“Sorry, Gina,” I said, mortified. “I’ll go and do it now, I was just waiting for someone to check—”
“No, no, you stay,” Gina said, putting a hand on my arm as I got up to leave. Darcy took the opportunity to slip away, sneaking me an apologetic smile.
“What’s going on?” Gina asked irritably, running a hand through her short blond hair.
“What do you mean?” I asked, knowing exactly what was coming. I was surprised this telling-off had taken so long.
“I mean, what’s wrong with you? You’re being odd. Your behavior,” Gina said.
“Nothing, Gina, I’m fine,” I lied, getting up from the table.
“No, no, sit down,” Gina said. I did as I was told. “Don’t lie to me, not when I’ve taken the time to talk to you about this properly rather than giving you a written warning.” My heart lurched. “You aren’t fine. You’ve been late, you keep getting things wrong, and I know that Leigh keeps covering for you. Last Wednesday you just didn’t come in?”
I felt the pride in myself and my job that I’d worked so hard to cultivate slip away. There was no point in lying. “I’m sorry, Gina,” I said to my boss, and looked at the floor. “It’s relationship stuff, but that’s no excuse.” Embarrassment coated my words. “It’s not like anyone has died,” I said. “I’m sorry again. It won’t keep happening.” I tried to look up and into Gina’s catlike eyes, but instantly looked down at the table. How could I have let this happen, despite promising myself that it wouldn’t? Even if, worst-case scenario, I got fired and had to rebuild the tiny career I’d created, I didn’t have Tom’s financial help anymore, how would I pay my rent? My stomach dropped further than I thought it could.
“It isn’t fine. I’ve been there, I know what it’s like, and I know that you have a habit of minimizing things.” Gina was being nice today, it seemed. “You mustn’t. Look, Queenie, some advice for you. Whenever I’ve had a huge upheaval, my mother has always said, ‘Keep one foot on the ground when two are in the air.’ At least you’ve got your job, and you’ve got a place to live, so try to keep your focus on those things.”
“So, like, I have three feet in this? Like a tripod?” I asked her.
“You know what I mean.” Gina waved my question away with a flick of the wrist. “Why don’t you take a couple of days off? Go away for the weekend, give yourself some proper thinking space.”
“I’m okay, really I am. It’s better for me to come to work,” I said, knowing that I could never afford to just go anywhere for the weekend. “I’m not good at sitting home with nothing to focus on. It’s when the demons come knocking.”
“The offer always stands. Whenever you need it. I’m sorry to say it, but you will need to face up to those demons at some point.” She stood up and patted me on the shoulder. “Now, if you are going to be here, can you get back to work? Thank you in advance.”
* * *
I went back to my desk and sat down ever so gently, vowing that today would genuinely be the day I stopped fucking about and got on with my job. I breathed out slowly as my bum touched the seat. Everything from the waist down was so tender. I worked solidly through to lunch, padding over to Darcy’s desk as soon as the clock struck one.
“Can you do me a favor? It involves coming with me somewhere,” I said, trying to sound persuasive.
“Depends,” she said, not looking away from her screen.
“The sexual health clinic,” I said, knowing that I was really testing her dedication.
“We’ll be waiting for hours,” she said, turning to face me. “And I do care about your sexual health, but we cannot just disappear for hours.”
“Darcy, do you care about my sexual health?” I asked her. “I’ve been having more . . . indoor activity than usual recently, and it occurred to me that I should check that things aren’t going to start falling off.”
Darcy rolled her eyes. “You sent me an e-mail about ninety minutes ago telling me that this was the day that you got your act together. Just go at the weekend?”
“Honestly, it won’t take long,” I pleaded. “And Gina’s calendar says she’s out of the office this afternoon. I just want company, please, please.”
* * *
Two hours later we were sitting in the waiting room of the sexual health clinic around the corner. When we walked in and were on speaking terms, we’d agreed that it was the most depressing room either of us had ever been in before we’d even sat down. The only color came from the dozens of pamphlets that covered every wall. Darcy was refreshing her work e-mails next to me, and had stopped talking to me out of anger an hour ago.
“I said it would take hours.” She put her phone in her pocket and turned to me.
“Only two and a half. It’s a busy time of year, Darcy, I couldn’t predict this.”
“What, November?”
“It’s close to Christmas, everyone is getting jolly!”
“I predicted this, didn’t I? I’m going to go back to work.”
Just as she jumped up to leave, a male nurse came through the doors and, as expected, screamed my name through the waiting room. “Coming, coming.” I got up and the nurse smiled at me and walked through the double doors to the assessment rooms.
I followed him in, my legs beginning to feel wobbly when I was taken into a room a little too similar to the hospital scanning room. I sat in a squeaky plastic chair next to an old brown desk. The nurse tapped some things into his computer.
“Now, it says on the form that it’s your first time here?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“At this clinic, or any sexual health clinic?”
“Any,” I told him before my stomach sank slightly. “But I’ve been to the Lewisham Hospital gynecology unit for something else. Not that that matters.”
“Have you ever been tested before?”
“Never.”
The nurse smiled at me flatly, his gray eyes peering out from behind his narrow glasses. He took another look at the form I’d filled in. “So, no symptoms, just a checkup?”
“Exactly.” Why wasn’t I able to say more than one word? Fear, probably.
“Okay, so I have a few questions,” he said. “It shouldn’t take too long.” I wanted to turn and run back out to the waiting room. It was exactly times like this that I realized I was desperately lacking some sort of maternal figure in my life. Though there was no way that Aunt Maggie would have accompanied me here. Ever since I’d said cervix after the gynecology unit, she’d kept a distance.
“So, Queenie. Your last sexual partner. When was that?” the nurse probed without looking at me.
“Um. Yesterday.”
“And was it a casual partner, or a long-term partner?”
“Casual,” I said.
“Right, okay. And was the sex protected or unprotected?”
“Unprotected.” I crossed and uncrossed my legs.
“And this partner, where were they from? Were they from Africa?” the nurse asked.
“Were they from . . . Africa?”
“Higher risk of HIV,” the nurse told me.
“Maybe you should explain that. But, no. He was Welsh,” I told him, Guy’s accent popping into my head. He didn’t say he’d slept with anyone when he’d worked in Cameroon, so I put it out of my head.
“And was this oral, vaginal, or anal sex?”
“Um. The latter two. And all three for him. But you probably don’t need to know that. You know what I mean. Sorry.”
“Don’t worry, it’s good to know as much as possible.” The nurse smiled and typed some things into the computer.
“And the partner before that. When was that?” he asked, turning back to me.
“Um. Three days before that,” I said quickly.
“And is that a casual partner or a long-term partner?”
“That partner was also casual.”
“Okay, great,” the nurse said. I suspected that he did not think it was great. “Protected or unprotected?”
“Unprotected.”
“Okay. And was he from Africa?” More tapping into the computer. I could swear it was getting faster.
“From the nebulous Africa? No. He was just . . . white? Sorry, is white offensive to you? Should I say . . . Caucasian?”
“White is fine,” he said. “And before that?”
I counted on my fingers. “A week and a half before that?”
“Was the partner—”