Page 17 of The Notecard
‘Sorry,’ says Mum, who moves the camera around a bit. ‘Hello Hugh. Is that better?’
‘Jesus, Mum,’ says Laura, annoyed.
‘We can only see a part of your ear,’ I say.
‘I told you I’m no good at technology,’ says Mum, laughing. ‘You must think I’m a right idiot, Hugh.’
‘Not at all,’ says Hugh. ‘My Dad thinks memes are silent French street performers.’
Mum laughs. Laura huffs at Mum. Hugh sits down again. I wish I was in Thailand.
When I think about the weekend in Dublin, and then what happened after, what’s so sad to me is I remember how happy I was. I remember sitting on the plane flying home. I was listening to music with my earbuds in, looking out of the window, and thinking about James. I was so lucky. My career was taking shape. James and I had our own flat in London, and we were so in love. I remember how lucky I felt at that moment. I had the life I had dreamed about since university. It had somehow all come together. It was something solid and not just an idea. I remember with such clarity watching the blue sky and clouds, the green fields and hedgerows, and thinking that my life was perfect. A few hours later and everything was gone. Just like that.
Nick
Rob and Fee have popped over to tell me that they’re having lots of planned sex. No small talk. No, so Nick, how was your week? What’s happening at the hospital, Nick? Let’s have a cup of tea and discuss the weather, Nick. Like normal people. All they want to talk about are the intricate details of their sex life. Apparently the difference between trying for a baby and having sex for fun, is that you need to discuss it with your friends. In. Great. Detail. You also need an app to tell you when to have sex. According to the app, in about an hour-and-a-half they should be going at it.
‘Show him the app,’ says Rob. ‘Look at this, mate. Honestly, it’s crazy.’
‘You put in the dates of your period. I have to take my temperature every morning because apparently if my temperature goes up, that means I’m as fertile as fuck. I put it all in, and it tells us exactly when to have sex,’ says Fee.
‘It takes all the guesswork out of trying for a baby,’ says Rob. ‘Doesn’t it, Fee?’
‘It does. The hardest part is having the sex because you don’t always want to have sex when it’s time,’ says Fee.
‘I do,’ says Rob. ‘Always.’
‘That’s true,’ says Fee. ‘I just wish you wouldn’t proclaim it like a town crier every time the app beeps. Hear ye! Hear ye! It’s time to get naked, jump in bed and perform sexual intercourse. Sometimes a lady likes to be wooed, Rob.’
‘I woo you,’ says Rob.
‘I’m not sure taking your clothes off as fast as you can, and shouting, ‘First under the covers goes on the bottom’ counts as wooing.’
I laugh.
‘Because bottom is best,’ says Rob.
‘Not for getting pregnant,’ says Fee. ‘The doggie position is best because you can get deeper. Mum told me that. It’s how she and Dad conceived me. You need to get really deep.’
I’m getting a little uneasy with all the sexual talk in my flat. People assume that because I’m a doctor, I’m comfortable talking about anything and that nothing makes me squeamish. This just isn't true. Yes, being a doctor means I have seen a lot of things, disgusting things, blood, guts, and orifices from every angle, but that doesn’t mean I want to discuss the minutia of my best friend’s sex life. I don’t need to know what position they’ll be having sex in later. Although clearly it’s going to be doggie style.
I’ve been thinking a lot about Meg since we first met. I’ve seen her a few times since, and it’s always the same. I get so nervous when I’m around her that all of my senses are heightened, and I can’t think. I find it hard to be myself. So we have a quick conversation, nothing important, the weather, how’s work etc… Then we say goodbye and I spend the next hour cursing myself and thinking of all the things I wanted to say but didn’t. Without realising it and completely unintentionally, we’ve slipped into two people who live across the hall from each other and that’s it. We’re in the ‘neighbours-zone’. I go to work, come home, she goes to work and comes home, and occasionally we bump into each other, exchange pleasantries, and that’s all we have. We might as well be two strangers on the train who see each other every morning and nod hello. It doesn’t help that I’ve mainly been working nights this past month. Moments. We haven’t had a moment yet. I’m waiting. Hoping.
‘Right, we’d better go,’ says Fee, looking across at Rob. Thankfully she doesn’t add ‘to have sex because I’m ovulating’. But it’s definitely implied.
‘Thanks for the tea, mate,’ says Rob.
‘And the coffee. I have to get it in now while I can,’ says Fee.
‘I know something else you have to get in now while you can,’ says Rob, winking at me.
‘Rob, why when it comes to sex do you always revert to sixteen-year-old you?’ says Fee.
‘Dunno,’ says Rob. ‘Does it turn you on?’
‘Not in the slightest,’ says Fee, a look of disgust on her face.
Rob and Fee get their coats and I walk them towards the door. It’s Saturday afternoon and I’m off work tonight. I don’t have any plans. I’m going to take it easy, eat a nice meal, watch a film, and sleep. I barely sleep during the days I work. I open my door. The door to the girl’s flat is opposite. I always hope to see Meg opening the door when I open mine. Sometimes I leave my door open for longer than is necessary and dither around in the hope she will appear. When I hear the front door open downstairs, I’ll jump up and go outside for a cigarette, hoping to pass Meg in the hall and strike up a conversation. I’m smoking more than ever. I’ll literally kill myself trying to get her attention. It’s more often than not Dotty or Michael. It’s hardly ever Meg, and like I said, whenever it is, I become a mumbling, bumbling mess and I forget to say everything I want to say to her anyway. To ask if she’d like to grab a coffee, get an actual drink, or pop to Nando’s. There’s a Nando’s at the end of our street. I never ask any of these things. Instead I usually just ask her how she’s doing, I’m off to the hospital, twelve hours, night shift, yes I’m tired, she’ll joke that she’ll know where to come if she has a medical question, we’ll probably mention the weather, maybe something about London, the tube what a nightmare, then we’ll go about the rest of our day. I long for a proper conversation. A real conversation where we discuss something in-depth. Where I find out details about her. We’re currently two people who share a building and I want to be more. It’s bridging that gap. We need a moment.
