Health Care
Chapter Five
I have heard nothing from Christopher all day, aside from one text, telling me to be ready for six.
Where are we going? I text back. No reply. I’m not asking out of curiosity. I’m asking because I need to choose something appropriate to wear. Knowing Christopher, jeans will be too casual. I pick out my favourite pair of jeans and pull them on.
He pulls up at 5.54pm. His car looks as clean as ever, a glossy black Audi. ‘THMP 50N’ is his number plate, it was his Christmas present from his father. I’m not leaving the house until exactly six. I have a remaining six minutes to sit on my bed and do nothing but antagonise Christopher. My mum calls up the stairs.
“Alex, is that Christopher outside?” He clearly hadn’t said a word to my mum.
“Yeah, weird, right?” I reply sheepishly. “He wanted to see me. I don’t know why. When I do, I’ll let you know.” My tone is dry and sarcastic. You should’ve just made an excuse, my conscience tells me. You’re clearly not in the mood to see him. She was right. I guess I was too curious as to why he wanted to see me. What does it matter, though? My conscience points out. You’re already making plans with Sam. Maybe Christopher should know that, I think to myself. Uh oh. My inner Super Bitch is rearing her ugly head.
I step out of my front door, avoiding his gaze. I slam the door expressionlessly and make a real fuss of locking it. I crunch down our driveway, staring at the floor. There is a chip in my toenail polish. They’re still bright pink, from holiday. I hope Christopher hates it.
“Evening,” he smiles. “You look nice.” I drop myself into the passenger seat. I don’t look nice. Of course I don’t look nice. To my surprise, however, Christopher is also wearing jeans. And plimsolls.
“You didn’t text back,” I deadpan. “I didn’t know what to wear.” Lie. I knew I was going to wear jeans just to piss him off.
“You’ll see,” he says. “Besides, you look fine.” We join the motorway towards the docks. I suspect he is taking me down to the boardwalk, although I don’t know what he is wearing jeans for. Unless we are going on his father’s boat. There is no sunset, the clouds are too thick. He puts the car in cruise control and slips his feet off the pedals. “I’m glad you had a nice holiday,” he says, looking down at me. He surveys the bracelets I have on my wrists.
“Thank you,” I say. “It was good to get away.”
“I just didn’t think that was the sort of holiday for you,” he cut in. Whoops, he wasn’t finished. Here we go, the I-thought-I-knew-you-better speech.
“What made you think that?” I reply innocently enough.
“You know, all the bars, all the drinking, all the men,” he says, with a hint of disgust in his voice. “Was it really that fun?”
“It was,” I reply. I didn’t need to explain myself to him. “I really like it out there. Yes, it’s nothing short of a wild party that takes up a whole town, but surely everyone’s allowed that sort of freedom at least once.”
“Would you ever go back?” he asks me.
“Yes, I’m already planning next year.”
“You surprise me,” he says, taken aback. “It’s like you’re a changed girl.”
“I’m not that different,” I argue. After all, I’m still at uni. I still have the same friends; the same job. I’m still in no way looking at getting back together with you, my conscience glares at Christian as he glides the car over to the slipway. “I guess I just like being able to let myself go.”
“Let myself go,” Christopher repeats in nothing more than a whisper, more to himself. “Interesting,” he finally nods. “I hope you’re hungry.” He swerves around two more roundabouts and finally pulls into a retail park. It’s nothing like your Bella Italia. In fact, it consists of a low-budget hotel (“Rooms for £20!”), a hardware store, a furniture store, a bowling alley and a TGI Friday’s. I weigh up the possibilities before he pulls into a parking space effortlessly, moving the steering wheel with the flat of his palm.
“TGI Friday’s?” I splutter at him, bewildered. I don’t expect Christopher has eating in TGI Friday’s since his tenth birthday party, before his mother fed him salmon en croute and champagne.
“Yes?” Christopher grinned. “I thought you liked it here.”
“I do,” I reply hurriedly, my stomach was already starting to rumble. “But you! You can’t possibly like it here!”
“In all honesty, Alexa,” he says, leading me up the front steps. “I haven’t eaten here for years, and I trust your judgement.” I narrow my eyes at him. He never ‘trusted my judgement’ the whole while we were together. He looks for another explanation. “What can I say," he shrugs. "I’m letting myself go.” I try to stop my jaw from falling open but it does so anyway. “Don’t gawp at me like that,” he snaps.
