Page 56 of Is She Really Going Out with Him?
At home later that evening,I rush about trying to find something to wear to the theater. Why don’t I have any “theater clothes”? Lottie has plans, so my colleague Kelly has offered to babysit, but she’s running late. I’ll need to be out of the door the minute she arrives if I’m going to make opening curtain. When I finally find something appropriate to wear, a denim dress with tights and gold heels, I notice Ethan itching his head as he sorts through his Pokémon cards on the floor.
“Mum, when I get an axolotl I’m going to call it Ninja Kid.”
“Why are you itching?” I ask him.
“I’m itchy.”
Walking across to him, I squat down and gently tilt his head so that I can inspect the back of his neck. There is a cluster of telltale red spots. Shining my phone torch into his hairline, I see something crawling.Nits. Shit.I let out a groan.
“What? Is it nits?” Ethan’s voice is high-pitched and panicked as he swivels around to look at me. I grimace. We haven’t had a lice infestation in years. When Jess started school, it felt as though we were constantly delousing her. She has long, thick hair,and I would spend hours in front of the Disney Channel combing conditioner through it with that dreaded narrow comb. It makes me feel itchy just thinking about it.
“Don’t worry, your hair is short, we’ll get rid of them in no time. I’ll pick up a treatment from the chemist in town,” I say, giving him a reassuring pat on the shoulder while also keeping him at arm’s length. Ethan starts itching again, and now I reach a hand up to my own hair. Am I itchy, or is it psychological? Oh God, what if I have nits and I give them to Ryan Stirling? No, no. I’m being paranoid. I might wear my hair up, just in case.
When Kelly finally arrives, the first thing Ethan says to her is “I’ve got nits,” and she recoils back toward the door. Not the best opener for a new babysitter.
“It’s fine, they can’t jump across the room,” I tell her. If Kelly bails on me, I won’t be able to go and I can’t easily get in touch with Ryan to reschedule. Besides, this is one date I really don’t want to cancel. Then Jess walks down the stairs scratching, and Kelly looks at me like I’ve asked her to babysit Medusa and Medusa’s little brother. “Don’t panic. We can fix this,” I say, while having no idea how I’m going to fix this in the two minutes I’ve got before I need to leave.
Four minutes later, the children are both wearing swimming caps in front of the TV and Jess looks like she wants to murder me.
“I can’t believe you’ve given me nits, fleabag,” Jess groans, elbowing her brother.
“How do you know you didn’t givemenits?” Ethan says, punching her on the arm.
“Let’s not play the blame game, okay? These things happen, it isn’t anyone’s fault,” I say, itching my own neck. “I will get you both treatments, and we’ll sort it before school tomorrow. Okay?” Kelly perches on the edge of the sofa, as though it too might beinfested with lice. “I’ll, um, I’ll pay you danger money,” I tell her with a half smile, half grimace, “on top of what we discussed.”
By the time I get near the theater I’ve convinced myself I have nits too. My head feels alive with tiny crawling insects, and whether it’s paranoia or not, I’m not going to feel comfortable sitting so close to other people in the theater for two and a half hours. I’d hoped to project myself as a confident, sexy, together woman, and I’m not sure that’s going to happen if I’m scratching like a feral cat. Nipping into a late-night chemist on the high street, I grab three boxes of lice treatment. At the till, I notice a display of silk head wraps. They’re designed to wear at night to protect your curls, but they could pass for fashion.Could they pass for fashion?
When I arrive at the theater, the last bell has rung and I’m the only person left in the foyer. Picking up my comp ticket from the box office, I slip on my new green silk cap before being ushered to my seat in the stalls. Sitting to one side of me is a woman in her fifties who, bizarrely, is wearing a similar silk cap in light blue. She gives me a nod as I sit down. I assume she’s sympathizing with my lateness, but then as the lights go down, she leans over and says, “God bless you.”
It’s only ten minutes later, when I notice her frail hands, that I realize she might have cancer, or be recovering from cancer, and she must have assumed I have cancer too. Now my guilt about abandoning my nit-ridden children is surpassed by the guilt I feel for receiving unearned cancer sympathy. Sinking down into my seat, I try to focus on the play. Ryan Stirling is incredibly hot, with such a natural stage presence that I’m soon lost in the production. The whole audience is so enthralled, you could hear a nit cough.
During the interval, the lady beside me clasps my arm. “Can I get you a drink, dear?”
“Oh no, let me getyouone?” I say overeagerly.
“I insist. We girls must stick together,” she says, nodding toward my head. I don’t want to embarrass her by explaining that I don’t have cancer, if that’s what she thinks. It’s too awkward and might involve my bringing up the nits situation. I’ll probably never see this woman again, it’s politer to say nothing.
When we stand up, I notice her outfit is a cascade of color. She’s wearing a rainbow-colored skirt, a bright green shirt, and a white sequined waistcoat. She looks amazing, like a fashionista you might see strutting the streets of Manhattan. She heads to the bar and comes back with two proseccos.
“Thank you, that’s very kind,” I mumble.
“Loretta,” she tells me.
“Anna,” I say, shaking the thin hand she proffers.
“Three months in remission,” she says, raising her glass to mine in a toast. “After four years of treatment. Hair’s still refusing to grow.” She taps her cap with a flourish of her hand. “How about you?”
“Oh, nothing like that,” I say ambiguously.What am I doing? Why don’t I just tell her she made a mistake? Because it’s rational to assume that no one would be wearing a silk bed cap as a fashion statement.
“You’re young, you’re strong,” she says, clasping my hand again. “Nothing puts your life into perspective like the big C.” Loretta goes on to tell me her life story as we sip our drinks. I’m happy to listen to her talk, she’s had a fascinating life. I learn she’s a scientist who’s helped develop a pioneering type of gene therapy that will save thousands of lives once it’s been properly trialed. She’s traveled the world, been married twice, and has the perfect voice for audiobooks.
“Are you married?” she asks eventually.
“Divorced,” I tell her. “Though I don’t love the term ‘divorcée.’ It makes me think of Zsa Zsa Gabor.”
Loretta laughs. “I had a friend who referred to herself as PM, ‘post-married,’ which I liked. You’re not doing it all alone, are you?” Her voice is full of concern. I’m going to assume she means divorce, though I suspect she means cancer.
“I’m close with my sister, I have two great kids,” I tell her.
