My favourite authors are Barbara Kingsolver, Amy Tan, Alexander McCall Smith, and Kate Atkinson - among many many others. These authors, combined with an enjoyment for writing this blog (and now lack of subject matter that I am back in the UK) have inspired me to try out something I’ve wanted to do for a long time - write a short story. I’ve never written any fiction before, but always thought that it might be fun, so I drafted a 3 part short story about 3 households in residential Cambridge. Having completed the first part in around 3000 words, I think that publishing it here will motivate me to get the other 2 parts finished as well so I can put them up too. Hopefully you enjoy it, and feel free to let me know what you think!
1
“Oh!”
John looked up from breakfast at his wife, Sylvia, who was standing on the other side of their oak dining table, holding a box of Whiskas cat food. John loved that table, it was the only thing he’d chosen when decorating their house, a house which over the course of a year - since they moved in, had made him feel progressively less at home. Even his own desk in the small study on the second floor was awash with decorative succulents and cotton scented candles. He’d removed these one too many times, and after the last argument where he was accused of not wanting to make this house a home he had simply conceded and deemed it best to just leave them.
“Lucy’s bowl is still full”
John did not want not to engage; it was far too early for yet more talk about Lucy, a 3 legged tabby they had inherited when Sylvia’s mother had moved into a care home 3 months ago.
“I haven’t refilled it since Thursday”
John studied his favourite coffee mug and was annoyed to notice a small chip in the brim, when had that happened?
“Are you listening to me?”
Come to think of it, John hadn’t seen Lucy in days - not that he was particularly distraught about this fact as the cat seemed to require even more care and attention than his wife’s demented mother, something he hadn’t anticipated when silently celebrating the victory of finally convincing Sylvia that it was kinder to move her to a home.
“Cats are like that Sylvia, they come and go.”
What he wanted to say was that cats were little shits like that, but he was prevented by the ‘swear jar’ sitting next to the kettle on the kitchen counter, and the thought of arguing yet again about how Sylvia thought he resented Lucy because she was a cat and John wanted a dog (but Sylvia’s allergies meant he couldn’t have a dog, although curiously the cat was OK). He considered how someone he had once regarded as so mysterious had become so rapidly predictable since buying a house together, and wondered at what precise stage he had become so listless that he couldn’t even be bothered to argue anymore. At University he’d been on the debate team, they’d made it to regional semi-finals but had fallen just short of the finals, something which John put down to his own absence - he had been completing his 4th year medical OSCE at the time.
“Could you quickly straighten the shelf in the guest room upstairs before you go to work please John? I want to finish putting up the Doultons before Daryl and Aileen come to stay next weekend.”
John wished he was walking through Houghton meadows with a lively springer spaniel, brown, black, and cream like he had when he was younger, instead of sitting in an awful mismatched chair in the suburbs, listening to his wife talk about her goddamned decorative plate arrangements again. He exhaled.
“When I get back, Syl. I’m late as it is.”
“Fine, but please don’t forget to stop at the hardware store on your way back to get the wood stain for the patio, the light teak, it’s number four-six-eight, it’s important.”
“I won’t, I promise. I’ll see you later.” With a light kiss on his wife’s cheek, John was out of the door, down the pebbled driveway, and in his car. His thoughts were on the knee arthroscopy and meniscectomy he was scheduled to be leading in a few hours, and the wood stain was almost instantly forgotten.
***
Pulling into his staff parking space in front of the side entrance to the hospital, John was pleased that today, the commute had only taken him little over an hour. 2 years previously, immediately preceding the death of her father, Sylvia’s mother’s condition had begun to deteriorate, prompting them to finally ‘take the plunge’ as a couple and buy a house together in a suburb near where the parents had been living. Newlyweds when they moved, Sylvia and John had shared a flat in the centre of Cambridge for almost 6 years prior, a flat which John severely missed these days. At the time an increased commute duration (it had almost tripled) seemed a small price to pay for taking the next logical step in their relationship, but lately John had been doubting the decision. He couldn’t really see the point anymore, especially now that Sylvia’s mother was essentially out of the picture - and it’s not like they needed the space for children, which they’d talked about in the early stages of their relationship but now seemed unlikely - and John felt a little guilty for thinking it - but because of Sylvia’s age. Perhaps tonight was the night that he would suggest to her that they move back into the city. With all the improvements they’d made on the house they could probably sell it and make a profit, like those couples on those day time television programs.
