Mrs Morris Changes Lanes Read online

  “So, it’s Mrs Morris now, is it?” When the dentist spoke, she realised he was not Mr Allsop after all. His voice was deeper, richer, more resonant than her regular dentist’s. He was peering at her dental chart with as much interest as if he’d never seen anything like it. She hoped he knew what he was doing. Juliet recalled taking Jake to the local hospital after he’d damaged two toes in a school football game. As the doctor brought up Jake’s X-ray on his screen, Juliet had gasped in horror.

  “I may not be medically trained,” she ventured, “but I think you’ll find that’s a hand, not a foot.”

  The doctor had laughed it off.

  “Ay, yes, we have quite a few patients on our system named J Morris.”

  It was bad enough having three of them in her household. She had long regretted naming both her children to echo her own first initial. At first, she’d thought it cute, but soon realised it made her less unique. Throughout their education, every time she saw a school report with “J Morris” on the cover, her stomach had jolted, as if her own performance were under scrutiny. She’d given away her own name.

  Now Juliet seized the opportunity to speak before the dentist could fill her mouth with the inevitable surgical instruments. “Yes, Mrs Morris. Juliet Morris. Just in case you have any other Mrs Morrises on your system, ha-ha.”

  He didn’t reply. If this was a new dentist, she was not getting off to a very good start with him. How rude still to have his back to her. Where was Mr Allsop, anyway? Mr Allsop was the only dentist she’d seen for years. That was one reason she came here, because the practice always let you see the same dentist. Familiarity made her fear manageable. Better the dentist you know...

  The new dentist snapped on a fresh pair of blue rubber gloves from the box beside his keyboard and stretched his hands, scissoring his fingers to perfect their fit. Only after donning a new surgical mask did he finally turn to face her. Even then, he didn’t bother to get up. Instead, he propelled his stool on noiseless castors across the floor, using feet clad in distinctly unclinical midnight-blue suede shoes. He came to a halt at her side, looking pleased with his precise control of his vehicle.

  Resigning herself to her fate, Juliet clasped her hands across her stomach, resolving to remain dignified this time. On her previous visit, she’d gripped the arms of the chair, white-knuckled, throughout an extraction. Now she tried to imagine she was lying on a poolside lounger in Mediterranean sunshine. This would have been easier had she ever been to the Med, but the more familiar beach at Weston-super-Mare didn’t have the same therapeutic appeal.

  What a long time it seemed since her first solo trip as an adult to the dentist, when she was expecting Jake. She’d only gone to take advantage of the NHS’s free dental treatment for pregnant women.

  “I’ve heard pregnancy wrecks your teeth,” she’d said by way of apology when Mr Allsop detected several new cavities.

  “What, you mean unborn babies leach the calcium from their mothers’ teeth?” Mr Allsop had snorted with laughter. “That’s a popular misconception. It’s just that most pregnant ladies like to get everything done while it’s free. You wouldn’t believe how many pregnant patients tell me they haven’t been to the dentist since their schooldays.”

  “Really?” Juliet forced a laugh, trying to sound disbelieving. She didn’t return to Mr Allsop’s office until she was expecting Jessie.

  Now from her prone position, Juliet squinted down her nose to assess the new dentist. He was taller than Mr Allsop, and his shoulders and chest were broader and stronger. Handy for pinning down recalcitrant patients, she thought, and a more effective distraction than thinking about the seaside. She closed her eyes so as not to stare.

  There was something strangely familiar about him, as if she was seeing someone she knew outside of their usual context. She’d often mistaken a young person in the library for a friend of her kids before realising she only knew them from the supermarket checkout. Once, recognising their family GP in the local swimming pool, she’d been repulsed by Dr Parsons’s near-naked body with its flabby thighs and bulging tummy. It was like seeing a dentist with false teeth.

  “What can we do for you today, Mrs Morris?” the new dentist was asking. The way he said “Mrs Morris” reminded her of the gently sarcastic way that her high-school teachers had addressed cheeky pupils as Miss or Mr plus their surname. Miss Deaves, in Juliet’s case, although as one of the quieter ones in her class, she largely went unnoticed by the teachers.

