitious, that woman. Her bedside manner may leave a little to be desired, but she’s a cracking doctor. Her column’s getting loads of really positive feedback and, strictly between you and me, I had a call from a TV production company last week, asking for a reference. You never know, she may not be around for too much longer.’

  ‘Cool,’ said Holly. ‘I get the impression that everyone’s a little bit scared of her. Apart from Dan, obviously, since they went out.’

  ‘Oh he told you that, did he? I wondered if he would,’ Lizzie said with studied casualness.

  Holly frowned. ‘No, Taffy Jones let it slip. Is there a story there I should know about?’

  Lizzie shook her head. ‘Let’s just say that seeing those two together was World War 3 just waiting to happen. The only irony being, that they were actually really smitten with each other to begin with; we even got a glimpse of the softer side of La Channing. Then it all sort of imploded and nobody really knows why.’

  ‘Another reason not to get involved with a colleague,’ said Holly vehemently.

  Lizzie gave her a strange look. ‘Quite.’

  There was a lull in the conversation, then Lizzie picked up where she left off, reviewing Holly’s opening act. ‘Did you really go all tongue-tied with Taffy then? I wouldn’t worry. He’s such a sweetheart, he won’t hold it against you and he’s been a good mate to Dan too. Actually, your job is starting to sound much more fun than mine. Assuming you can avoid interacting with the patients, of course!’

  ‘They’re quite the comedy duo,’ said Holly, ignoring Lizzie’s theatrical shudder. ‘They seem to have a really good bantering thing going on – it was almost like being back at med school. They even eat like teenagers. And obviously, I still have the emotional maturity of a nineteen-year-old – all it takes for me to go all pathetic is some dishy rugby player to hold my hand and smile, and I forget how to speak!’

  Lizzie raised a deprecatory eyebrow but said nothing.

  ‘What?’ demanded Holly.

  ‘Nothing. Nothing at all. I just suddenly can’t help feeling that this thing with Taffy has thrown you more than all the other stuff put together. Am I right?’

  ‘Maybe,’ replied Holly slowly. ‘I’m really not nineteen any more. It is a bit feeble, you have to admit.’

  Lizzie tilted her head to one side and took in her friend’s obvious discomfort. ‘I’d just let it go, Holls. I’m pretty sure that nobody noticed but you and you’ve got a lot on your plate at the moment. Stressing about this is just easier than focusing on all the changes you’ve got going on.’

  Holly half-heartedly chewed on a spinach leaf. Lizzie certainly had a point. It was a lot nicer to think about Taffy Jones holding her hand than it was to think about the reality of her situation at home.

  ‘I don’t know if I can do this, Lizzie,’ she said quietly. ‘The pressure in my head is crazy. I just can’t get past the responsibility, you know? Of knowing that it’s my call.’

  Holly looked up to see her friend watching her appraisingly, jam jar full of cloudy moonshine pressed against her bottom lip. Lizzie cleared her throat, took another slug of wine and sat forward in her seat. ‘Are you honestly saying that checking a bunch of old biddies for high blood pressure and the odd nit-check is more stressful than being at the hospital? You were in A&E for years – I don’t get it.’

  Holly shrugged, frowning slightly as she realised her ramblings had given Lizzie the wrong idea. ‘I didn’t mean the patients. That bit’s easy. Shit – that sounds arrogant. What I mean is . . .’

  Holly pushed her uneaten salad away and slumped in her chair. ‘Please don’t make me burn my bra – for one thing it’s actually my only nice bra that fits and for another, I’m not letting down the sisterhood by saying this. It’s just a fact of life. If we’d relocated for Milo’s job, it would be fine, yes? If we’d sold the house and moved the boys to a new nursery and uprooted everyone, it would just be . . . well, something we all had to do.

  ‘But, Lizzie, I’ve kicked up such a fuss about this. I’ve essentially forced the move and now, I’m here: the bu
ck stops with me. And if this doesn’t work out, if the boys aren’t happy . . .’

  ‘It will all be your fault,’ suggested Lizzie calmly.

  ‘Well, yes,’ said Holly quietly. ‘I never really felt responsible for everyone else’s happiness before. And now, because I insisted on moving as part of our whole “Fresh Start” . . .’ She mashed Betsy’s special cheese into a paste with the back of her fork and swallowed hard.

  Lizzie refilled her jam jar and looked Holly straight in the eye. ‘Do you want me to say “there, there” or can I give you some home truths?’