As he hauled his work bag off of the passenger seat and locked the car door, John noticed an absence in the spot 2 along from his own, a spot which was normally occupied by a small white electric car, owned by the pretty, young, Russian, surgical assistant; Elena. Elena was the woman with whom he’d been having an affair.
It had started one night a few months after John and Sylvia had moved into the new house; she was busy constantly with her mother, and he was growing tired of it. An afternoon surgery had turned into a night surgery, and then into an early-hours-of-the-morning surgery, and when he was done John could not face the thought of the long drive home to a wife who would bombard him with questions about experimental treatments for dementia from the second he arrived home. Seeking quiet, he retreated to the staff break room with the intention of sleeping, but was surprised to find the then-new employee with piercing blue eyes and traces of a Russian accent, already there.
John, 6 feet tall, broad, with thick dark hair, and at this point 41 years old, had never had trouble attracting women. Becoming head of orthopaedics had earned him an additional sort of respect which meant that people (and in particular; women) listened to him slightly more closely than they had before. Even with this, Elena, 27, was miles out of his league, and he was surprised by her interest in him. At the start, John convinced himself the affair was a necessity for maintaining sanity while dealing with his wife and mother-in-law, however when the home stress subsided he did not discontinue seeing Elena. Uncertain about if he considered his actions to be justifiable or not, John certainly felt like a model cliche, sleeping with a younger assistant in secret, while his wife was at home.
***
John and his team (even without Elena) flew through the surgery of the morning, meaning that he was back in the very same staff break room in time for a late lunch. He collected his wallet from his locker, and after checking and rechecking his bag he concluded he must have left his phone at home, so headed downstairs to the basement and staff canteen, a little agitated, without it.
Once he had filled his tray, John scouted the area for somewhere to sit and was pleased to be beckoned over by Rich, a friend from medical school now working in the plastic surgery department. Rich was sitting with 3 other men, 2 of which John recognised as also working in plastics and the other he had not met before.
“How’s it going mate?” Rich asked as he pushed out the chair beside him, signalling for John to sit down.
“Just in time!” Said one of the other men John vaguely recognised, perhaps the department anaesthetist? Really this hospital was huge, John felt that it was unreasonable he was expected to remember everybody's names.
“You work in ortho, don’t you? Settle something for us could ya?” John gave a shrug of compliance, his mouth full of bland pie. He would be careful not to fill up on this rubbish, as that would mean he might ruin the delicious meal Sylvia would inevitably have made for him, which would be waiting on a plate in the fridge when he got home.
“Who would you rather - you know - Jackie or Victoria?” John recognised the names as nurses from the ortho ward, young, attractive, and highly unlikely to take interest in any of these men. Rich was a good guy - it was clear that these were people he was sitting with out of courtesy, and not by choice.
“Err, Jackie, I guess?” John looked at Rich who rolled his eyes as the other men burst into discussion about John’s answer. Seeing an opportunity, John interjected, “have you seen Elena though, the surgical assistant?”
“Oh absolutely, she is nice! Shame about the crazy though”, the first man again.
“God, yeah, I almost asked her for a drink once, before I heard about her past, lucky escape!” said the man unknown to John, as the others nodded.
“What do you mean, past?” John had to ask.
“You haven’t heard?”, this possible anaesthetist was turning out to be quite the authority on the female employees of the 5th floor.
“No?”
“Well I heard from Mary - the receptionist from floor 2, that her best friend Carol - from pharm on floor 1, is the cousin of the receptionist from the ortho department at Elena’s old hospital, and she said that Elena had to move to Cambridge because she had a run in with a staff member at her last job in a hospital in Bristol”
“Sounds like a stack of rumours and hearsay to me-” Rich interrupted, clearly disapproving of the escalating gossip.
“No no, its really true! She was dating a surgeon there, and when he tried to break up with her for someone else, she completely lost it and - “
“Guys, seriously?”
“Wait this is the best part!” the third friend of Rich was eager to for the possible-anaesthetist to finish his story.
“After the guy dumped her, she left work to go to his house, where she kidnaped his pet cat!”
“His what!?” even Rich could not resist questioning the bizarre accusation.
“Seriously, I swear, she went to his house and took his cat - they had to hold a tribunal to assess her position at the hospital because of it, and they had to ask her to leave! The guy later went to look at her place for his cat but he never found it, so who knows what she did to it!”
“That can’t be true, how could they know she took his cat?” John was skeptical.
“It is! One of his neighbours told him that they’d seen someone take it, and they described her exactly!”
“But they don’t let people who do that sort of thing work in hospitals, do they!” Rich was back at trying to discourage the rumour.
