“Casual,” I responded.
“Okay, thank you. And was the sex—”
“Unprotected. Not African.” I nodded.
“And before—”
“One week before that, casual, unprotected, not African.”
“Okay, I think I get the picture.” The nurse scratched his head and began to type. “. . . So, I’m going to test you for HIV, gonorrhea, chlamydia.”
“Please could I have a pregnancy test?” I asked the nurse, looking at the floor as I did.
“It says here that you have an IUD fitted?”
“I do, but, I’ve been, uh—” I couldn’t get the words out. “I’ve, uh—” I could feel something in my throat.
“You’ve been pregnant?” The nurse said what I couldn’t. I nodded.
“I think I’m just from a very fertile family! Ha.” A nervous shot of laughter escaped from my mouth.
“Okay, well, we can do the pregnancy test afterward. Would you pop your jogging bottoms off and jump on the exam table?” I’d come prepared this time.
The nurse steered me toward the table, told me that he was going to get a female nurse to “chaperone,” and drew a curtain around me. I wasn’t sure why he was trying to spare me any dignity when he was about to be poking around inside me.
The chaperone came in: a young mixed-raced girl with loose curls that reminded me of my mum’s and the sort of cheekbones that could cut you. Again, chair, stirrups, edging my bottom to the end of the table until my vagina was almost touching the nurse’s nose.
I gritted my teeth as he touched me. He inhaled sharply.
“So, Queenie. As well as the marks on your thighs, I’m also seeing some internal bruising. . . .” He went farther in, and I bit down on my phone to stop myself from crying out.
“There’s also some tearing. Do you know how you might have sustained these injuries?” The nurse leaned back and lifted his glasses so that they rested in his hair. I looked at the chaperone, whose face was one of abject horror, as though she’d just witnessed a car crash or a drive-by.
“Um, just some rough sex, I guess?” I offered.
“This is very severe bruising.” The nurse leaned back and removed his latex gloves. “You can pop your legs down now. It’ll be far too painful for me to insert a speculum. My colleague and I are going to step out. You pop your bits back on, and I’ll come back in for a chat. Don’t go anywhere.”
* * *
The nurse came back in as I was staring at the clear plastic drawer full of pregnancy tests and weighing the pros and cons of being caught stealing a handful.
“Do you have anyone here with you?” he asked, pulling some pamphlets out of his desk.
“Er, my work best friend came with me, but she’s gone back to work.”
“And what about your mother, is she around?”
“No, she’s no—” I began. “Do you talk to your mum about your sex life?”
“I see your point, but I need to check. This work best friend, is she somebody that you can confide in?”
“Yeah, I guess so. Why? That’s quite dramatic.” I laughed nervously again.
“Well, I have concerns about those injuries, Queenie. They are largely consistent with sexual violence.”
The nurse put the pamphlets on his desk, and although they were upside down, I read the words victim support.
“Oh God, no, I’m not trying to cover up for some abusive boyfriend, honestly,” I said.
“You know, this is a confidential space, and we can absolutely steer you toward the right support—”
“I’m fine, really. Trust me, I would say.” I looked the nurse in the eye very sincerely. “I don’t have an abusive boyfriend. I can’t even get anyone to take me on a date,” I joked uncomfortably.
“I’ll take your word for it, but I’m going to need you to come back in a couple of weeks. In the meantime, I think you ought to refrain from any sort of sexual activity. Now, let’s get you a pregnancy test before you leave.”
* * *
The pregnancy test was negative, so we can thank goodness for small mercies. Not entirely sure whose it would even be at this point, but it certainly wouldn’t be Tom’s. As I walked back to the office, I opened our message thread again. He hadn’t said anything to me in forever. How had so many weeks passed without a word? I rushed back to the office to try to do an hour’s work, thinking about how (im?)possible it would be to refrain from sex for a fortnight. What was happening to me? I was meant to be taking this time to get better and to work on being a nice girlfriend so that when Tom and I reunited, I’d be normal; but instead, I was just having sex with everyone. This break isn’t going the way I thought it would. I wonder if Tom is suffering as much as I am? I hope so.
I made my way to the smoking area before going back into work and facing the wrath of Darcy, but saw Ted lurking in the corner, so went to sneak into the office. He must have sensed my presence; he looked up and came over. I put a cigarette to my lips.
“You’ve been avoiding me, Queenie.”
I lit it and looked at him. “I haven’t been avoiding you, Ted.” I exhaled.
“Oh, but you have. . . . You can’t lie to me.”
I turned away from him and took another drag on my cigarette. I was having too many feelings that I couldn’t keep ahold of, and another man and what he wanted from me was the last thing I needed.
“Hey, talk to me?” Ted said, standing directly in front of me and putting both hands on my arms the way he had when we first spoke. It was the very worst timing, bumping into him after a trip to the sexual health clinic that had left me feeling so vulnerable. My bottom lip trembled. “Let’s go for a walk, get some proper air,” Ted said, taking my hand.
We walked in silence until we got to the park, stopping by the precarious bench. I hoped that he didn’t want us to sit on it. If it collapsed, that would really be the end of my entire bottom half.
“Tell me what’s wrong?” Ted asked, lighting a cigarette. Smoking was going to kill either one or both of us.
“It’s just all a big mess,” I said, feeling him reach for my hand. I pulled it away.
“Ah. Those boy problems you mentioned. Ongoing?” he asked gently.
“You’re not the person I should be talking to about all of this,” I said, playing with my hair.
“You can trust me,” he said. “I promise to stay objective.”
“Ha, sure,” I snorted in Ted’s face, and watched it crumple the way that Tom’s would when I inevitably and deliberately said something to push him away.
“We’re meant to be on a break,” I said to Ted, and took a deep breath. “When I stepped on your foot, the day I first saw you in the lift, I was about to move out of the flat I shared with my boyfriend. And I haven’t spoken to him since, because he wants us not to speak for a while, but obviously I still feel so guilty every time I e-mail you or see you because even though I don’t know you, you make me feel excited, which is probably really intense, but also I know it’s because there’s some rebound energy in me even though it’s not a proper breakup, and I don’t know when he’s going to call me and tell me that he’s ready to go back to how things were, but I know deep down that he is. So.” I took a breath. “I’m trying not to get involved in anything that could be serious, because that would feel like I was cheating on someone that I worked so hard to let in after a childhood of negative reinforcement from the men around me.” I looked at Ted, expecting him to turn on the heels of his polished brogues and run away. “I told you. It’s all a mess.”
“I don’t mind a bit of mess,” Ted said, weaving his fingers through mine. I tried to pull my hand away, but he held on. “That’s not so bad, is it?” I looked at him and shook my head. It had been so long since somebody had touched me gently. He flicked his cigarette away and put his other hand on the back of my head.
“Don’t touch my hair,” I whispered, priorities always in place. He kissed me softly, running his free hand down to my neck, then my back. As he kissed my neck and moved his hands around mine, a wave of guilt threw me from him.
“Sorry, that’s too intimate,” I said to him.