‘OK, let’s stop then. It might be better if you just undo your trousers and we try and go from above.’ She frowned critically at the visible part of the hurt bit and stood up. ‘Come over to the bed and just lean on that. I don’t want you to fall over. When you’ve got them off, just sit yourself down.’
I stood up slowly, walked over to the stretcher on wheels and began to unbuckle my belt. She kindly turned away to busy herself with washing her hands, but I’d still started to panic. She was hot. I was wearing pretty tight boxers; I didn’t want blood even slightly pumping, because a semi would be just as noticeable as a raging hard on. But also, the air conditioning was on full blast and I didn’t want to look pathetic either. I took a deep breath, tried instead to think about Mr Loftus and his droning voice asking me where my essay was, unzipped my fly and pulled my trousers down – with one last quick check on the front of my underwear for obvious or disgusting stains. When I got to the top of the burn, I started to try and peel the fabric back, but it had stuck hard to the edges where it was beginning to dry out on my thigh.
She came back over and raised her eyebrows. ‘Ouch. That’s a really nasty gash.’
I looked down at the floor and bit my lip, trying not to smirk or think about gashes.
She coloured instantly and said: ‘Cut, I mean. You can pull them back up again. I’ve got a better idea.’
I didn’t need to be told twice.
She reached for a pair of scissors. ‘I think I’m going to have to cut the leg off if that’s OK?’
I cleared my throat. ‘Will you at least use an anaesthetic?’
She half smiled. ‘Cut the leg off your trousers.’
‘I know. Sorry.’ I felt a bit of a dick and wished I’d not said anything. ‘Yeah, that’s fine.’
I sat down on the edge of the bed as she came over and pinched up some of the slack material between her fingers, snipped delicately, then slid the bottom blade through the hole. I tensed as the metal point briefly touched my skin underneath, and she looked up worriedly.
‘I’m not hurting you?’
I shook my head. ‘You’re not near the burnt bit.’ Relieved, she started again.
The concentration on her face was fierce. She didn’t take her eyes from the line once; the only sound in the room was the shearing of the blades through the material as they came together again and again. I could smell whatever almond body lotion or shower gel she’d used that morning, and as she moved round to the other side of my leg, leaning over to start again so that the two incisions would join together, I saw down the slight gap of shirt, where her breasts had fallen forward in her white bra. I glanced away to one side and focused instead on a diagram of the cross-sectioned human body stuck on the opposite wall.
She straightened up for a moment. ‘OK, now I’m just going to cut the main bit of the trouser away so we can see what we’re really dealing with.’ She wiped her brow with the back of her hand and started to snip downwards. ‘What are you, six foot?’
‘Six two.’
‘When did you start shooting up?’
I laughed that time, I couldn’t help it.
‘Oh, come on! You know what I mean.’ She straightened up again and whisked away the redundant material. There was just the section stuck to my skin remaining. ‘When did you grow so tall?’
‘When I was about thirteen.’ I answered her question but she barely seemed to hear me.
‘Now we’re getting somewhere.’ She washed her hands again and pulled on some latex gloves. ‘This is almost a third-degree burn. I don’t know what pitch you play on, but it looks like there was no give on it whatsoever. I wouldn’t be in a rush to go back if I were you.’ She paused for a moment as she cleaned it up. ‘You made the right call in coming in. I see from your notes that you’re a type 1 diabetic, so you’ll already know you have an increased risk of infection and it’s harder for your wounds to heal, so well done for being sensible. I’ll clean it up properly though, and you’ll be fine. How is everything with the diabetes? Any hypos recently?’
I shook my head. ‘I’m really good at my management.’ I was hardly going to say that I was a bit shit, actually.
‘Good for you.’ She looked impressed.
‘Thanks, I knew it was important to come and get checked out today, so…’ I shrugged nonchalantly and obviously kept quiet about it having been Mum who pushed me. ‘Will I have permanent scarring?’
‘No, you should be fine. It won’t affect any modelling or anything.’
I looked up quickly. ‘Oh, I don’t model,’ I lied. ‘Well, I’ve done the odd bit but nothing major.’ I shrugged, making out like I was embarrassed to have to say anything about it at all.
We lapsed into silence again as I watched her quietly, only wincing a couple of times as she worked methodically but gently, cleaning it up.
‘You’re doing really well,’ she said at one point and smiled encouragingly at me. ‘Nearly there.’
Once she’d dressed it, she straightened up and peeled the gloves off, dropping them in a large metal bin that she opened with a foot pedal. ‘All done. Now, you’re going to need to get that dressing checked in forty-eight hours. Ah – except that’s Saturday. You better come back tomorrow instead then. I’ll make you an appointment with the practice nurse.’
‘Can’t it be you?’ I said, and I couldn’t see her face as she replied lightly: ‘I’m not in tomorrow, I’m afraid.’
But I heard it. Her tone was almost teasing. She was flirting with me?
She sat down at her desk and started tapping on the keyboard. ‘Do you have a mobile we can text the appointment time through to? Is ten-to-four tomorrow OK?’
‘Before lunch would be better if that’s all right?’ I said, thinking of the psychology coursework I still hadn’t completed but had promised without fail for the following morning’s session.
‘Half past ten?’
I nodded. ‘And my number is 07976—’ I gave it to her, then felt my phone vibrate in my pocket with a text. ‘I’ve got it – thanks.’
‘No problem – and here’s your prescription.’ She swung round to the printer and grabbed the green piece of paper, signed it and held it out to me. ‘Sorry about your trousers.’
I looked down at my one bare leg. I looked like I was wearing grey shorts on one side. I shrugged. ‘That’s OK. It’s a look.’
‘It certainly is. Um – Jonathan.’ She glanced at my notes on screen. ‘I’m sorry if I said a couple of things that I could have phrased better, or differently. I wasn’t… well anyway.’ She looked flustered. ‘Sorry.’
‘You didn’t say anything out of order at all,’ I insisted, and held her gaze confidently before smiling.
‘Just make sure you keep an eye out for the skin around the wound becoming red, or hot and hard—’ She was killing me, but I held it together. ‘Any inflammation basically, which would be a sign of infection.’ She continued valiantly, despite having gone scarlet. ‘Or any puss, and a strong unpleasant smell.’
That wasn’t the note I’d hoped to end on but I stood up and smiled politely. ‘Thanks for your time, Dr Inglis.’
‘You’re very welcome.’
I could feel her watching me as I walked out of the room feeling a lot better, despite my one leg out. Elsa Schneider. Sweet.
I probably would have just left it there. I should have just left it there, but I went over the road to get my prescription and while I waited for them to make it up, I stared at Dr Inglis’s car.
‘Could I borrow a pen and a bit of paper – if that’s possible?’ I asked the woman behind the desk. I gave her a small, slightly sad smile. I learnt a long time ago that it makes a certain type of woman want to mother me, or in this case, grandmother me.
She bustled about looking for a biro that worked. I hesitated, then scribbled
Thanks for being nice to me today. Ever tried Snapchat? Don’t forget to ghost mode tho.
J Day