The Private Patient (2 page)

3

The cab ride was quicker than she had expected. She arrived too early at Harley Street and asked the driver to stop at the Marylebone Road end of the street, then walked to her appointment. As on the rare occasions when she had passed this way, she was struck by the street's emptiness, the almost uncanny calm which hung over these formal eighteenth-century terraces. Almost every door bore a brass plate with a list of names confirming what surely every Londoner would know, that this was the hub of medical expertise. Somewhere behind these gleaming front doors and discreetly curtained windows, patients must be waiting in various stages of anxiety, apprehension, hope or despair, yet she seldom saw any of them arriving or departing. The occasional tradesman or messenger would come and go, but otherwise the street could have been an empty film set, awaiting the arrival of director, cameraman and players.

Arriving at the door, she studied the panel of names. There were two surgeons and three physicians, and the name she expected to see was there at the top. Mr. G. H. Chandler-Powell, FRCS, FRCS (Plast), MS—the last two letters which proclaimed that a surgeon had reached the summit of expertise and reputation. Master of Surgery. It had, she thought, a fine ring to it. The barber-surgeons awarded their licences by Henry VIII would be surprised to know how far they had come.

The door was opened by a serious-faced young woman in a white coat cut to compliment her figure. She was attractive but not disconcertingly so, and her brief welcoming smile was more minatory than warm. Rhoda thought,
Head girl. Girl Guide patrol leader. There was one
in every sixth form.

The waiting room into which she was shown so matched her expectations that momentarily she had the impression that she had been there before. It managed to achieve a certain opulence while containing nothing of real quality. The large central mahogany table, with its copies of
Country Life, Horse and Hound
and the more upmarket women's magazines so carefully aligned as to discourage reading, was impressive but not elegant. The assorted chairs, some upright, others more comfortable, looked as if they had been acquired in a country-house sale but had seldom been used. The hunting prints were large and undistinguished enough to inhibit theft and she doubted whether the two high-baluster vases on the mantelpiece were genuine.

None of the patients except herself gave any clue to the particular expertise they required. As always, she was able to observe them knowing that no curious eyes would be fixed for long on her. They glanced up as she entered but there were no brief nods of acknowledgement. To become a patient was to relinquish a part of oneself, to be received into a system which, however benign, subtly robbed one of initiative, almost of will. They sat, patiently acquiescent, in their private worlds. A middle-aged woman, a child in the chair beside her, gazed expressionlessly into space. The child, bored, restless-eyed, began gently knocking her feet against the chair legs until, without looking at her, the woman put out a restraining hand. Opposite them, a young man who looked in his formal suit the epitome of a City financier took the
Financial Times
from his briefcase and, unfolding it with practised expertise, concentrated his attention on the page. A fashionably dressed woman moved silently to the table and studied the magazines, then, rejecting the choice, returned to her seat next to the window and continued her stare at the empty street.

Rhoda was not kept waiting for long. The same young woman who had let her in came over to her, speaking softly and saying that Mr. Chandler-Powell could see her now. With his speciality, discretion obviously started in the waiting room. She was shown into a large, light room across the hall. The two tall double windows facing the street were curtained in heavy linen with white, almost transparent net softening the winter sunlight. The room had none of the furniture or equipment she had half expected, a drawing room rather than an office. An attractive lacquer screen decorated with a rural scene of meadows, river and distant mountains stood in the angle to the left of the door. It was obviously old, possibly eighteenth-century. Perhaps, she thought, it concealed a washbasin or even a couch, although this seemed unlikely. It was difficult to imagine anyone taking his or her clothes off in this domestic if opulent setting. There were two armchairs, one each side of the marble fireplace, and a mahogany pedestal desk facing the door, two upright chairs before it. The only oil picture was over the mantelpiece, a large painting of a Tudor house with an eighteenth-century family carefully grouped in front of it, the father and two sons mounted, the wife and three young daughters in a phaeton. On the opposite wall was a row of coloured prints of eighteenth-century London. They and the oil added to her sense of being subtly out of time.

