Health Care

Christopher’s road is lined with cars. Sam has said barely a word since we pulled up Pylands Drive. Pylands Drive is where the houses begin to turn into mansions.

“Can you see a parking space?” I plead at him. He sits up and scans the area. In a last ditch attempt, I pull forward and peer onto Christopher’s driveway. It’s full of cars already. Their automatic gates have been disabled for today only, letting people manoeuvre their way in and out. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a handwritten sign pinned to one of the gates.

For those attending The Thompson’s garden party, please feel free to park on Strawberry Fields. A special arrangement has been made with the local council.

You know it’s a grand scale when the local council have been involved. Like a bat out of hell, I lurch down the other side of Christopher’s road and through Darlington Crescent. Taking a sharp left onto Drury’s Hill, I bump my car over the cattle grid and swing into the field.

“You know your away around here well,” Sam observes. I don’t answer him. Deep down, he probably knows why I know it so well.

Locking my car, we trudge across the grass and back up towards the house. It’s already a swelteringly hot day and I’m aching for a glass of cool champagne. Dad had already found a parking space outside the house. I’m half-annoyed that he didn't save one for me.

Reaching the house, Sam and I are almost too out of breath to talk. I rasp on the knocker loudly, already hearing a soft babble of chat and the odd shriek of a fake laugh. Christopher’s mother answers the door, her Botox-grin screwed onto her face until she realises who it is.

“Hello Alexa,” she says crisply, screwing her smile back on as best she can. “Your parents have just arrived as well.”

“Yes,” I said, stepping over the threshold. “We took the two cars today.”

“Oh, what is it that you drive now?” she asks out of fake-curiousity, watching me intently as I wipe my feet. Sam follows suit.

“Oh, just the same Ford,” I say, slightly bewildered. What, is she expecting me to have since acquired an Audi since she last saw me?

“Mm, I’m sure Timothy would love to hear about it,” she says, disinterested. Timothy is mad on cars, at least mad on Ferraris and Audis and Saabs. Not on dusty old Fords. Mrs Thompson’s gaze has now fallen onto Sam.

“Mrs Thompson,” I say, super sickly sweet as ever. “This is Sam.”

Sam mumbles a polite ‘how do you do’ and extends his hand. Mrs Thompson takes it, although her smile seems distracted. Her eyes survey Sam in a similar way to her son's. They flicker over his tousled hair to his stone chinos, eyeing the mud from the field suspiciously. Sam responds as though he could read her mind.

“I’m sorry about the mud,” he wipes his feet more deliberately on the doormat this time. “We’ve parked on the field.” She nods as though she understands but truthfully, she’s still not happy. Mrs Thompson (real name Loretta) is never happy.

She takes us through to the kitchen before another knock at the door is heard. She scurries off without making excuses. Sam grips my hand.

“That could’ve been your mother-in-law?” he hisses at me. I nod and grimace.

“If you ever find yourself needing a reason to decide between your ex and me,” Sam begins. “Let me tell you my mother is half the dragon she is.” I stifle a giggle as Loretta comes clattering into the kitchen again. She looks flustered.

“You haven’t seen the caterer around, have you?” she flaps. We shake our heads. Staring around the sizeable kitchen, it looks as though the caterer has done himself proud so far. Both the worktops and island are laden with platters and bowls, dishes and plates, filled with tiny triangle sandwiches, slices of quiche, bowls of gorgeously decorated salads, boiled eggs, prawns, potatoes, sausage rolls, all presented beautifully on wrought silverware. What looks like a small crate seemed to be brimming with knives and forks. Even the plastic plates looked elegant enough. Sam goes to reach for a sausage roll, but I slap his hand away.

“Why not?” he whines. “I’m fucking starving.”

“She will know, I assure you,” I hiss at him. “That woman could be in the fucking military.”

Glancing out the kitchen window, the garden looks like a scene from The Great Gatsby. A hundred odd people mill around, making small talk and sipping from plastic champagne flutes. A grand white marquee stretches down the length of the garden. I presume that’s where the food and drink will be served. Dotted around the immaculate lawn are small collections of silver garden furniture, for those who do not wish to be sociable. In the far end of the garden, my parents and the majority of ladies from Mum's shop are already sitting. I smile to myself.

Standing almost directly in the centre of the lawn is Timothy. He is the only one wearing a full black suit, and already he is mopping sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. Around him are a collection of men, probably other pharmacists. They all look incredibly official and incredibly boring. There is only one female. A small blonde pixie wearing a red chiffon dress and dainty silver heels. Draped with his arm around her shoulder is Christopher, wearing his powder blue shirt and sand-coloured chinos.