Almost instantly, Christopher seems uncomfortably in this new environment. The waitress, with her trouser braces and Converses, leads us to a table with sofas instead of chairs. Christopher leans back, and then sits forward; leans back again, unsure of what to do with his posture. He orders an orange juice for himself and nods encouragingly at me. I peruse the menu and order a Sex on the Beach cocktail. This time, Christopher’s mouth drops open.
“Don’t gawp at me like that,” I retort, mocking him. The waitress disappears and returns with a measly orange juice for Christopher, followed by my cocktail, elaborately decorated with novelty paper umbrellas. Christopher inspects the glass closely, looking for specs of grime or lipstick marks. He is unsuccessful. I gloat to myself. He ponders the menu.
“Does everything have to come with chips?” he moans.
“So are you going to tell me why you brought me here?” I interrupt him. “Or do I just have to sit here and listen to you scrutinise this place for how anti-Thompson it is for you?” His eyebrows shoot up at my feistiness; my conscience gives me a round of applause.
“I think the only thing ‘anti-Thompson’ in here is you,” he replies. Good comeback. Besides, he has a point. I cock my head sarcastically at him.
“You haven’t answered my question.”
“Look,” Christopher says, setting his menu down on the table and folding his arms in front of him. “I’m not here to antagonise you, and I’d appreciate it if you gave the Super Bitch a few hours off too.” He referenced my inner Super Bitch. Oh God. I chew my tongue. “I invited you out because I wanted to see you. Does that really need an explanation?”
“Obviously!” I cry, exasperated, perhaps a little too loudly. Over the music, the family at the table next to us stare. Christopher looks sheepish; he’s clearly embarrassed of me already. “You’re my ex-boyfriend,” I say deliberately. “Is this not weird?” Christopher leans in closer to me.
“I want you to reconsider,” he whispers, reaching for my hands. Suddenly, the waitress appears and Christopher’s arms retract quickly to his sides.
“What can I get for you?” she sings, in all her bubbly-bouncy-blonde delight. Her eyes catch Christopher’s designer watch and they widen slightly. They follow his arm up to brush through his hair. She has the hots for him already, I can tell. Not to mention, she’s clearly got a thing for designer brands. They’re a perfect match already. When can I plan the wedding? I’ll be sure to mention this to Christopher once she disappears.
Where are we going? I text back. No reply. I’m not asking out of curiosity. I’m asking because I need to choose something appropriate to wear. Knowing Christopher, jeans will be too casual. I pick out my favourite pair of jeans and pull them on.
He pulls up at 5.54pm. His car looks as clean as ever, a glossy black Audi. ‘THMP 50N’ is his number plate, it was his Christmas present from his father. I’m not leaving the house until exactly six. I have a remaining six minutes to sit on my bed and do nothing but antagonise Christopher. My mum calls up the stairs.
“Alex, is that Christopher outside?” He clearly hadn’t said a word to my mum.
“Yeah, weird, right?” I reply sheepishly. “He wanted to see me. I don’t know why. When I do, I’ll let you know.” My tone is dry and sarcastic. You should’ve just made an excuse, my conscience tells me. You’re clearly not in the mood to see him. She was right. I guess I was too curious as to why he wanted to see me. What does it matter, though? My conscience points out. You’re already making plans with Sam. Maybe Christopher should know that, I think to myself. Uh oh. My inner Super Bitch is rearing her ugly head.
I step out of my front door, avoiding his gaze. I slam the door expressionlessly and make a real fuss of locking it. I crunch down our driveway, staring at the floor. There is a chip in my toenail polish. They’re still bright pink, from holiday. I hope Christopher hates it.
“Evening,” he smiles. “You look nice.” I drop myself into the passenger seat. I don’t look nice. Of course I don’t look nice. To my surprise, however, Christopher is also wearing jeans. And plimsolls.
“You didn’t text back,” I deadpan. “I didn’t know what to wear.” Lie. I knew I was going to wear jeans just to piss him off.
“You’ll see,” he says. “Besides, you look fine.” We join the motorway towards the docks. I suspect he is taking me down to the boardwalk, although I don’t know what he is wearing jeans for. Unless we are going on his father’s boat. There is no sunset, the clouds are too thick. He puts the car in cruise control and slips his feet off the pedals. “I’m glad you had a nice holiday,” he says, looking down at me. He surveys the bracelets I have on my wrists.
“Thank you,” I say. “It was good to get away.”
