Chapter 9
NEIL
Half an hour after Luke leaves, I’m still trembling.
Back and forth, back and forth, pacing in front of the window, biting down on my nails.
I’m not even a fucking nail biter, but I’m still chewing them when I spy Luke exiting the club an hour later, shoulders hunched and hooded head down, swiftly striding away.
I nearly begged him to stay; he’s the small voice of reason in my head given life.
When he stood there, clutching my arm, for a brief fragment of time, he made it all sound so fucking achievable.
The pacing isn’t solving anything, but at least it gives my feet something to do whilst the rest of me tries to swallow the enormity of the steps I’m about to take. With Luke’s help.
Why him? Why, out of all the people I know—and there’s plenty of decent friends amongst them; my parents would be supportive too—is Luke the one I feel safe enough to unburden this shit onto?
He’s quiet, for sure, but he’s not soft.
Far from it. He’s just had the balls to call me out on my bullshit.
Not many would do that. Neither has he tried to fill me up with platitudes or false hope that my RP might not turn out as badly as, deep down, I’ve always known it would.
Even during the years I convinced myself I might dodge my fate.
And if he truly does pity me, then those innocent hazel eyes do a damn good job of hiding it.
His offer to help was heartfelt and sincere.
I don’t know how much it cost him, but he flicked that wristband and clenched and unclenched his fists as if he’d collapse if he didn’t.
If his mental health problems have been as bad as he hinted, then maybe I shouldn’t take him up on it.
I should have bottomed out the conversation.
Alaric and Isaac won’t thank me if his health deteriorates and it’s all down to my influence.
But maybe it’s not too late.
I give Luke another hour to get home and get settled, picturing him in his busy flat.
I didn’t spend much time studying it—too fucking wrapped up in my own drama, and my limited visual fields don’t let me surreptitiously sneak peaks out of the corner of my eye at anything.
Yet the warmth and cosiness seeped into me as if I had my hands wrapped around a mug of cocoa.
All the rich colours, patchwork throws, and exotic wall hangings felt like I’d escaped into another realm, calming me down almost as much as his reassuring capability with the accounts spreadsheet.
He has artistic flair; so many bright colours thrown together from different materials and different eras, but it kind of worked.
I text him at eleven o’clock, when I’m in bed myself. Unheard of for me, I’m usually last man standing at kick-out time. The steady pounding of the bass two floors down is hard to miss, but I’m used to it.
Hi. Sorry I shouted and got upset. It’s been difficult holding it all in for so long.
That was the first time I’ve let rip, and you didn’t deserve to be at the other end of it.
I’ve been thinking about your offer. It’s massively appreciated, but are you sure you are up to it?
You know, health wise? I don’t want to stress you.
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 trait in 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.
“That’s you,” Luke murmurs.
“Um, yeah.”
When I finally manage to stand, every eye in the room focuses on me (or tries to). Not unkind, just curious, in the same manner in which I’ve sized up all the others who’ve already gone in. Luke hesitates.
“Do you want me to wait out here for you? Go grab a coffee?”
Some responses take a while to form. Others are instinctive. “No.”
It’s the same specialist as last time. Thankfully, she acts as if we’re following on ten minutes from last week’s tests.
As if she doesn’t remember I turned a nasty shade of puce and scarpered.
Neither does she feel a need to torture me with the eye drops, then re-examine my eyes.
Instead, she gets straight to the point; maybe she’s worried I’ll fuck off again.
“You have an early cataract on the left, which is affecting your night vision and explains most of the glare when looking into bright light,” she begins.
A cataract? My granddad had cataracts. I thought they were just for old people.
“Do you drive?”
“Yes, but I don’t currently own a car. I live and work in central London.”
Nodding, she replies, “Legally, I have to advise you not to drive in low light. Though your acuity is still sufficient, strong sunlight may also be tricky.”
“So you advise me not to drive unless the light lies perfectly somewhere between the two.”
