James follows behind me. ‘Don’t talk stupid,’ he says, his voice expressionless, as if distracted by the laborious task of walking.
Opposite the surgery, the pharmacy’s luminous green cross breaks up the white sky. The main road in front of us is deserted bar a single car which creeps along the central reservation line carrying several inches of snow on its roof. ‘I’m not being stupid, James. There’s nothing at all wrong with me!’
‘Stop being ridiculous. You heard what the doctor said, you need help.’ James pushes past me as we reach the bottom of the ramp, his words ringing in my ears.
‘Slow down, what’s got into you?’
‘You, Louisa.’ He turns around and glares at me. ‘You and your constant denial of the truth!’ He strides across the car park, head bowed and back bent like a bull ready to fight. I stop walking, look on as he slowly starts to disappear into the fog, knowing that soon he’ll be invisible, his giant footprints the only proof he was ever here.
I catch up with him at the zebra crossing, the flashing green man giving us permission to cross. ‘Hardly any point pressing that, was there?’ I say, unable to help myself from fuelling the fire further. ‘Place is deserted. And it’s you who can’t handle the truth.’
He shakes his head. ‘I’m not arguing with you, Lou. You’re taking the tablets, end of.’ He takes off again, leaving me to battle with the pram, its wheels sliding across the road like an ice-puck.
Once safely across, I turn in the opposite direction to the pharmacy and start walking, my head held high but my steps uncertain. If I refuse to take the medication, what then? But then if I do start to take them…
‘Lou?’ James’s voice stops me in my tracks.
I turn around, fresh tears burning the backs of my eyes. ‘What?’
‘If you don’t take the tablets, I’ll call the mental health team.’ He swallows hard, his stare fixed on mine. ‘I have Cory to think of,’ he adds quickly, as if desperate to provide a reason.
I look at him for a long time, at his dark, tussled hair dusted with snow, at his solid, six-foot frame which stoops over as if tired of its own weight. ‘I’m not losing my mind,’ I whisper. ‘Why can’t you see that?’
He doesn’t speak, doesn’t even blink.
‘Okay,’ I say, the fight inside of me extinguishing until all that remains are flaky embers of truth. ‘I’ll take the tablets. But I’ll never admit to losing my mind. And when all this comes crashing down around us, don’t blame me.’
‘Thank you,’ he says, blowing out a long breath. ‘You know it’s the right thing to do.’
Turning the pram, I follow him over to the open door of the pharmacy, knowing in my heart that things are about to take a turn for the worse. But what choice do I have? I either take the antidepressants or risk being sectioned. Some bloody choice.
‘I’ll wait here with Cory while you go in. No point trying to get the pram up them steps – they look lethal.’ James turns to face me as we near the entrance to the pharmacy, his demeanour much friendlier than it was a moment ago.
I shrug, not wanting to forgive him so easily. ‘Fine, won’t be a second.’
The pharmacy is brightly lit, a vast array of colourful paraphernalia lining its shelves, everything from strawberry-flavoured condoms to Farley’s Rusks. It’s pretty busy for this time in the morning, especially given the weather outside; although I guess December is the time for coughs and colds.
I pass the female hygiene aisle, see a woman with lank hair and ill-fitting Ugg boots debating between Tampax Pearl and Always Ultra. In the far corner, a man, wrapped up in a matching bobble hat and scarf, squats down in front of a multitude of nappies. He has his back to me but I can almost see the confusion on his face as he tries to remember the weight of his child before converting it into kilograms.
‘Ah, Louisa, nice to see you on this fine winter’s day.’ Annette’s husband, Ron, stands behind the counter, the arms of his white tunic skimming his knuckles. He attempts to lean over in order to kiss me on the cheek but can’t quite reach, a shelf of cough sweets and flu meds acting as a buffer. Never before have I been so grateful to Beechams, so much so that I consider writing the manufacturers a personal letter of thanks. ‘James not with you?’ he asks, craning his neck around me in order to seek him out.
Ron loves James, although I have absolutely no idea why. James rarely gives him the time of day, privately referring to him as ‘a ferret up a shit pipe’. To be fair, he has a point; Ron’s constant attention seeking and ‘manly banter’ whenever James is within earshot is embarrassing at best.
‘He’s waiting outside with Cory.’ I realise there is no expression to my voice and that in actual fact I sound pretty rude. I don’t care any more though; what good is being polite when I’m about to be exposed as a drug-taking mental case?
‘What can I do you for?’ Ron holds out his hand for the prescription, which is tightly clutched between my fingers. Heat burns my cheeks as I debate whether or not to hand it to him. I really don’t want Ron knowing my business, especially as he’s bound to blabber to Annette. I consider turning around and legging it out of the door without another word, but the next pharmacy is miles away and Cory’s already beginning to turn blue. Besides, perhaps he can help me… perhaps he can somehow swap the antidepressants for placebos? It’s risky, but surely worth a try?
‘The thing is…’ I look back over my shoulder to where James is stood at the open doorway, idly pushing the pram back and forth.
‘Yes, what is it?’
I falter, James’s earlier words boomeranging back to me. If you don’t take the medication I’ll call the mental health team. ‘I, erm, I wanted to ask you a favour…’ I say, still keeping one eye on James. He suddenly looks up and over at me; fixes a smile onto his face which is a size too small. I turn away from him, my heart pounding. ‘Actually its nothing – doesn’t matter.’ I dump the prescription into Ron’s hand, bristling as he starts to read the doctor’s manic writing.
‘I’ll just get this for you then,’ he says, his chalky-white complexion pinking ever so slightly.
‘I’ll get it, Mr Green, it’s no problem.’ A young woman, early twenties or thereabouts, strides out of a back room and proceeds to lean over the counter, handing a small paper bag to an elderly man who I think may be the cougher from the waiting room. He thanks her and wishes her a pleasant Christmas.
‘No, Dawn,’ says Ron, as if slightly flustered, ‘I’ll get it, I don’t mind.’ He smiles up at her, his small stature made more obvious by her near six-foot height. He attempts to sidestep her, his clumsiness reminding me of Rowan Atkinson in Mr Bean. It’s obvious he fancies her, and I vaguely wonder if he even bothered to check out her credentials before hiring her.
‘Actually, Ron…’ I hover over my next words. ‘There is something I want your advice on.’
‘That sorts it then,’ says the six-foot blonde, sliding the prescription out of Ron’s hand before he has a chance to object.
‘What is it?’ he asks, flicking his eyes up to the clock, which is positioned on the side wall, as if suddenly bored by my presence.
‘The medication, how strong is it?’
‘Is she pestering you, Ronny boy?’ James’s voice makes me jump. ‘Bloody hell, Lou, you’re a nervous wreck,’ he says, leaning over the counter to shake Ron’s hand.
‘James, always a pleasure!’ Ron’s voice is suddenly so high-pitched it could splinter ice. ‘How are you doing, my old mucker?’
‘Wonderful, how are you? Looking forward to having you and your lovely wife over on Christmas Day.’
‘Us too, ecstatic to be invited.’
‘The pleasure is all ours.’