  ‘Why do you think I needed an emergency lunch summit? You may be drinking for one, but I need you thinking for two. Give it to me straight.’

  Lizzie grinned. ‘Ooh Carte Blanche – where to begin. Shall we start with the new fringe or those hideous shoes?’ She flapped a hand at Holly’s open-mouthed protest. ‘Only joking, Holls. But let’s just put a few things in perspective, shall we?

  ‘One, you’ve hated working at the hospital since the boys were born and you’ve been a trouper and just got on with it. But then, you were offered a choice. Something a bit different: a way to see the boys more, to see me more and to be happy in your work.’

  Lizzie paused for breath and another drink and then began ticking her points off on her beautifully manicured fingers. ‘Two, Milo isn’t on a voluntary research sabbatical from the University and I don’t care what he goes around telling everyone. You and I both know the truth. Frankly I think the University Board were pretty amazing for not firing him and you’re made of sterner stuff than me for not punching him, leaving him or let’s face it, castrating him. If I thought Will was mucking around with a student, he’d be out on his ear . . .’

  ‘Hey, that’s not entirely fair,’ interrupted Holly. ‘There was no actual misconduct, the Board said so . . . Milo said so . . . And, for what it’s worth, I do believe him, Lizzie. The Board just thought it would be better all round if he took some time out to work on his manuscript.’

  Lizzie’s eyebrows rose under her fringe and she took a deep breath, clearly restraining herself. ‘Putting aside for another day, whether you do or don’t believe he’ll ever really change, I will say this and I’m going to be harsh, okay? His book is niche publishing: he might sell twelve copies if he’s lucky. He’s not on paid sabbatical. He has, to all intents and purposes, been banished. You, my darling, are now the primary and sole breadwinner in the family. And forgive me, if I think that gives you the right to choose what job you do – endless nightshifts full of car crashes and drunks in Reading A&E, or a nice set up as a country GP, seeing the boys, supported by your oldest friend and earning more money than you were before!’

  There was an awkward moment when the café fell silent just as Lizzie was building to a crescendo and Holly’s face flushed to a painful hue. ‘Don’t mince your words there, will you, Lizzie?’

  The pregnant pause went on so long it was in danger of having triplets, before Holly sighed, the breath seeming to come from the much loved but much maligned ballet slippers on her feet. Perhaps Lizzie had a point – maybe Holly’s value system was as dated as her footwear? ‘Look,’ she managed, ‘in my head, I agree with everything you’re saying, Lizzie, you know that. But, in my heart, I still feel that the pressure is on me to make a go of this. I’ve got Milo brooding at home and spending hours bemoaning the lack of a decent research library for his manuscript. I’ve got his mother breathing down my neck and questioning my priorities at every turn. And I just know that I have to make this job work.’

  She reached over and took a slug of Lizzie’s wine. ‘Which is presumably why I’m behaving like an absolute imbecile on my very first day.’

  ‘Well, jack it all in then. I’ll give you Julia’s column and you can stay home all day in your ghastly yoga trousers being my roving reporter.’ Lizzie was playing devil’s advocate and Holly knew it. They were the best of friends, but their approach to work came from opposite ends of the spectrum. Working together was not a good idea.

  ‘I can see the headlines now,’ said Lizzie, giving her a nudge as she made a rainbow headline with her hands. ‘Local Doc Discovers Chemical Weapon in Laundry Hamper!

  ‘Or,’ she said enthusiastically, getting into her stride, ‘Local Doc Slays Cheating Husband with Cyanide!’

  ‘That’s it – I’m cutting you off – no more Agatha Christie for you!’ Holly grinned, glad to be back on lighter, more bantering terms with her oldest friend, but slightly alarmed at the way Lizzie’s hand had tightened possessively on her jam jar when Holly had proclaimed she was cutting her off.

  ‘Go on – I dare you,’ said Lizzie, with a glint in her eye. ‘I cannot stand that bitch Channing anyway. I’d much rather work with you. She thinks she’s oh-so-bloody-perfect. I keep hoping that pride comes before a fall with that one,’ Lizzie confided gleefully, ‘but no . . . It’s just not normal to be that accomplished at everything.

  ‘Still, you never know, maybe she’ll burn out and have a complete nervous breakdown by the time she’s forty?’ Lizzie suggested hopefully, a spiteful undertone to her voice that indicated she wasn’t really joking, which took Holly by surprise.