She smiles thinly. “The DVLA needs to be informed of your condition. And it may weight your car insurance premiums.”
I’ll never own a car again. I blink, nod, and remind myself to breathe. To make all the right noises. It’s a problem for an unspecified time in the future. I don’t have the bandwidth to analyse it now.
The doctor’s sympathetic gaze flicks to Luke, reasonably assuming we’re a couple. “The liaison officers can help you with eligibility forms for public transport discounts.”
That’s the least of my worries, but I should take what I can get.
Luke clears his throat. “Is the cataract surgically correctable?” It’s the first thing he’s said—the obvious question, not that I thought of it.
“Yes but we recommend holding off surgery until it seriously compromises your vision, Neil. All eye surgery carries risks to the retinae, so we want to avoid it wherever possible.”
She’s pushing on an open door. “Okay.”
Luke’s hands look relaxed and folded over each other in his lap, but I suspect he has his fingers around his wristband. “Is there a likelihood of other operations? In the future?”
Another good question, thank fuck one of us has a clear head.
All I’m managing to do is nod and grunt at the right moments.
I got the stuff she said about Vitamin A supplements and pulled an appropriately grave face at the pictures of my retinae.
I have encroaching bony spicules, whatever the fuck they are.
But when it comes to coming up with suitable responses, I’m a blank page.
“Yes,” she confirms. “Depending on disease progression. Medical blepharoplasties—what you might know as cosmetic eyelid lifts—usually help with prolonging what peripheral vision remains, and many people require vitrectomies when the vitreous part of the eye clouds over. We have Eylea injections to help with any macular degeneration and…”
As all the how soons and whens take over, my chest tightens.
Prolong, degenerate, progress. Encroach.
Luke supplies plenty of sensible follow-up questions and I hope to fuck he’s remembering the answers, because I’m taking in jack shit.
The consulting room feels way too stuffy.
Before I know it, I’m hyperventilating and calculating the distance between my seat and the door.
Out of nowhere, as if they already know the shape, warm fingers curl gently around mine.
“It’s a lot to take in,” Luke tells the doctor. He’s still holding my hand, softly squeezing. “So, to summarise: no treatment required now except for the acetazolamide tablets to reduce Neil’s macular pressures?”
“Exactly. And the vitamin supplements.” She smiles at him, wrapping things up.
“I’ll see you both again in a year. But you have an open appointment, so if you think things are deteriorating, phone my secretary.
And the eye clinic liaison officer will be in touch soon with advice regarding the practical side of things. ”
Out on the pavement I suck in a few lungsful of air, then light up a fag. “I know, I know,” I say, waving off Luke’s imminent protest. “I heard her. I’ve got to stop, for the good of my eyes. This is my last, I promise. I’ll buy some patches.”
“It’s your body. I’m not going to nag you.” From the hunch of his shoulders and how he’s glancing up and down the street as if searching for the quickest escape route, Luke’s confidence in the doctor’s consulting room is ebbing away.
“Will you nag me if I go for a drink in the pub over the road? I feel I need one.”
“No, but if it’s all right with you, I’ll give it a miss.”
“Is my company that dreadful?” I tease. “I wanted to treat you, given that you came out all this way. I really appreciate it. You were awesome. I mean, you’re going to have to explain everything all over again to me, ‘cos I was too busy trying not to pass out, but yeah, I actually feel a smidge better for going.”
“Good,” he says. “I’m pleased.”
I absorb his peaky, anxious face. “You don’t look it.”
“No, I am. I just feel utterly drained.” He fiddles with some hair under his hoodie, as if he’s curling it around his fingers. “I warned you. I’m a bit flaky.”
“Ha! No, you’re not. You’re a low-key super hero, Luke. And don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Dinner, then. This week, wherever and whenever suits you.”
I’ll be disappointed if he says no. He’s not my usual type by any stretch of the imagination but, strangely, he kind of does it for me. I treat him to my most winning smile. Eventually, I get a tiny one back.
“Yeah, okay. I’d like that.”