  “I lost a filling this morning.”

  Juliet opened her mouth to show him, stiffening as he leaned in for a better look. As he inserted a metal probe with one hand and a tongue depressor with the other, Juliet couldn’t help but observe his deep brown eyes. She’d seen them somewhere before; those neat eyebrows, too, although they were bushier than she remembered. Men’s eyebrows did get bushier as they aged. Rob’s had, anyway.

  Juliet flinched as the dentist inserted the probe into the cavity.

  “Sensitive?” he asked gently. “Any pain?”

  “No,” she replied as well as she could with her mouth full. For it wasn’t the probe that had startled her. She’d just realised the last time these eyes like that had been so close to hers, the encounter had ended with a kiss.

  Thomas Jenkinson’s eyes! It had been over thirty years since she’d last seen him, on A Level results day.

  Juliet had been disappointed not to see Tom between their last day at school and that fateful day in August when his place at a distant university had been confirmed by his straight As. He hadn’t even hung around to celebrate, his parents whisking him away in their big posh car before she could sneak in a congratulatory hug. Her own results didn’t matter. She’d been offered more hours at the library, so that was her career sorted. There was no pay rise, as she had no professional qualifications, but the increase in hours took her to full-time equivalent, so it felt like a win. She may not be going anywhere, but she could sate her wanderlust through the pages of library books.

  Ever since, Juliet had berated herself for not pursuing her relationship with Tom before he moved away. Did it even count as a relationship? Gentle flirtation during their last term at school, with stolen glances at each other in the classroom, followed by a single kiss after a slow dance at the sixth-form disco. If only it hadn’t been raining...

  Although Tom’s flirtatious comments had ceased after she’d gone home in Rob’s car, she had still been aware of his longing gaze when he thought she wasn’t looking. She should have told him she’d only accepted Rob’s lift so that the rain wouldn’t ruin her new rope-soled wedge sandals. They had cost her a month’s wages. Not long after, she’d given the shoes to her younger sister.

  Next time the dentist touched her cavity, she managed to stay still.

  “So how did the old filling become dislodged?” His tone was so casual, he might as well have been asking where she was going for her holidays. (The answer would have been nowhere. Again.)

  “Muesli,” she replied quickly, having scrubbed her teeth extra hard before she left home to get rid of any incriminating evidence of chocolate.

  From the way his eyes crinkled, she guessed he was smiling behind his mask. Tom’s eyes used to crease like that when he smiled.

  “Excellent choice. Healthy and sustaining. I have porridge for breakfast every day myself. Stops my tummy rumbling in my patients’ ears.” He patted his stomach, taut beneath his mauve tunic. Dr Parsons could have done with a lesson from him. “Although I confess to croissants at the weekends, with fresh fruit in season. And prosecco, of course. Do you think prosecco counts as one of my five a day?”

  Juliet smiled around the probe. Could there be a more romantic breakfast? Shared with the right person, of course. She only ever bought croissants when they were reduced for quick sale, and they never fulfilled their promise. As for prosecco, Rob would want his in a pint mug.

  “Looks pretty straightforward to me, Mrs Morris,” the dentist was saying. “We’ll fix
that for you in no time. How would you feel if we numb the area first?”

  She was grateful that he avoided the word “injection” to make it less scary. Tom had always been considerate, too.

  “OK, yes, thank you.” Her voice came out shrill. She closed her eyes so as not to see the needle, trying to think of waves gently lapping at a Mediterranean beach of fine golden sand. Were there waves on the Mediterranean? She had a suspicion it wasn’t tidal.

  “Now, what I need you to do next is to concentrate on wiggling your toes.”

  How strange, thought Juliet. Maybe that makes the anaesthetic work faster. The foot bone’s connected to the leg bone, as in the old song, but did the nerves in her toes really run all the way to her jaw? Biology had never been her forte.

  “Keep wiggling those toes.” His masterful tone ensured she obeyed. Only after he had withdrawn the needle did she realise that the toe-wiggling routine was simply a psychological distraction from the needle. Tom always had been clever, too.