Mr. Chandler-Powell had been sitting at the desk and, as she entered, he rose and came to shake her hand, indicating one of the two chairs. His grasp was firm but momentary, his hand cool. She had expected him to be wearing a dark suit. Instead he was in very pale grey fine tweed, beautifully cut, which paradoxically gave a greater impression of formality. Facing him, she saw a strong bony face with a long mobile mouth and bright hazel eyes under well-marked brows. His brown hair, straight and a little unruly, was brushed over a high forehead, a few strands falling almost into his right eye. The immediate impression he gave was of confidence and she recognised it at once: a patina which had something, but not everything, to do with success. It was different from the confidence with which as a journalist she was familiar: celebrities, their eyes always avid for the next photographer, at the ready to assume the right stance; nonentities who seemed to know that their notoriety was a concoction of the media, a transitory fame which only their desperate self-belief could maintain. The man before her had the inner assurance of someone at the top of his profession, secure, inviolable. She detected, too, a hint of arrogance not altogether successfully concealed, but told herself that this could be prejudice. Master of Surgery. Well, he looked the part.

“You come, Miss Gradwyn, without a letter from your GP.” It was stated as a fact, not a reproach. His voice was deep and attractive but with a trace of a country accent which she couldn't identify and hadn't expected.

“It seemed a waste of his time and mine. I registered with Dr. Macintyre's practice about eight years ago as an NHS patient, and I have never needed to consult either him or any of his partners. I only go to the surgery twice a year to have my blood pressure taken. That's usually done by the practice nurse.”

“I know Dr. Macintyre. I'll have a word with him.”

Without speaking he came up to her, turning the desk lamp so that its bright beam shone full on her face. His fingers were cool as they touched the skin on each cheek, pinching it into folds. The touch was so impersonal that it seemed an insult. She wondered why he hadn't disappeared behind the screen to wash his hands, but perhaps, if he considered it necessary for this preliminary appointment, this had been done before she entered the room. There was a moment in which, not touching the scar, he scrutinised it in silence. Then he switched off the light and sat again behind the desk. His eyes on the file before him, he said, “How long ago was this done?”

She was struck by the phrasing of the question. “Thirty-four years ago.”

“How did it happen?”

She said, “Is that a necessary question?”

“Not unless it was self-inflicted. I assume it wasn't.”

“No, it wasn't self-inflicted.”

“And you have waited thirty-four years to do something about it. Why now, Miss Gradwyn?”

There was a pause; then she said, “Because I no longer have need of it.”

He didn't reply, but the hand making notes in the file was for a few seconds stilled. Looking up from his papers, he said, “What are you expecting from this operation, Miss Gradwyn?”

“I should like the scar to disappear, but I realise that's impossible. I suppose what I'm hoping for is a thin line, not this wide sunken cicatrice.”

He said, “I think with the help of some makeup it could be almost invisible. After surgery, if necessary, you can be referred to a CC nurse for cosmetic camouflage. These nurses are very skilled. It's surprising what can be done.”

“I'd prefer not to have to use camouflage.”

“Very little or none may be necessary, but it's a deep scar. As I expect you know, the skin is layered, and it will be necessary to open up and reconstruct those layers. For a time after the operation the scar will look red and raw, a great deal worse before it gets better. We'll need to deal, too, with the effect on the naso-labial fold, that small droop of the lip, and the top of the scar where it pulls down the corner of the eye. At the finish I shall use a fat injection to plump up and correct any contour irregularities. But when I see you the day before the operation, I shall explain in more detail what I propose to do and show you a diagram. The operation will be done under a general anaesthetic. Have you ever been anaesthetised?”

“No, this will be my first time.”

“The anaesthetist will see you before the operation. There are some tests I would like done, including blood tests and an ECG, but I would prefer those to be carried out at St. Angela's. The scar will be photographed before and after the operation.”

She said, “The injection of fat you mentioned—what kind of fat?”

“Yours. Harvested by syringing it from your stomach.”

Of course, she thought, a silly question.

He said, “When were you thinking of having it done? I have private beds at St. Angela's, or you could come to Cheverell Manor, my clinic in Dorset, if you prefer to be out of London. The earliest date I can offer you this year is Friday the fourteenth of December. That would have to be at the Manor. You would be one of only two patients at that time, as I shall be running down the clinic for the Christmas break.”

“I'd prefer to be out of London.”

“Mrs. Snelling will take you to the office after this consultation. My secretary there will give you a brochure about the Manor. How long you stay there is up to you. The stitches will probably come out on the sixth day, and very few patients need or wish to stay post-operative for more than a week. If you do decide on the Manor, it's helpful if you can find time for a preliminary visit either for a day or overnight. I like patients to see where they're to be operated on if they can spare the time. It's disconcerting to arrive at a totally strange place.”

She said, “Is the wound likely to be painful—after the operation, I mean?”

“No, it's unlikely to be painful. A little sore perhaps, and there may be considerable swelling. If there is pain we can deal with it.”

