‘You’re crazy,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘I’m just a daily irritation to him like … like, um … like eczema.’
She was looked at me with a mixture of confusion and exasperation.
‘Frankie, you’re gorgeous,’ she said firmly. ‘He does not think of you like a chronic skin condition, trust me. Back me up knobhead.’ Dylan was shifting uncomfortably, and I decided that Ireallydid not want an honest appraisal of my gorgeousness from him. My ego had taken enough of a battering in recent weeks.
I knew what I was. I was average, plain, bland, nondescript; what I was not was gorgeous. Lou being my friend of course would think that I was attractive and try to convince me of this insane fact, because she loved me. Even Dylan had thought himself attracted to me once; that’s how much friendship can change the way you view someone.
‘Look, guys,’ I said, cutting off any response Dylan could have made, ‘can we just leave already?’
‘Amen, Ladies,’ Dylan muttered, propelling us both forward with a hand in our backs. ‘Let’s forget this place and get the wets in.’
We left and walked to the pub nearest the hospital, the local medic hang-out. I knew that Lou wasn’t going to let this go. This was confirmed when, after we had scored a table and Dylan was engaged in a surgical pissing contest with his fellow orthopaedic buddies, she pulled out her best serious face. Lou’s serious face usually meant she was going deep into lecture mode. I was too tired for lecture mode, so I attempted a distraction.
‘So,’ I said quickly, grappling in my head for a guaranteed subject-changer. I glanced over at a now sombre Dylan, who was listening longingly to the latest exploits of his surgical colleagues, ‘Dylan must be driving youup the wall.’
‘Nope,’ she said, her eyes narrowing dangerously, ‘we’re going to talk about why you think you’re like eczema and Weasel Gankface couldn’t be into you.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘Lou, come on, please.’
‘No. You come on. I don’t understand why you can’t see yourself clearly.’
‘I’m a realist,’ I muttered, looking down at my hands twisting in my lap.
‘No, Frankie.’ She leaned forward and covered both my hands with hers, pausing until she had eye contact with me. ‘In the real world you’re gorgeous and sweet and funny and kind, and exactly the sort of girl a fit bloke like Tom would go for.’
‘Right, Lou, okay,’ I said, my eyes sliding to the side to avoid her gaze. I had learnt that when she got on her high horse about this particular subject it was best to just agree and let her rant.
‘You do realize that Chris is a dick.’
My brows drew together, ‘Why are we talking about Chris? It’s already well established that he’s a … well … not a very nice person.’
Chris was one of three reasons I left my medical rotation in Bristol. I had been with him since we were house officers in the same hospital five years ago. We had lived together for three years and for most of that time I had been miserable.
When we met he was charming and persistent and had made me feel special. Once I was secured as his girlfriend, he didn’t bother so much with the charm but was still a relatively nice guy. When we moved in together I found out that he was not in fact a nice guy, he was a mean, hurtful guy.
He made me feel small and stupid on a regular basis. All the confidence I had built up at uni was torn down by his persistent, unrelenting criticism. After I’d finally managed to leave him (with a considerable amount of help from Lou and Dylan) he had begged, pleaded and eventually semi-stalked me in a misguided attempt to resurrect our long-dead relationship.
My second reason for leaving Bristol was the job I was starting in five and a half months. I couldn’t wait. Cardiology for six months was just to fill in the time before then. The third reason … was complicated.
‘No, Frankie. I mean that Chris is a dick and how he treated you is on him not you because, I repeat,he is a dick.’ I pressed my lips together because although I agreed that he was indeed a dick, I didn’t think that he would have treated Lou the way he treated me. This was because Lou is gorgeous and in no way average, bland or nondescript. I didn’t share this with Lou, however, for fear that her head would explode. ‘Your dad is a dick as well,’ she declared.
‘How did we get onto Papa?’ I asked, confused. ‘And don’t call him that.’
Lou sighed, ‘Frankie –’
‘No, Lou,’ I cut her off hotly, ‘I don’t want to talk about Papa.’ Papa left my mamma and I when I was twelve. Their relationship was so passionate and burned so bright that in the end the flame was extinguished. Both of them having an inherent Italian flair for drama had not helped, and there were other … problems. Problems that eventually led to Mamma’s death and the state that Papa was in now.
There were only a couple of times when Mamma broke down and let his betrayal get to her. One of those times was when she had been facing an empty fridge again, slammed it shut, then dug out some Findus Crispy Pancakes from the freezer, declaring, ‘I wish he had just died. At least then people would bring food. Nobody brings food when you husband leaves you. Gabriella would have brought her fettuccine if he’d died. You know, the one she makes for Ferragosto every year. And we would have probably got our mitts on Mrs Costanzo’s panettone. That cake is the food of the gods. But does your father die? Noooo, he does not. He simply drinks himself slowly to death and we’re left alone with no pasta and no bloody cake.’
Despite this, apart from a couple of food related rants, Mamma had never complained, even though Papa hardly ever visited us, and when he did he was barely coherent.
‘You know why we’re talking about him. Those little bastards at school, your father, and your ratfink ex are the main reasons you don’t see yourself clearly, Frankie. Even with those goddamn ponytails and boring clothes you’re still the most beautiful girl in any room. Tom would have to be blind not to be into you.’
Just as she was making this latest crazy statement I rolled my eyes again and they came to rest on the bar. I froze and stared at a smiling Tom who was talking quietly to a fabulously beautiful blonde, his hand resting lightly on her hip. They both laughed at something he said, his eyes were warm and still smiling, and she went up on tiptoes and pressed a brief kiss to his lips.
Why it hurt so much I couldn’t fathom. It was partly the fact that I knew I would never have what he was giving the blonde. He would never look at me warmly; never laugh with me. I’d barely even made him smile for the last two weeks that I’d been working for him. I closed my eyes and let the pain burn through my chest. When I opened them I saw that Lou had followed the direction of my gaze.
‘Oh bugger,’ she muttered as her theory of Tom being into me went up in smoke.