“Well that's what - “
John had stopped listening. Lucy. He hadn’t specifically not told Elena that he was married, it was just a coincidence that he didn’t wear a ring at the hospital for sanitary reasons, and it had never come up in their conversations. Oh god, where was she today? She hadn’t replied to his messages the night before, had she found out? John, heart pounding, excused himself and headed back upstairs to his department, leaving an exasperated looking Rich behind to deal with the others.
He was paranoid, Elena must be sick, or dealing with family issues, or on a course for work somewhere, he was jumping to conclusions. By the time he was back at the 5th floor John’s heart rate had returned to normal and he was once again thinking about what he hoped was waiting for him in the fridge at home.
“Good evening, Doctor!” John stopped and turned back to face the receptionist he had just walked past. “Good evening - …” he trailed off, was it Maeve or Marley? He cleared his throat, and enquired about Elenas absence.
“She called in this morning to say she wasn’t coming in, something about a sick cat I think.”
John hesitated.
“Can I use the department landline for a quick call please, Marley?”
“Certainly doctor,” she stood to leave, picked up her empty coffee mug, and said “it’s Maeve.” before heading off toward the break room. John walked around the desk, sat in the chair which was far too small for a man of his stature, and dialed. The phone rang twice before she answered.
“Hiya Maeve, how you doing? If it’s about work I already told Diane this morning that -”
“Where is she?”
“Wait, what? John is that you? Where is who?”
“Lucy, where is Lucy?” he pressed.
“John? Who is Lucy?”
“Lucy, my cat, she’s a 3 legged tabby, I haven’t seen her in days”
“I thought you hated cats John?”
“Well technically she is my wife’s cat, but I need to know where she is.” There was a long silence at the other end of the phone.
“Your wife’s cat.”
Another long silence, this time on both ends of the phone. Shit, she hadn’t known.
“Your wife’s cat” Elena repeated, slow and drawn out, “what do you mean, your wife’s cat?”. The way Elena hissed the word ‘wife’ made John’s neck and shoulders tense.
“Look - Elena - it’s not that I was specifically lying to you, it’s just that - look, I mean, I was going to -” but he was talking to himself, she’d already hung up. He sat, phone still to his ear, motionless for 5, 10, then 15 seconds. Elena was going to his house to tell Sylvia about the affair, he was sure of it. That’s what all of these women were about at the moment, the ‘oppressed gender’, ‘girl power’, and sticking together. He’d never live this down at work if it came out. He scribbled something along the lines of ‘sick - gone home’ on the post-it note pad on the desk of whatever her name was, grabbed his things from his locker, and raced out of the building to his car.
***
Seemingly stopped by every single traffic light he passed, John’s mind was flooded. After Her father had died, Sylvia had used the inheritance to pay for the majority of the house so it was technically hers, but she couldn’t make him leave with nothing could she? He wished he had his phone to call ahead, but then, what would he say? ‘There is a crazy employee coming to the house to tell you we’ve been having an affair, don’t believe her’, like that wouldn’t be suspicious. One hundred possible scenarios were playing out his head at once - whichever way he looked at it he couldn’t see things working out well for him. His stomach rumbled and he honked his horn for the car in front of him to move - there had been a green light for almost a full minute. He overtook the car in front and accelerated.
He was almost at his street when it dawned on him; Elena didn’t know where he lived. She didn’t have his home phone number, or even know his wife’s name to look her up. The worry drained from his body like a plug had been pulled, and he let out a loud, delirious, triumphant laugh as he swung a wide left into his street - where he immediately had to emergency break. He almost hit it, a black and white cat, fluffy, like it was some particular breed an owner had paid a lot of money for. Continuing slowly down the road, he saw something on his front lawn, and his heart sank once again, refilling with dread. As he got closer he could make out what appeared to be a table, covered in cats of all colours. He parked in front of a house a few doors down from his own, and approached his garden cautiously on foot.
There were around ten cats, all with the correct number of legs. Lucy’s food bowl, now empty, was placed on top of John’s precious, 100% oak dining table, along side his phone and a piece of paper. Pushing the cats aside and stepping over a few as they scattered across the grass, John glanced at his phone, the delicate glass screen now shattered, and picked up the piece of paper.
I would have expected a surgeon to be smarter than to use a naked picture of the woman he is having an affair with for her contact photo, and to then leave their phone at home for their wife to answer when it rings. You cheating, lying, bastard; I am filing for divorce.
John thought of his swear jar, and said “Fuck.”.
