Neurotica (18 page)

The jacket blurb described Stern as a “passionate
feminist,” and proclaimed that her previous work, “a scorching
attack on cosmetic surgery and the women who betray their
sex by going under the knife,” had “fundamentally changed”
the way women saw their bodies. “Now,” it continued, “the
fearless and outspoken author of
Dermis,
her prose
as lucid and accessible as ever, turns her attention to
adultery.”

Anna flicked to the introduction, which was headed
“Beyond the Political Economy—the Clitoris Under
Capitalism.” She got about four paragraphs in before pronouncing
it bollocks and deciding to try phoning Alex again.

S
he expected to get some plummy secretary. Instead Alex answered.

“Anna, I am so glad you rang. I was quite convinced
you'd done a Lawrence Oates on me last night and I'd never
hear from you again.”

Anna began explaining what had happened, but Alex interrupted
her. Apologizing profusely, he said she had caught him at the
worst possible time. He was in between patients and having to
manage alone as his secretary was off with flu. He suggested
meeting the following afternoon for tea if Anna wasn't too
busy.

“A couple of patients have phoned to cancel their
appointments, so I should be free just after four.”

Anna said she was pretty sure she could get away and she'd
look forward to it.

They agreed to meet at Whittaker's Hotel just off Bond
Street.

O
ff for another bit of 'orizontal hold then?”

Anna swung round on her chair to see Brenda standing in
the bedroom doorway managing to grin and crunch Marmite toast
at the same time.

“I dunno if you realized,” she went on, as she waved
her half-eaten slice of toast in the air, “but there wasn't even
a trace of hesitation or guilt in your voice. I'm beginning to
think you've found a new vocation. You should think about jacking
in newspapers and teaching evening classes in practical
adultery.”

With that Brenda's grin faded, her face turned white and
she ran into the loo on the landing to chuck up her
breakfast.

A
nna came out of the tube station, walked along oxford
Street for a few yards and then turned right. Walking down
New Bond Street towards Whittaker's, she began thinking again
about what Brenda had said. She knew she hadn't been serious, but
she did have a point. Anna had to admit, she had become almost
blasé about cheating on Dan. Now she knew he wasn't
dying, the periodic guilt she had felt about deceiving him had
disappeared.

She had also proved to herself that she really could keep
a hold on her feelings. Charlie had been gorgeous, intelligent
and fun. A weaker woman might have allowed herself to fall in
love with him, but she hadn't. She had refused to let their
relationship go beyond the purely physical. She knew that even if
she had continued seeing Charlie, she would never have allowed
him to threaten her marriage. It would be the same with Alex.

She stopped to look in Fenwicks' window. As she ogled
a slinky black evening dress which was cut so low at the back
it revealed the mannequin's buttock cleavage, her confidence
suddenly descended into despair. The skimpy black dress, which
called for granite-hard glutes and breasts like grapefruit
halves, reminded her for the umpteenth time that day that she,
with her bum like a bag of wet porridge and breasts like
worn-out pillows in which the feathers had collected at one end,
was about to jump into bed with a cosmetic surgeon.

A
nna turned right just past Russell and Bromley and crossed the road. Whittaker's was facing her. The hotel, which
had only twenty or so rooms, was discreet and unspeakably expensive
and was popular with Hollywood actors. They adored the pry-vacy
and the “English country house charm.” The stars also
appreciated the hotel's wonderfully understated touches. The
management always saw to it that on every guest's bedside table
was a selection of the works of L. Ron Hubbard.

Anna walked into the hotel reception, which was small
and cozy. Everywhere there were vases of beautifully arranged
flowers and bowls of upmarket potpourri. The place smelled
faintly of cinnamon and cloves. There was no reception desk,
just a large bowlegged walnut table. Behind it stood a smiling
young woman in a piecrust collar and cashmere cardigan. She
said that Mr. Pemberton had arrived about five minutes ago, and
directed Anna towards the lounge.

Alex was sitting on a chintz sofa in the square bay window,
flicking through a house copy of
Tatler.
As soon as
he saw her he sprang to his feet. He was wearing another gray
suit, lighter this time, over a pale-blue shirt with a buttoned-down
collar. The tie was a trendy knitted one with broad navy and cream
horizontal stripes. He looked much more fashionable than he had
two nights ago. Anna wondered if he had changed his image just
for her.