  After a few moments, the dentist checked the injection had been effective before picking up the drill and setting to work. As the nurse moved in with the vacuum, Juliet relived her memories of Tom and her regrets. Thinking about their one kiss diverted her as the filling took shape.

  When the dentist leaned closer to inspect his handiwork, she began to worry about how different she looked thirty years on from their last encounter. Even if this really was Tom Jenkinson, he probably wouldn’t recognise her. Her surname wasn’t the only thing about her that had changed since their schooldays. Around her once slender midriff clung a thick layer of fat, which Rob jokingly called her life-preserver. Might her stomach look flatter while she was lying down in the dentist’s chair? Would gravity make the surplus flesh fall back against the seat, like a resting beanbag?

  Gravity could also be kind to her face. Horizontal, she might look like the after-shot of a facelift. She wished Jessie had got round to doing that eyebrow shape she kept promising.

  “There we are, Mrs Morris, all done!” With a forefinger, the dentist gave the gentlest caress to her cheek. His first medically unnecessary touch made Juliet shiver with pleasure. At least she still had her high cheekbones. Her friend Maisie had always envied them.

  The dentist cleared his throat. “Now, don’t eat on that side for the next two hours.” He glanced at the wall clock. “So not before 3pm. I hope that’s not going to scupper your plans for a hot lunch date, Mrs Morris?”

  His eyes twinkled above his mask.

  Juliet pictured Rob, sitting in his work van, chewing his packed lunch with his mouth open.

  As she replied, her numb upper jaw made her slur her words. “The closest thing I’ve got to a hot date this afternoon is to take my husband’s car to be repaired.”

  Their car really, but like everything they owned, it was registered in Rob’s name. He preferred it that way, and she preferred to avoid arguments.

  Inwardly, she cursed herself for letting slip she had a husband. Although the dentist had addressed her as Mrs, for all he knew, she might be widowed or divorced. Not that she considered herself available. She’d made her marital bed and she would lie on it, lumpy and uncomfortable though it may be.

  The dentist pressed the floor pedal to raise the back of the chair to vertical. Juliet swung her legs round to place her feet on the floor, slightly dizzy from the sudden change of position. As she held on to the arm of the chair to steady herself, she became aware that the dentist was watching her surreptitiously, just as Tom had done all those years ago in the classroom. Pretending not to notice, she stood up, put on her coat, fumbled with her bag and dropped her keys on the floor. Without looking at the dentist again, she picked them up and headed for the door, mumbling her gratitude.

  Just before she left the room, the dentist spoke again.

  “Bye, Gems, take care.”

  Gems, the more flattering nickname Tom Jenkinson had given her at school, aware that she hated Jools. Once, when she wasn’t looking, he had graffitied on the cover of her rough notebook: “Jools > Jewels > Gems”, illustrated with a line drawing of a huge multi-faceted diamond.

  When Juliet turned to reply, the dentist was already at his computer, his back to her once more, summoning up his next patient’s records. Had she imagined that last comment? Dental treatment always did make her feel a bit odd, almost out-of-body.

  She stumbled down the stairs to settle the bill at reception, where the air was thick with the lingering aroma of disinfectant, but it was the new dentist’s expensive cologne that held her senses in thrall.

  3 Mrs Dent

  “Look out, lads, it’s Mrs Dent!”

  Juliet usually took the mechanics’ teasing nickname in good heart. Responding with a wry smile was easier than telling them who was really responsible for the damage that made her their most frequent customer. It wasn’t as if anyone important was within range to hear them.

  But today, still numb from the dental anaesthetic, she didn’t want to smile for fear of frightening them with her half-paralysed face. Her lopsided look might make them think she’d had a stroke and leap on her to apply first aid. She hoped the lack of feeling wouldn’t make her drool. Jools to rhyme with drools, said an annoying voice in her head.

  As she reversed neatly into the parking bay closest to the mechanics’ workshop, light raindrops dappled the windscreen. She slipped the gearstick into neutral.

  “I’m an excellent driver,” she said to herself, engaging the handbrake.