“A bandage over my face?”

“Not a bandage. A dressing which will be taped.”

There was one more question and she had no inhibition in asking it, although she thought she knew the answer. She wasn't asking out of fear and hoped that he would understand this without greatly caring if he didn't. “Would this be described as a dangerous operation?”

“There is always some risk with a general anaesthetic. As far as the surgery is concerned, it will be time-consuming, delicate and likely to present some problems. Those will be my responsibility, not yours. It would not be described as surgically dangerous.”

She wondered whether he was implying that there might be other dangers, psychological problems arising from a complete alteration in appearance. She didn't expect any. She had coped with the implications of the scar for thirty-four years. She would cope with its disappearance.

He had asked whether she had any other questions. She said she had none. He rose and they shook hands, and for the first time he smiled. It transformed his face. He said, “My secretary will send you the dates when I can fit you in at St. Angela's for the tests. Will that present a problem? Will you be in London in the next two weeks?”

“I'll be in London.”

She followed Mrs. Snelling into an office at the rear of the ground floor, where a middle-aged woman gave her a brochure about the facilities at the Manor and set out the cost, both of the preparatory visit—which, she explained, Mr. Chandler-Powell thought would be helpful to patients but which wasn't, of course, obligatory—and the greater cost of the operation and a week's post-operative stay. She had expected the price to be high, but the reality was beyond her estimate. No doubt the figures represented a social rather than a medical advantage. She seemed to remember overhearing a woman say, “Of course, I always go to the Manor,” as if this admitted her to a coterie of privileged patients. She knew she could have the operation under the NHS, but there was a waiting list for non-urgent cases and she needed privacy. Speed and privacy, in all fields, had become an expensive luxury.

She was shown out within half an hour of arriving. There was an hour to spare before she was due at The Ivy. She would walk.

4

The Ivy was too popular a restaurant to ensure anonymity, but social discretion, in all other areas important to her, had never worried her where Robin was concerned. In an age when notoriety required increasingly scandalous indiscretions, even the most desperate gossip page would hardly waste a paragraph on the disclosure that Rhoda Gradwyn, the distinguished journalist, was lunching with a man twenty years younger than herself. She was used to him; he amused her. He opened up for her areas of life which she needed, however vicariously, to experience. And she was sorry for him. It was hardly the basis for intimacy and on her part there was none. He confided; she listened. She supposed that she must be gaining some satisfaction from the relationship or why was she still willing to let him appropriate even a restricted area of her life? When she thought about the friendship, which was seldom, it seemed a habit which imposed no more arduous obligations than an occasional lunch or dinner at her expense, and which it would be more time-consuming and awkward to end than to continue.

He was waiting for her, as always, at his favourite table by the door, which she had booked, and as she entered she was able to observe him for half a minute before he raised his eyes from studying the menu and saw her. She was struck, as she always was, by his beauty. He himself seemed unconscious of it, yet it was difficult to believe that anyone so solipsistic could be unaware of the prize which genes and fate had bestowed on him or fail to take advantage of it. To an extent he had, but seeming hardly to care. She had always found it difficult to believe what experience had taught her, that men and women could be physically beautiful without also possessing some comparable qualities of mind and spirit, that beauty could be wasted on the mundane, the ignorant or the stupid. It was his looks, she suspected, which had helped gain Robin Boyton his place at drama school, his first engagements, his brief appearance in a television serial, which promised much but ended after three episodes. Nothing ever lasted. Even the most indulgent or susceptible producer or director eventually became frustrated at lines not learnt, rehearsals not attended. When the acting failed, he pursued a number of imaginative initiatives, some of which might have succeeded had his enthusiasm lasted for more than six months. She had resisted his blandishments to invest in any of them and he took refusals without resentment. But refusals had never prevented him from trying again.

He got to his feet as she approached the table and, holding her hand, kissed her decorously on the cheek. She saw that the bottle of Meursault—for which she, of course, would pay—was already in the cooler, a third of it drunk.

He said, “Lovely to see you, Rhoda. How did you get on with the great George?”

They never used endearments. Once he had called her “darling” but it was not a word he had ever dared to repeat. She said, “The great George? Is that what they call Chandler-Powell at Cheverell Manor?”

“Not to his face. You look remarkably calm after your ordeal, but then you always do. What happened? I've been sitting here avid with anxiety.”

“Nothing happened. He saw me. He looked at my face. We made an appointment.”

“Didn't he impress you? He usually does.”