More strangers wander through the kitchen on Loretta’s instruction and descend the stone steps onto the lawn. So far, Sam and I haven’t moved. The majority of people smile at us politely. That’s the problem with these sorts of events: nobody knows if you’re supposed to be licking their arses or not. Sam begins nodding curtly at everyone.

“I’m trying to make them think I’m someone hugely important,” he whispers to me. I snigger. I’m so glad he’s on the same page as me. Before long, Loretta comes flapping into the kitchen again.

“The caterers need this space to serve the food,” she says pointedly to us. “Ms Lillington, I would love for you to escort your guest onto the lawn.” Ms Lillington!

Taking Sam’s hand, I lead him through the kitchen door and down onto the lawn. The heat is almost unbearable and Sam’s hand is growing hotter and hotter. I am thankful I’m wearing such a small dress; the scarce breeze there is still finds its way up my skirt. Any second now I am expecting Timothy to pass out. Before this is possible, however, he catches my eye.

“Alexa!” he exclaims, striding over to me. His gaggle of pharmacists look at each other awkwardly, wondering what they should do in Timothy’s absence. None look more awkward than Christopher, who steps in to close the gap his father left and begins talking animatedly to them. Perhaps he is trying to avoid my eye.

Timothy places a large kiss on my cheek and I blush slightly.

“It was lovely to see your mum again,” he says. “I haven’t been in that branch for a long time. I really should, seeing as it’s where my son works!” he invites me to laugh. I try. It’s fake, and Sam can sense it. He bites his lip next to me and stifles a snort. “And you’ve brought a guest, excellent! The more the merrier, eh!”

If Timothy wasn’t married, I would suspect him to be gay. I smile at his flyaway hair as he bids us both goodbye and bounds back to his other pharmacists. Letting his father back into the circle of professionals, Christopher catches my eye briefly before turning back around. The silent treatment, how mature.

“That’s your ex, isn’t it?” Sam mutters in my ear, nodding towards Christopher.

“How can you tell?” I ask. Truthfully, there seem to be no other males aside from Christopher and Sam that appear under the age of thirty.

“Seems pretty bitter,” Sam muses. “Besides, whenever he looks at you, he pulls his bird closer.” Sam’s talking about Melissa. “Watch, once more and she’ll literally be on top of him.”

Finding nobody else interesting to talk to, Sam and I head into the marquee. The plastic had begun to heat it up to a hideous temperature, and we quickly duck back out clutching flutes of Buck’s Fizz. Ironically, so far there has been little to celebrate, aside from the look of all the food. Melissa catches my eye briefly and gives me a glare. Sam witnesses it too.

“What the hell was that for!” I hiss, taken back. Gee, I know I’m the ex-girlfriend, but I don’t see Sam casting the evil eye over to Christopher. Melissa watches my flabbergasted reaction and glares some more. She reaches up to whisper into Christopher’s eye. He casts a furtive look at me and turns back around. From the looks of it, he’s trying to calm her down.

“Jesus, why is she so pissed?” Sam asks. He’s passing comment but there is a hint of worry in his voice.

“Do you know what?” I say defiantly. “I don’t even care. Want to pick at some more food?” His eyes light up. He senses my anger.

“Hey, maybe I like you angry,” he whispers, leaning in to kiss me. Instead, he grips my bottom lip with his teeth. What an animal. He tries to grope my backside but I wiggle away from him, giggling. I bite my forefinger like a naughty schoolgirl.

“Mmm, don’t,” Sam groans at me. I giggle again. Perhaps we’re causing quite the stir. According to Timothy’s megaphone, food will be brought out in fifteen minutes time. We are encouraged to ‘pass the time with pleasurable company and pleasurable wine’. I’m yet to discover where Timothy is keeping either of these.

Pulling Sam by his wrist, I lead him back up the stone steps and into the kitchen. The caterers are nowhere to be seen, and Loretta has finally joined her husband and son in the garden. Crouching low below the worktops, Sam and I pick up a handful of egg and cress sandwiches, sausage rolls and pork pies. We tiptoe out through the kitchen and into the hall, and in one swift movement I’ve pushed open the door to the dining room and shut ourselves inside. Luckily the majority of the view from the dining room window is blocked by Loretta’s potted plants that sit boldly in the window box. One of the windows has been pushed wide open to allow a breeze through the house.

“I’ll tell you what,” Sam says. “This Buck’s Fizz tastes like absolute shite.” With that, he stretches his arm through the open window and waters Loretta’s plants. I snort.

“I’m so sorry I had to bring you here,” I sigh. Sam stares at me impassively as he eats one of his sandwiches.

“Why?” he says thickly. “I’m having fun.”

With that, we hear a small commotion outside. The caterers are beginning to manoeuvre the food. Loretta is flapping around in the kitchen.

