Page 61 of Anything but Easy
“Oh, I –”
“’Bout your size too. Can talk the hind legs off a donkey. Tiny dynamos the pair of you. But neither of you are very good at lying.”
Chapter 24
A life with no Kira
Kira
“Yo, SB!” I shouted and waved as I made my way to him across the foyer of the Houses of Commons. Yes – me, Kira Murphy, in the Houses of Parliament. I’d kind of assumed I could drop my package off for Barclay at some sort of reception, but I had instead been ushered through to the inner sanctum of this place. I was blown away. This building was seriously cool! High ceilings, ornate, massive light fittings, carved panelling on the walls – I loved it.
The whole ushering thing might have had something to do with the press pack that had followed me there from Barclay’s house. The buggers. It seemed to wind the door people up to have the paparazzi swarming around the entrance.
I was getting used to the press by now, but they had their drawbacks. My policy was endless tea. I had bought a couple of those hot water dispensers and set them up outside Barclay’s house, leaving a tray stocked with cups, tea bags, instant coffee and milk, to save me always carting everything back and forth. And I brought them out biscuits every day. Even Jammie Dodgers and the good chocolate digestives, not the just Tesco’s own brand. Barclay thought I was nuts. Sam also thought I was nuts, which was fair. But Mum always says you catch more flies with honey than vinegar. How much more sex doctor stuff could they print about me if I was providing them with tea and branded biscuits?
As I made my way over to him, and took in how vast and ornate my surroundings were, I started to feel intimidated. I had thought this would be a great idea. In the two weeks since my run-in with Simon I’d hardly seen Barclay in daylight hours. The new bill for the unions was about to go through parliament and he had been working non-stop. So, I’d decided to go to him. Plus, I’d been feeling anxious and jumpy since the Simon thing, almost a little out of it, if I was honest. All very out of character for me. I needed something to help me get back to myself and I was determined to shake off this sick, fearful feeling.
“Kira?” Barclay’s eyebrows shot up as he saw me. I decided to interpret this as Delighted Surprise and skipped over to him and his colleagues. Mary, the lovely older lady who I’d met at the Black and White ball greeted me with a warm smile. She was standing next to a younger man whom I also thought I recognised. Both of them wearing suits and looking immaculate. I wasnotwearing a suit. No, I was wearing short dungarees over a rainbow t-shirt and I had UGGs on my feet. Not a fashion triumph, as Mark would say, andmaybenot appropriate for the Houses of Parliament. However, I’d been more inappropriately dressed in worse circumstances before (difficult to believe, but it was true), so I shook off any worry and grinned at Barclay in all his tailored perfection glory as I approached.
Barclay, who seemed to have frozen to the spot in shock, scanned my appearance from my face to my feet then let out a huff of air, which sounded half laugh and half exasperation. After giving him a light punch on the arm, I focused back on the chap I thought I recognised. I frowned at him for a moment before my mouth dropped open in shock.
“You!” I exclaimed, my volume control not quite what it should have been, given my surprise. But it wasn’t every day you came face to face with the current Health Secretary. My mind was going crazy with all the information I had stored up that I wanted to discuss with this guy: the need for better working conditions for junior doctors and nursing staff, the privatisation of the NHS and what a huge mistake that would be, the lack of funding for sexual health services (such a short-sighted move in terms of saving money in real terms). But I decided to focus on the one thing that had infuriated me the most over the last few months. Passion for my cause and a determination to shake off the anxiety I’d been carrying around overcame my intimidation at my surroundings and the man in front of me. “You. Youhaveto immunise the kids against genital warts.”
Mr Health Secretary had been wearing a benign expression, but at this it morphed into one of open confusion. Okay, so an opening line about genital warts was a bold choice, but his policy was a huge mistake. Somebody had to tell him. Right?
“Do you have any idea how many warts I freeze in clinic every week? Men and women’s bits and bobs resemble cauliflowers in severe cases. It can worsen in pregnancy. Imagine being nine months pregnant and growing a veritable vegetable patch where your perfect lady garden should be. It ruins lives, and if you were to fund the combined vaccine and not just the HPV one, and give it to girlsandboys, it would be an entirely preventable condition.”