“His appearance is impressive. I wasn't with him long enough to make a character assessment. He seemed competent. Have you ordered?”

“Do I ever before you arrive? But I've concocted an inspired menu for both of us. I know what you like. I've been more imaginative than usual about the wine.”

Studying the wine list, she saw that he had been imaginative also about the cost.

They had hardly started on their first course when he introduced what was for him the purpose of the meeting. He said, “I'm looking for some capital. Not much, a few grand. It's a first-rate investment opportunity, small risk—well, none, really—and a guaranteed return. Jeremy estimates about ten per cent per annum. I wondered if you'd be interested.”

He described Jeremy Coxon as his business partner. Rhoda doubted whether he had ever been more than that. She had only met him once and had found him garrulous but harmless and not without sense. If he had any influence over Robin it was probably for the good.

She said, “I'm always interested in a no-risk investment with a guaranteed return of ten per cent. I'm surprised you're not oversubscribed. What is it, this business you're involved in with Jeremy?”

“The same as I told you about when we had dinner in September. Well, things have moved on since then, but you remember the basic idea? It's really mine, not Jeremy's, but we've worked on it together.”

“You mentioned that you and Jeremy Coxon were thinking of setting up some classes on etiquette for the newly rich who are socially insecure. Somehow I can't see you as a teacher—or indeed as an expert on etiquette.”

“I mug it up from books. It's surprisingly easy. And Jeremy is the expert, so he has no trouble.”

“Couldn't your social incompetents get it from books themselves?”

“I suppose they could, but they like the human touch. We give them confidence. That's what they're paying for. Rhoda, we've identified a real market opportunity. A lot of young people—well, young men mainly, and not only the rich—worry that they don't know what to wear for particular occasions, what to do if they're taking a girl out to a good restaurant for the first time. They're unsure about how to behave in company, how to impress the boss. Jeremy has this house in Maida Vale which he bought with the money a rich aunt left him, so we're using it at present. We have to be discreet, of course. Jeremy isn't sure it can legitimately be used for business. We live in fear of the neighbours. One of the ground-floor rooms is set up as a restaurant and we use play-acting. After a bit, when they've got confidence, we take the clients to a genuine restaurant. Not this place, but others not too downmarket which give us special rates. The clients pay, of course. We're doing pretty well and the business is growing, but we need another house, or at least a flat. Jeremy is fed up with giving up virtually his ground floor and having these odd characters turning up when he wants to entertain his friends. And then there's the office. He's had to adapt one of the bedrooms for that. He's getting three-quarters of the profits because of the house, but I know he feels it's time I paid him my share. Obviously we can't use my place. You know what the flat's like, hardly the ambiance we're looking for. Anyway, I may not be there for long. The landlord's becoming very disobliging about the rent. Once we get a separate address we'll be forging ahead. Well, what do you think, Rhoda? Interested?”

“Interested in hearing about it. Not interested in parting with any money. But it could succeed. It's more reasonable than most of your previous enthusiasms. Anyway, good luck.”

“So the answer's no.”

“The answer's no.” She added on impulse, “You must wait for my will. I prefer to dispose of my charity after death. It's easier to contemplate parting with money when you'll have no further use for it yourself.”

She had left him twenty thousand pounds in her will, not sufficient to finance one of his more eccentric enthusiasms but enough to ensure that relief at being left anything would survive disappointment at the amount. It gave her pleasure to watch his face. She felt a small regret, too close to shame to be comfortable, that she had mischievously provoked and was enjoying his first flush of surprise and pleasure, the gleam of greed in his eyes and then the swift descent into realism. Why had she bothered merely to confirm once again what she already knew about him?

He said, “You've definitely decided on Cheverell Manor, not one of Chandler-Powell's private beds at St. Angela's?”

“I prefer to be out of London, where there's a greater chance of peace and privacy. I'm making a preliminary overnight stay on the twenty-seventh. Apparently that's on offer. He likes his patients to be familiar with the place before he operates.”

“He likes the money, too.”

“So do you, Robin, so don't be censorious.”

Keeping his eyes on his plate, he said, “I'm thinking of visiting the Manor while you're in residence. I thought you'd welcome a gossip. Convalescence is madly boring.”

“No, Robin, I won't welcome a gossip. I booked into the Manor specifically to ensure I'll be left alone. I imagine the staff there will see to it that I'm undisturbed. Isn't that the whole purpose of the place?”

“That's rather grudging of you, considering I recommended the Manor to you. Would you be going there if it weren't for me?”