“Christopher! Christopher!” she shrieks. “Christopher, I need your help lifting one of these tables!”

I peer out of the window to see Christopher leaving Melissa standing awkwardly by herself, her heels sinking into the grass. Christopher bounds up the garden steps, taking two at a time. Before reaching the kitchen, his eyes swat over to mine. Shit. He purses his lips and disappears through the door. Moments later, he’s in the dining room.

“This room is off limits,” he says to us sternly. “You should be out in the garden.”
Sam saves the day.

“Christopher! My man!” he booms in his most artificial and sophisticated drawl. “How wonderful to meet you at last!” he wrings Christopher’s hand excitedly. I bite my lip to suppress a laugh. Christopher gives him a small yet bewildered smile.

“How do you do,” he mumbles awkwardly.

“I must say,” Sam presses on. “Your date looks like a lovely girl. It’s a shame she’s got such a stick up her arse.” Sam glances over to Melissa. She’s still stood rooted to the spot, her arms folded, staring expectantly at the kitchen door. Christopher’s mouth turns into a hard line.

“Alexa,” he turns to me formally. Oh shit. “When your mother extended her invitation to you, I hoped you’d bring someone better than this. My father has worked exceptionally hard to stage this party. I would hope you would have the decency not to upstage it.”

I’m literally lost for words. Fury boils in my blood and I flush scarlet. Sam takes a menacing step towards Christopher, but I grab his arm.

“Don’t Sam,” I mutter. “He’s really not worth it.”

“Worth it?” Sam questions. “Baby, this boy is worth every inch of my energy when I punch him straight in the mouth. What right does he have to talk to you like that? No wonder you dumped him, girl, he’s not worth a hundred of you.”

Sam speaks so softly; his voice brimming with affection. I practically glow. I could run into his arms and passionately kiss him now, if only Christopher wasn’t here, seething. My fleeting glance at romance swiftly evaporates when from the corner of my eye; Christopher takes a swing at Sam. His biceps flex; during his time at secondary school he was a rower. Sam on the other hand, is a kick-boxer. In a nanosecond, he grabs Christopher’s wrist and holds it in place. He smiles triumphantly before Christopher’s left hand punches the wind out of Sam’s stomach. Sam’s yelp is deafening; no louder than my shriek. Sam doubles up in pain on the floor as Christopher stands smugly over him, all six-foot-three-inches of raw arrogance.

I shriek the air blew with obscenities, falling onto my knees beside Sam. People in the garden stop to wonder where the commotion is coming from but I don’t stop.

“What the fuck do you think you’re playing at!” I yell at the top of my voice. A handful of people, including both my dad and Timothy, make their way up the garden steps, looking concerned. Christopher’s smug grin falters. Sam is still wheezing on the floor. Christopher’s eyes dart to the door, but he has nowhere to run. Timothy comes flying into the dining room and his eyes fall upon Sam, clutching his stomach, his face white.

“What the devil is going on in here?” he spits, directing his fury towards Christopher. Despite the fact that Christopher has towered over Timothy since his fifteenth birthday, Christopher shrinks back from his father, a shiver of a tremble flickering across his lips. Timothy’s eyes bore into Christopher, but he remains silence. Until finally, a whimper like a lamb’s escapes.

“I was provoked,” he mutters. “I was trying to tell Alexa to leave the dining room. It’s out of bounds.” By now, Loretta has pushed her way through the small crowd by the door. She looks at Sam and gasps.

“Yes but son,” Timothy implores. “That’s really no reason to punch a man.” By now, Sam is slowly staggering to his feet, gripping onto my arm for support. He exhales deeply, and leans on the back of a leather dining chair.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Sam mutters, attempting to stand up straight.

“Alex,” my dad’s deep voice sounds from the doorway. “Sam, come with me.”

Dad leads us through into the now-empty kitchen, where he hands Sam a glass of water and a napkin to wipe his brow.

“I’ve never liked that Chris,” Dad mutters darkly. “What the hell did he punch you for?”

“Sam was defending my honour,” I sigh, failing to hide a sad smile.

“Defending you?” Dad asks. “What did he have to defend you against? Did he try to hurt you, Alexa?” I could tell Dad was getting stern as he used my full name.

“No, Dad,” I assure him. “He just had a go at me, y’know.”

“It was more than ‘having a go’, Alex,” Sam interrupts. “He spoke to you like you were dirt.”

“Yeah well,” I shrug. “When is that anything new?” I watch my dad’s expression carefully.

“Well, I have half a mind to storm straight back in there and kick him where it hurts,” he says firmly. Sam nods in agreement. “But I don’t want to cause any more trouble. I think the boy’s dad is pretty fuming already. Besides, he’s a colleague of your mum’s.”

Oh yes, that age-old problem, once again.