He started coming towards her, beaming. Instead of
continuing on across the room to meet him, Anna stood still for
a few seconds, watching him. She knew she would never feel the
same molten passion for Alex that she had felt for Charlie.
Nevertheless sex with Alex, who still looked every bit as Aryan
as he had in the Bhaji on the Bush, represented the kind of
cultural heresy which Anna found utterly irresistible. Would that
he knew it, Alex was about to become a bacon bagel. As she watched
him draw closer, she realized that rebellion was up and about
inside her belly, and ready for action. Maybe her mutinous
urges would conquer her fears about the state of her body.

As Alex reached her, Anna returned the smile and said hello.
She stood on tiptoe and they kissed on both cheeks, Alex gently
holding her upper arms. She was aware that the second kiss lasted
fractionally longer than the regulation peck. For a couple of
moments, Alex kept his cheek next to hers and she could feel
him breathing in her perfume. He only stopped when his
embarrassment intervened.

“Anna, I'm so glad you could make it.” Anna detected a
hint of nerves and anxiety in his voice. He started to fiddle
with his watch strap. She knew he fancied her but suspected
it might take ages for him to pluck up the courage to invite
her to bed.

“Come and sit down.” He motioned to her to go in front
of him. She walked across the huge Indian rug towards the
pale-turquoise sofa. She sat down and allowed her back to
relax into the squashy feather cushions. Alex came and sat close
beside her, and stretched his arm along the back of the sofa,
just above her shoulders. Then, almost at once, looking to Anna
as if he was having second thoughts about the appropriateness
of such behavior, he quickly withdrew his arm and shifted
himself towards the end of the sofa.

They sat in shy silence for what seemed like ages. Finally,
the lady with the piecrust collar came over and asked them if
they were ready to order tea. Anna said she could murder a
toasted teacake. They ordered toasted teacakes for two and,
at Alex's insistence, a selection of cream cakes. The lady
then reeled off a list of about ten different teas and said
she could recommend the orange pekoe. Alex said it was Anna's
choice. She said orange pekoe would be fine. The truth
was she detested pretentious teas, but was too embarrassed to
ask for PG Tips.

“Anna, you look absolutely stunning,” Alex said when
the lady had gone. As the June weather had turned chilly again,
Anna was wearing her bright-pink imitation Chanel suit. It still
had a trace of aioli down the front, but she'd managed to get most
of it out with Fairy Liquid.

“Thank you,” she said, blushing. Looking down at her lap
she began picking off imaginary bobbles of wool from her skirt.
After a few seconds her face met his again.

“Listen, Alex, I'd really like to explain about the other
night—”

“There really is no need, you know.”

“No, I want to.”

She began by explaining how Gerald Brownstein had stalked
her mother in the supermarket. She was in the middle of telling
him the bit about the salami in Gerald's underpants when their
tea arrived. Alex, who had thrown back his head and was roaring
with laughter, didn't notice the lady with the piecrust collar,
who was clearly not used to hearing stories about Jewish
flashers being recounted in the hotel lounge, give Anna a look
which could have dissolved iron filings.

Anna poured them tea from the silver pot. They spent the next
half hour sipping the orange pekoe from pretty bone-china cups
as she told the story of how she and Brenda came to find
Gerald Brownstein trapped in Gloria's downstairs loo window. She
hammed up the climax for even greater effect.

The more Anna made Alex laugh, the more he relaxed. By the
time she had finished telling her story, he was almost
gasping
for breath. Wiping his eyes, he reached for the plate
of cream
cakes and held it towards Anna. She shook her head.

“Well, I think I shall, even if you won't.”

“That must be your fourth,” she said in mock horror as
he reached for a strawberry tart. “I always assumed doctors
were into healthy eating. It seems to me, Alex, that you exist
on a diet of curry, cream and Southern fried chicken.”

Alex patted his flat stomach and chuckled.

“Work it all off on the squash court. I'm the same weight
now as when I was at medical school.”

