Page 20 of Seen
He doesn’t answer for twenty minutes. My message doesn’t even show up as read. Perhaps he’s already asleep or one of these weirdos who doesn’t check his phone every few seconds. Just as I’m about to give up on him, three dots appear, thrilling me far more than they should. This isn’t a hot guy I’m text-flirting with for a hook up. This is a shy, reserved dermatologist offering to help me navigate my way through the fucking day-to-day nightmare which is fast becoming my life. How the fuck can I feel excited about that?
I’m okay.
Is that it?I instantly thumb back, imagining him lying in bed, frowning as he texts. I smile to myself. In my imagination he’s under a duvet still wearing the hoodie he wore earlier and with the hood still up. Have I ever seen him without one? Not that I can recall.Just okay?
Another pause, this one only a couple of minutes and then,
Yes.
Hum. Not sure what to say to that. It’s brutally honest, though, which seems to be a fairly consistent traitin him.
I hope I didn’t wake you.
Three more dots appear.No, I’m lying in bed trying out some CAD designs on my phone for landscaping my tiny back garden.
Okayyy. So that’s random. I’m not sure I have much to contribute, given that my garden, aka the beer garden, has five trestle tables, three cigarette butt bins, and a knackered barbecue shelter doubling as a discreet blowjob shack.
Nice,I write.What are you planning?
A couple of pictures arrive of a small raised wooden patio.Some more greenery to soften this. (Sorry for the unsolicited deck pics.)
No worries. That is one sexy deck,I thumb back,my mind instantly hitting a familiar groove. I can’t help myself. Flirting with guys online has been hardwired into me since the beginning of the internet.10/10 would sit on it.
No answer appears, and I wince. Fuck, what the hell am I doing? This is Luke, the serious dermatologist. Can I delete? Too late, he’ll have read it; he’s still online. Maybe he won’t spot the double entendre. Or maybe he’ll never speak to me again.
Three dots appear. I cross my fingers.
Thanks. I trimmed the bushes so it would look bigger ;)
Wow, I was so not expecting that. Suddenly, my bedroom feels less empty, the encroaching edges of the ceiling a little less threatening. I thumb back to him, before I lose my nerve and change my mind.
Moorfields has sent me another appointment for next week. They also tried to phone, but I ignored it.
Are you going to turn up?
Now I take my time about answering. But what do I have to lose? He’s already witnessed me fall apart this evening. He’s also seen me fall on my arse, my head, and virtually tie myself up in knots over some fucking Excel spreadsheets. What’s another episode of neediness between friends?
Yes. If you’re free, could you come with me?
His answer is immediate.Of course. Text me the details.
I’m stupidly proud of negotiating the busy hospital foyer without Luke’s assistance, though having him next to me is more reassuring than he realises. Tinted specs would reduce the glare from harsh fluorescent lighting reflecting off the polished floors, off laminated signs, and off the pale, sterile walls. But donning the pair secreted away in my jacket pocket would announce to the world I had a problem.
“Don’t be nervous,” Luke says softly in the lift. “You’ve done the hard part. Making yourself turn up.”
“I’m not nervous.” Do a sleepless night and three trips to the toilet before I left the flat count?
Luke side eyes me, and his mouth tugs at the corners like he’s trying not to laugh.
“Okay, so maybe I am. A bit,” I amend.
He nudges my shoulder. “It’s fine if you are. I get nervous about all sorts of stupid things. Being inside a hospital isn’t one of them, because that’s the day job. But about plenty of other ridiculous stuff. My anxiety is like a hydra. Cut off one limb and three more appear.”
I’m still smiling at his imagery as we take our seats in the crowded waiting room. Another youngish person is here today with a woman I assume to be her mother. They’re giggling at something on an oversized iPad. I rub my clammy palms on my jeans, tension crawling under my skin, and tell myself to get my act together. I know my eyes have deteriorated over the last year and I’ve already got the diagnosis. I also know the typical pathway for a person with RP. All this will be is a summary of the tests, right?
“Neil? Would you like to come this way?”
Everything inside me seizes for a half second. My feet weld to the floor.