“As you're not a doctor and have never had cosmetic surgery, I'm not sure what your recommendation would be worth. You have mentioned the Manor occasionally, but that's all. I had already heard of George Chandler-Powell. As he's recognised as one of the six best plastic surgeons in England, probably in Europe, and cosmetic surgery is becoming as fashionable as health farms, that's hardly surprising. I looked him up, compared his record, took expert advice and chose him. But you haven't told me what your connection is with Cheverell Manor. I'd better know in case I mention casually that I know you and am met with stony stares and relegation to the worst bedroom.”

“That could happen. I'm not exactly their favourite visitor. I don't actually stay in the house—that would be going a bit far for both parties. They've got a cottage for visitors, Rose Cottage, and I book in there. I have to pay, too, which I think is a bit much. They don't even send over the food. I don't usually get a vacancy in summer but they can hardly claim the cottage isn't free in December.”

“You said you were some kind of relation.”

“Not of Chandler-Powell. His surgical assistant, Marcus Westhall, is my cousin. He assists with the operations and looks after the patients when the great George is in London. Marcus lives there with his sister, Candace, in the other cottage. She helps in the office. I'm their only living relation. You'd have thought that that would mean something to them.”

“And it doesn't?”

“I'd better tell you some family history, if it won't bore you. It goes back a long way. I'll try to make it brief. It's about money, of course.”

“It usually is.”

“It's a sad, sad story about a poor orphan boy who's thrown penniless on the world. It's a pity to wrench your heart with it now. I wouldn't like salt tears to fall into your delicious dressed crab.”

“I'll take the risk. It's as well to know something about the place before I go.”

“I wondered what lay behind this invitation to lunch. If you want to go prepared, you've come to the right person. Well worth the cost of a good meal.”

He spoke without rancour but his smile was amused. She reminded herself that it was never prudent to underestimate him. He had never before spoken to her about his family history or his past. For a man so ready to communicate the minutiae of his daily existence, his small triumphs and more common failures in love and business, recounted usually with humour, he was remarkably unforthcoming about his early life. Rhoda suspected that his childhood might have been deeply unhappy and that this early trauma, from which no one totally recovers, could be at the root of his insecurity. Since she had no intention of responding to confidences with a reciprocal candour, his was a life she had had no compulsion to explore. But there were things about Cheverell Manor which it would be useful to know in advance. She would come to the Manor as a patient and, for her, this implied vulnerability and a certain physical and emotional subservience. To arrive unbriefed was to put oneself at a disadvantage from the start.

She said, “Tell me about your cousins.”

“They're comfortably off, at least by my standards, and about to be very rich by anyone's standards. Their father, my Uncle Peregrine, died nine months ago and left them about eight million between them. He inherited from his father, Theodore, who died only a few weeks before him. The family fortune came from him. You have probably heard of T. R. Westhall's
Latin Primer
and
First Steps in Learning
Greek
—something like that anyway. I didn't come across them myself, I wasn't at that kind of school. Anyway, textbooks, if they become standard, hallowed by long use, are amazingly good earners. Never out of print. And the old man was good with money. He had the knack of making it grow.”

Rhoda said, “I'm surprised there's so much for your cousins to inherit with two deaths so close together, father and grandfather. The death duties must have been horrendous.”

“Old Grandfather Theodore had thought of that. I told you he was clever with money. He took out some form of insurance before his last illness started. Anyway, the money's there. They'll get it as soon as probate is granted.”

“And you'd like a part of it.”

“Frankly, I think I deserve a part of it. Theodore Westhall had two children, Peregrine and Sophie. Sophie was my mother. Her marriage to Keith Boyton was never popular with her father; in fact, I believe he tried to stop it. He thought Keith was a gold-digging indolent nonentity who was only after the family money, and to be honest he probably wasn't far wrong. Poor Mummy died when I was seven. I was brought up—well, it was more like being dragged around—by my dad. Anyway, in the end he gave up and dumped me into that Dotheboys Hall of a boarding school. An improvement on Dickens, but not much. A charity paid the fees, such as they were. It was no school for a pretty boy, particularly one with the label
charity child
hung round his neck.”

He was grasping his wineglass as if it were a grenade, his knuckles white. For a moment Rhoda feared that it would shatter in his hand. Then he loosened his grip, smiled at her and raised the glass to his lips. He said, “From the time of Mummy's marriage, the Boytons were cut off from the family. The Westhalls never forget and they never forgive.”