Skin

53

‘I’m going to make an incision here – I’ll go in through your Caesarean scar – then pull this part back.’

Ruth is sitting on an examination table. She’s wearing her bra and her underpants. Her high heels are still on and she’s resting her feet delicately, so as not to go through the strip of paper towel and mark the leather underneath. The room is well lit, airy and wood-panelled, with the surgeon’s degrees framed and mounted. Outside a gardener is cutting the grass. No doubt about it, the clinic is top drawer. Not the sort of place that asks for money up front.

‘We need to expose the muscles under here.’ The surgeon lifts up the flesh around her abdomen. ‘Then I’ll pull them together like this. Remove a little of this fat and skin here. When you come round there’ll be a couple of drains – one on either side. Just for the first forty-eight hours. Sometimes with an abdomectomy this muscle here, your rectus muscle,’ he drew his finger down the front of her belly, ‘can get a bit sore afterwards. It might make you feel nauseous too so I’ll inject into it while you’re under. OK?’

‘OK.’

‘You know there’ll be a bit of discomfort?’

A bit of discomfort here? In the Rothersfield clinic with its fancy landscaped gardens and bellboys in smart little hats? With satellite telly in all the rooms and champagne cocktails on the menu if you’re feeling well enough? She can deal with that. She pulls on her T-shirt and watches him squirt Spirigel on his hands, wipe them with a starched towel and go back to the big leather-topped desk. He’s not good-looking. Not really. A bit dowdy. But he’ll be loaded probably. Just the sort she needs.

He opens her notes and scribbles a few words with a scratchy Montblanc. Makes circles around the stomach of an outlined diagram. Pulls out a sheet of pink paper and starts filling in boxes.

‘Do you smoke?’

Ruth wriggles into her skirt. ‘No.’

‘Drink?’

‘Only if you’re having one.’

He gives a small, pained smile. ‘How many units do you drink each week?’

‘I don’t know. I’m a social drinker.’

‘So, ten to twenty-one drinks a week?’

‘That’ll do it.’

‘Live alone?’

‘Now it sounds like you’re asking me for a date.’

‘It’s a serious question. We need to know if you’ll have someone to care for you on your discharge from the clinic.’

‘Yes. I mean – I do. I live on my own. But I could arrange for my son to come. He’d be happy to be there.’ She buttons her skirt. This guy might be minted but he’s got no sense of humour. She gets off the table and takes the seat opposite him, crossing her legs and tensing the muscles so her calves look nice. She rests her fingernails on her knee.

‘My, uh, my niece works here. She recommended you.’

‘Did she?’ He doesn’t look up. ‘Kind of her.’

‘She and I are very close. She tells me everything. She confided in me.’

‘Confided?’

Still writing. Still not interested.

‘Said she thought you were one of the best surgeons around.’

He looks up at this. ‘Thank you. Always nice to hear.’

‘I think she spoke to you about…’

‘About a discount?’

She breathes out, relieved. ‘That’s right. A discount. She did speak to you.’

‘Yes, she did. Marsha will deal with it. My secretary. When you make the appointment she’ll take you through all that. I’ve got some spaces late June.’

Ruth narrows her eyes. ‘When do I pay?’

‘Marsha will invoice you.’

Her heart jumps. Invoices take days. Weeks. Time to milk Little Miss PI a bit more. ‘When?’ she says.

The surgeon looks up. ‘Don’t worry about that,’ he says. ‘We’ll be in touch after the procedure.’