  No matter how many years they were friends, Holly still found it hard to get her head around how competitive Lizzie could be. Woe betide anyone who got on the wrong side of her. Holly was even ashamed to admit that, on occasion, she’d been known to edit her own stories and news, if she felt there was even a chance of provoking Lizzie’s ire.

  Truth be told though, it had been so long since they’d seen each other every day, that Holly had simply assumed it was a trait her friend had grown out of – like leg warmers, dodgy haircuts and retro music.

  Holly watched her friend drain her jam jar and decided to continue as though Lizzie’s outburst had never happened.

  ‘If we were men, we wouldn’t be worrying about any of this,’ said Holly bluntly. ‘And we wouldn’t have worried about appearances either. We’d be in the pub now, with a big juicy steak.’

  ‘And you might be forgiven for wearing tragic shoes and we’d be talking about the new motor, the latest rugby results and our friendship would be about as deep as a puddle,’ countered Lizzie with a grin, following her lead. ‘But alas alack, no. We are instead Mothers-with-Jobs, which roughly translates, as you very well know, as the brave (or possibly futile) attempt to Have It All, by the simple application of Doing It All.’

  ‘Speaking of which,’ said Holly, looking at her watch and ignoring the scene of devastation on her plate, ‘I’m on in five.’

  Lizzie pushed her chair back, batted Holly’s wallet away and threw a twenty-pound note on the table. She leaned in and kissed Holly firmly on both cheeks, gripping her shoulders hard. ‘Don’t let the bastards get you down, okay. And don’t let them walk all over you either. You’re a bloody good doctor and they’re lucky to have you. As am I. Kitchen supper at mine tomorrow?

  ‘Oh and Holly?’ called Lizzie as they parted. ‘No funny business with anyone at work today, okay?’ She grinned like a loon, waggling her fingers in parting, as her mobile phone began to ring, her Barry O’Connor ringtone blaring cheesy 70s schmaltz across the Market Place. For a stylish, savvy woman, it had to be said that Lizzie had appalling taste in music.

  Holly looked around her new consulting room and breathed a sigh of relief. She’d run the gauntlet of the outer office, remembering everyone’s name and at no point had she crashed into anything, blushed like a teenager or engaged anyone senior in a battle of wills. Cool. Calm. Confident. How hard could that be?

  ‘Come on then, Graham. You can do this,’ she murmured. She made sure all her bits and pieces were unpacked, lingering over a photograph of the twins swinging like monkeys from the climbing frame, Ben’s little face wrinkled with the sheer effort of keeping up with his brother. It was all the incentive Holly needed; if her boys could make the most of their fresh start, then so could she.

  She pushed back her chair and walked through to
the waiting room. ‘Prue Hartley?’ she called. This may not be A&E, there may not be much call for her excellent wound cleaning and stitching skills, but she knew her stuff. It wouldn’t be such a bad thing for her to remember that occasionally.

  ‘I need to talk to you about my poo.’ Prue settled herself into the seat opposite Holly and shuffled a little to get her generous bulk comfortable as she cradled a capacious tangerine leather bag on her lap. ‘I’ve been meaning to come in for ages actually and when my Alan told me that the new lady doctor had started, well, I thought it was about time.’

  Holly nodded. ‘Okay. What in particular is worrying you?’ She liked to start out with a few open-ended enquiries, get a more accurate picture of the problem, without any leading questions.

  ‘It’s tricky to describe really. It’s just not quite right, you know?’

  ‘I see. In what way do you mean, not quite right?’ Holly asked delicately, wondering how to get Prue to open up a little, but her patient seemed more interested in ferreting around in the enormous handbag.

  ‘Now before I forget, this is for you, Dr Graham.’

  Prue proudly handed Holly a small brown paper bag and nodded encouragingly. Holly tentatively unrolled the top of the bag and looked inside, trying and failing not to look shocked.

  ‘That’s . . . well, that’s just . . .’ Holly struggled to find the right words. ‘It’s wonderful that you’ve planned ahead for your appointment obviously, but to be honest, we normally prefer you to use the special plastic pots provided. It’s just a little more, um, sanitary.’

  Prue Hartley looked blank for a moment and then a delighted grin rippled across all five of her chins. ‘Oh, Dr Graham, you are such a hoot! You had me going there, you really did. Ooh wait ’til I tell my Alan . . . It’s a brownie, Dr Graham! A brownie!’ She chortled merrily, not in the least offended. ‘Prue Hartley? The clue’s in the name – Hartley Bakery? My chocolate brownies are the best in Larkford and I thought you could have it for your afternoon tea, by way of a little welcome.’