“I–I . . .” he stuttered to a stop and after some effort managed to close his mouth.
“Wartsmatter, people,” I put in, addressing all of the assembled audience now (we had drawn quite a crowd).
“Er, Barclay, old chap,” the Health Secretary said, not taking his eyes off me as if I was a dangerous animal liable to pounce on him at any moment. “There is a young woman next to you talking to me about warts and . . .lady gardens. What is happening?”
Barclay sighed and rubbed between his eyes.
“Yes, Duncan, yes there is,” he said, looking up to meet the other man’s eyes now and dropping his hand from his face. “But I’ve looked into that policy since Kira mentioned it to the press a few weeks ago and you’ve got admit, she might be outspoken, but she’s right. Have another look at it. Good day gentleman, Mary.” He turned away from the group, took my arm in a gentle hold and guided me away from the group of now openly staring MPs.
“What are you doing here?” he asked. I gave his colleagues a little wave over my shoulder. Barclay tightened his hold and quickened his pace. He drew me into a corridor and then through one of the doors, closing it behind him. I took a look around and frowned.
“Is this your office?” I asked. I’d expected something a lot grander than the cramped, flat-packed furniture filled space he’d led me to.
He let out another half-laugh. “This isn’t the White House, Kira. I think you’ve watched too muchWest Wing. In England they give MPs glorified cubicles. Now, you haven’t told me why you’re here.”
He was using his Stern Voice – the one he usually reserved for when I chatted openly with the press (especially after I set up the tea stand for them; that day he’d used the Super Stern Voice of Doom). Problem was that I found his Stern Voice a bit of a turn on, so it was, in general, rather ineffective. I had no idea why he was using it now.
“I brought you lunch,” I told him, waving theFrozenlunch box Rosie had rejected and let me steal last year. Barclay stared at the lunch box I was jiggling in my hand and frowned like its existence was an assault to his eyeballs, before he looked down at his shoes and rubbed the spot between his eyes again. I often seemed to provoke this type of eye rubbing. I bit my lip and lowered the lunch box slowly.
Maybe this wasn’t the best idea. He seemed really grumpy. Perhaps the debate wasn’t going so well. Maybe the other MPs were being dicks. What did I know? Politics was complicated. But something seemed to have rubbed him up the wrong way.
Living with Barclay over the last three weeks had been amazing, well, when I saw him that was. Because Barclay was busy. Super, super busy. So, mostly I made Henry watch TV with me in the evenings when I came back from work (he tried to hide out in his basement apartment but I soon found out where Barclay kept the spare key and made copies, so there was really no escaping me). I was sure with time that he’d learn to appreciate eighties films,Love IslandandMade in Chelseajust as much as me. And he was laughing more, smiling more. He’d persisted with his counselling and was beginning to see how he could work through the grief reaction to his diagnosis.
And things had gone much better with his mates than he’d thought they would – I personally thought that was contributing more to his recovery than anything. The relief on his face when he came back from the pub to meet them was enormous. He’d then asked if they could come and talk to me about it as well, to ask any questions they might have. So, last night they had come over to hang out with Henry and me. Kim was an architect and Danny worked at Henry’s old management consultancy firm. I could see why Kim was Henry’sOne. She had a dry quiet sense of humour, which complemented Henry’s. They just seemed to fit.
Henry had deliberately left us alone for a bit so they could feel free to ask whatever they wanted. Kim had asked the most questions. But to be honest it was pretty obvious she’d already done her research. She knew about U=U. She knew various health stats and how HIV was managed like a chronic disease. When I told them all that Henry could live a normal life her eyes had flashed and she’d sat up straighter in her chair.
“Of course he can,” she semi-shouted, shocking me as she had been soft-spoken up until then. “Of course he can have a normal life.” All eyes snapped to her and her colour deepened as she looked down at the table. When she spoke again her voice was more subdued. “He just has to believe it, that’s all.” There was determination behind those words. This was a strong woman and there was no way she was giving up on Henry any time soon.
So, between sorting Henry and his friends out and my own share of on-calls and anti-social hours it wasn’t like I was sitting at home waiting for Barclay either.
