Page 3 of The Notecard
‘I’d love to,’ says Dotty, and Mum tells her to come in, and I have to make a third cup of tea for Dotty. I don’t mind Dotty coming in. She’s an old lady who lives by herself. She could probably use the company. I made plenty of food and I doubt she eats much. People of her age never eat much, do they? They love to tell you how little they eat, as if it’s some sort of badge of honour. When I get elderly people at work, they’re always forthcoming with facts about being old. They don’t eat much, get out much, drink alcohol much, do much of anything much. It’s a Wednesday night, and the height of my social life is dinner with my mum and the old lady who lives downstairs. I know it’s a little sad, but it’s where I am at the moment. Being a doctor doesn’t allow much time for an active social life. My best friend Rob pops over often, as he lives nearby, but otherwise it’s just work and Mum. There was Molly, but that ended four months ago.
Dotty comes in and sits down with Mum. They talk like they’ve known each other for years. Mum’s telling her that she lives in East Finchley, which is perfect because it's only four stops on the underground. Dotty tells Mum all about her husband, Derek, who died six years ago. The love of her life. Mum doesn’t mention Dad. Dotty tells Mum about her children, one lives in Australia and the other in Scotland, and that she has six grandchildren, but she hardly ever sees them, which is hard but that’s life, isn’t it? I get dinner ready and serve them a good portion of lasagne, with a bit of the salad and garlic bread.
‘This looks wonderful,’ says Mum.
‘To be honest, I don’t eat much these days,’ says Dotty.
I sit down at the table and join them. Mum and Dotty. And me.
‘Where’s your girlfriend?’ says Dotty. ‘You must have a girlfriend, a handsome man like you, and a doctor too.’
I look at Mum, and she looks expectantly at me, and then I look at Dotty and smile.
‘I’m married to the job,’ I say light-heartedly.
It’s an answer people generally accept. I think they like that my job is so important I don’t even have time for a relationship. It makes them feel secure. If they need medical help, the doctor is so focused on helping them; he doesn’t even have sex. We’re like non-religious priests. Only my vow of celibacy isn’t forced upon me by the church, but by my decision to become a doctor and the seventy hours I work every week. I keep telling myself that one day I will have time for a relationship. One day I’ll make it a priority. One day it will happen for me too.
‘I think he needs a girlfriend. He’s never had a proper one,’ says Mum.
I have had a proper girlfriend. Two, actually.
‘Never?’ says Dotty.
‘Never,’ says Mum.
My first girlfriend was Harriet. It lasted three years. Then there was Molly. We dated for nearly a year. Mum met her four times. We had dinner together. I introduced her as my girlfriend.
‘Of course he needs a girlfriend,’ says Dotty. ‘Everyone needs love. Even doctors.’
‘Especially doctors,’ says Mum.
‘Then he needs our help,’ says Dotty.
‘He does,’ says Mum.
They’re talking as if I’m not in the room. They’re making plans to get me married by the end of the year. Although I can say with complete confidence that the last thing I need to solve my sexistential crisis is the help of the Soreen sisters.
Meg
‘Have a read of this,’ says Mum, shoving her phone in my face. She’s desperate to show me the last message that Jason sent her. Apparently they’ve been messaging for days, although have yet to meet face to face. ‘All the things he wants to do to me. It’s proper mucky stuff. He loves going down there. I can’t remember the last time your dad went down there. He says it plays havoc with his sciatica. But Jason can’t wait for it. He’s insatiable.’
I don’t want to read any of it. I don’t want to know what Jason (an online stranger I have never met) wants to do to my mum. I have a quick look because Mum forces me to. I see one word. Munch. It’s awful. It conjures up so many horrific images. Mum laughs. She thinks the whole thing is hilarious. I think of Dad and his horrible cardigans.
‘Can we please just focus on my wedding?’ says Laura. ‘We literally only have six months. I need to pick a wedding dress. Simon says money is not a problem. I’m thinking somewhere between Kate Middleton and Meghan Markle. Classic, but contemporary. White, obviously.’
We’re sitting in my living room, magazines scattered everywhere, a bottle of wine and three glasses on the coffee table. We dive back into our magazines. I’m reading Perfect Wedding (the title suggests it should have just what Laura needs). I would love to get married one day, and hopefully I will, but I’m not sure I need the enormous wedding Laura is planning. I’d be happy with a wedding on a tropical island. Sand between our toes. Just the two of us. Sunsets and sex in one of those little bungalows over the water in the Maldives.
Laura’s fiancé Simon is from a fairly well-to-do family, and they have endless money. His parents live in a sizable house in Buckinghamshire, semi-rural, and Simon works in the City. He’s an investment banker. He’s perfect for Laura. He’s happy if she’s happy. The wedding is going to be at a stately home in the Hampshire countryside. There’s going to be a marquee, a vintage car, and bunting galore. It will be Richard Curtis’s vision of a wedding brought to life.
We’re silently looking through our magazines when Keri walks in. She’s eating from a bar of chocolate. I imagine it’s the chocolate she’s using for the vegan chocolate cake that isn’t vegan.
‘That’s nice,’ says Keri looking over my shoulder, pointing at a model in a classic-looking dress. ‘Although why do we have to wear white? I don’t look good in white. I’m already so pale.’
‘It’s tradition,’ says Laura sharply. ‘You have to wear white and that’s it.’
‘But why?’ says Keri, before she takes another bite of her chocolate. A flake falls off and onto the rug. Keri doesn’t see it, but I remind myself to get it before it melts.
‘I wore more of a cream when I married your father,’ says Mum. ‘Although cream’s still white, isn’t it?’