“I just didn’t think that was the sort of holiday for you,” he cut in. Whoops, he wasn’t finished. Here we go, the I-thought-I-knew-you-better speech.
“What made you think that?” I reply innocently enough.
“You know, all the bars, all the drinking, all the men,” he says, with a hint of disgust in his voice. “Was it really that fun?”
“It was,” I reply. I didn’t need to explain myself to him. “I really like it out there. Yes, it’s nothing short of a wild party that takes up a whole town, but surely everyone’s allowed that sort of freedom at least once.”
“Would you ever go back?” he asks me.
“Yes, I’m already planning next year.”
“You surprise me,” he says, taken aback. “It’s like you’re a changed girl.”
“I’m not that different,” I argue. After all, I’m still at uni. I still have the same friends; the same job. I’m still in no way looking at getting back together with you, my conscience glares at Christian as he glides the car over to the slipway. “I guess I just like being able to let myself go.”
“Let myself go,” Christopher repeats in nothing more than a whisper, more to himself. “Interesting,” he finally nods. “I hope you’re hungry.” He swerves around two more roundabouts and finally pulls into a retail park. It’s nothing like your Bella Italia. In fact, it consists of a low-budget hotel (“Rooms for £20!”), a hardware store, a furniture store, a bowling alley and a TGI Friday’s. I weigh up the possibilities before he pulls into a parking space effortlessly, moving the steering wheel with the flat of his palm.
“TGI Friday’s?” I splutter at him, bewildered. I don’t expect Christopher has eating in TGI Friday’s since his tenth birthday party, before his mother fed him salmon en croute and champagne.
“Yes?” Christopher grinned. “I thought you liked it here.”
“I do,” I reply hurriedly, my stomach was already starting to rumble. “But you! You can’t possibly like it here!”
“In all honesty, Alexa,” he says, leading me up the front steps. “I haven’t eaten here for years, and I trust your judgement.” I narrow my eyes at him. He never ‘trusted my judgement’ the whole while we were together. He looks for another explanation. “What can I say," he shrugs. "I’m letting myself go.” I try to stop my jaw from falling open but it does so anyway. “Don’t gawp at me like that,” he snaps.
Almost instantly, Christopher seems uncomfortably in this new environment. The waitress, with her trouser braces and Converses, leads us to a table with sofas instead of chairs. Christopher leans back, and then sits forward; leans back again, unsure of what to do with his posture. He orders an orange juice for himself and nods encouragingly at me. I peruse the menu and order a Sex on the Beach cocktail. This time, Christopher’s mouth drops open.
“Don’t gawp at me like that,” I retort, mocking him. The waitress disappears and returns with a measly orange juice for Christopher, followed by my cocktail, elaborately decorated with novelty paper umbrellas. Christopher inspects the glass closely, looking for specs of grime or lipstick marks. He is unsuccessful. I gloat to myself. He ponders the menu.
“Does everything have to come with chips?” he moans.
“So are you going to tell me why you brought me here?” I interrupt him. “Or do I just have to sit here and listen to you scrutinise this place for how anti-Thompson it is for you?” His eyebrows shoot up at my feistiness; my conscience gives me a round of applause.
“I think the only thing ‘anti-Thompson’ in here is you,” he replies. Good comeback. Besides, he has a point. I cock my head sarcastically at him.
“You haven’t answered my question.”
“Look,” Christopher says, setting his menu down on the table and folding his arms in front of him. “I’m not here to antagonise you, and I’d appreciate it if you gave the Super Bitch a few hours off too.” He referenced my inner Super Bitch. Oh God. I chew my tongue. “I invited you out because I wanted to see you. Does that really need an explanation?”
“Obviously!” I cry, exasperated, perhaps a little too loudly. Over the music, the family at the table next to us stare. Christopher looks sheepish; he’s clearly embarrassed of me already. “You’re my ex-boyfriend,” I say deliberately. “Is this not weird?” Christopher leans in closer to me.
“I want you to reconsider,” he whispers, reaching for my hands. Suddenly, the waitress appears and Christopher’s arms retract quickly to his sides.
“What can I get for you?” she sings, in all her bubbly-bouncy-blonde delight. Her eyes catch Christopher’s designer watch and they widen slightly. They follow his arm up to brush through his hair. She has the hots for him already, I can tell. Not to mention, she’s clearly got a thing for designer brands. They’re a perfect match already. When can I plan the wedding? I’ll be sure to mention this to Christopher once she disappears.