  She often wanted to say this to Rob during his running commentaries on the faults in her driving. She’d never had a motoring accident, nor even touched an unintended object with her bumper. But she knew he’d simply retort, “Yeah, so was Rain Man.”

  They’d seen the film on a date before they were married. She’d chosen it to appeal to him, as it featured a fancy car and a road-trip, but Rob had completely missed its point, aligning himself with the young Tom Cruise before he saw the light about his autistic brother.

  She switched off the engine, but before getting out of the car, she glanced in the rear-view mirror. The anaesthetic had now reached her temple, causing the odd tear to leak out and smudge her mascara. She licked a forefinger and ran it under each eye. Then, grabbing her handbag, she braced herself to face the mischievous mechanics.

  Or Santa’s elves, as she liked to think of them, to make them seem less threatening. The analogy was obvious. Dave, their boss, had a long beard and hair of astonishing whiteness for a man who spent his days in an atmosphere redolent of motor oil. Juliet secretly wondered whether he used the purple shampoo her grey-haired friends raved about, and which reminded her of the Reckitt’s Blue Bags her grandma used in her old twin-tub. She touched her fading hair. She’d need purple shampoo herself soon.

  Dave’s beard fell in soft waves almost to his navel, making Juliet wonder whether he plaited it before bed, as she used to do to Jessie’s hair when she was little. It was fun unleashing the neat zigzags every morning.

  As she headed for the office to drop off Rob’s car key, Dave came out to meet her on the forecourt, sparing her from entering the mechanics’ lair. Juliet felt rude for not returning Dave’s welcoming smile, but her paralysed cheek would not cooperate.

  “Hello, hello,” he said cheerily, greeting her with the familiarity of an old friend. Juliet couldn’t remember when Rob had first introduced her to Dave or how he had found out about his service, tucked away off the main drag here, but she felt as if he’d always been a part of their lives. Dave was seventy if he was a day, but he seemed the type who would never retire.

  As Juliet opened her mouth to return his greeting, the tingling in her lips suggested she’d be unable to speak clearly, so she decided to keep conversation to the minimum.

  “Hello, Dave.” She raised a hand to the numb side of her face. To her embarrassment, a tear fell on her fingertip. She brushed it away, hoping to pass it off as a raindrop.

  Dave’s voice was as gentle as his beard w
as soft.

  “You don’t want to take any notice of my lads. Just tell me what the trouble is, and I’ll have it fixed for you in no time.”

  “The trouble?”

  “The damage. To the car.”

  He stroked the tip of his white beard, as if encouraging it to grow even longer. Juliet wondered whether his beard ever became entangled in car engines. Perhaps he should keep it out of harm’s way in a hairnet, like the young man behind the counter of the local bakery.

  Unnerved by her silence, Dave tried again.

  “Another accident, or something else this time?”

  Juliet chose her words carefully to avoid lisping.

  “A broken rear lamp, actually. Back left.”

  Dave nodded sympathetically. “I suppose it was the turn of the nearside rear. At least you’ll have a nice new lamp now to match the other three. You’re nothing if not fair-minded, Mrs Dent.”

  His hand flew to his mouth in remorse for using the mechanics’ disrespectful nickname. Any other day, Juliet would have waved away his error, but now, with both her tongue and upper lip devoid of sensation, she felt no responsibility for the words they formed and began to speak her mind.

  “Why does no-one ever use my proper name these days?” As she said it, she realised she had lost all feeling in the tip of her tongue. How could the effect of the anaesthetic still be increasing? In another hour, she was meant to be able to eat and drink again. “And by the way, if I am Mrs Dent, it’s only because I stupidly married Mr Dent. No, make that Lord Dent, master of reckless driving, who blames all his stupid accidents on me. Surely you must have realised by now that my husband is responsible for this broken lamp, and all the other damage that he makes me bring to you for repair. It’s bad enough wasting my day off hanging around in town while you fix it, without having to bear the blame for the wreckage as well. I’m an excellent driver, and I have a clean record to prove it.”

  Dave raised his hands to stem her indignation.

  “That’s fine, love, I believe you. You don’t need to show me your driving licence to convince me.”