Anna grunted and said she still thought he should watch what
he ate. She then laughed as she spread her teacake with thick
butter. As she bit into it, some melted butter trickled down
her face. Alex reached into his pocket and took out a freshly
ironed white handkerchief. He leaned towards Anna and wiped the
corner of her mouth. Anna giggled and said thank you. Then,
slowly, he moved his hand onto her cheek and kept it there. Anna
smiled at him and didn't attempt to move it.

After a moment or two, Alex put his handkerchief back in
his pocket and Anna took another sip of tea.

“Listen,” he said brightly, a thought suddenly occurring
to him, “it's almost time for a real drink. I've got this
flat that I use sometimes when I'm working late. It's over
my consulting rooms. Do you fancy coming back for a glass
of wine?”

Anna started choking and spluttering on the last of her
orange pekoe. That was a tenner she owed Brenda.

“Sorry, I didn't mean to put pressure on you. Maybe
another time,” Alex said, clearly embarrassed and disappointed.

“No, no,” she said, still coughing and covering her
mouth with a napkin. “Tea went down the wrong
way .   .   . that would be great. I'd love to come back
for a, um, glass of wine.”

“Or two,” said Alex, grinning.

T
hey'd got as far as Cavendish Square before alex got round to repeating the question he had asked her in the Bhaji
on the Bush.

“You never told me, Anna, about why you decided to join
Liaisons Dangereux.”

Anna knew there was no getting out of it. Finding it
impossible to look him in the eye, she gave him her spiel
about boredom and twelve-year itches. She sensed from his
expression that he knew she wasn't telling the truth, but he
was too polite to push her any further.

A
lex unlocked the front door to the Grand Harley Street
house, which had been divided into consulting rooms. He went
in first.

“Come on in. Lights are off. It looks like everybody's
finished early.” He reached for the switch. Anna followed
as he made his way towards the stairs.

“I can never get over how these places always look
the same,” she said, turning her head to look round
the hallway. “I reckon there's some central depot where all you
posh doctors buy your Regency-striped wallpaper and worn cherry-red
carpets. I bet your room has got one of those chandeliers which
drip fake wax.”

Smiling and raising his eyebrows, Alex put his arm round
her shoulders and began marching her away from the mahogany
staircase.

“Why don't you come and see? It's down here on the left.”

He led her back along the hall towards the entrance. He
held open a tall paneled door. Anna walked in. The room was
surprisingly bright and modern. The walls had been painted
in brilliant
white emulsion. Gray fitted carpet covered the
floor. All
the furniture was black. Alex's huge black ash desk
stood in front
of the grand Victorian fireplace; the chairs and
the sofa along one wall were all made of black leather. Anna
looked up
to the ceiling. There were several rows of inset spotlights.

“Mmm, why do I get the feeling that eighties style had
a really profound effect on you?” she said with just a hint
of sarcasm. She bent down towards the smoked-glass coffee
table and released two balls of a Newton's cradle, one of those
irritating “executive” playthings which people used to buy
and then wish for years they hadn't. Looking up she noticed the
screen at the far end of the room. It was the only item there
which gave a clue that this was a doctor's consulting room.

Feigning hurt at her observation about his taste, Alex
picked up a copy of
Elle
from the coffee table, rolled
it up and tapped her playfully on the head. Anna stood up and
turned towards him. Very softly, without any conviction, she
said, “Ouch.”

The smile had gone from Alex's face. He dropped the magazine
onto the floor and drew her towards him. For a moment they simply
looked at each other. Then he cupped her face in his hands
and began kissing her on the lips. It was a while before she
felt his mouth open and his tongue push gently into her. She
kissed him back. Afterwards, Alex reached to stroke Anna's hair,
but she pulled away.

“Alex, there's something I need to tell you before we
go any further.” She turned her back on him and walked over
to one of the fireplace alcoves, which was covered with dozens
of ten-by-eight black-and-white prints in Perspex clip frames.
They were pictures of some of Alex's patients before and
after surgery. Anna stood with her back to him, studying a
photograph of a woman whose particularly gruesome postchildbirth
tummy flap almost reached her knees.