Free A Special Relationship by Douglas Kennedy Page B

questions about the state of being pregnant. She also gave me the low-down on eventually finding a nanny once my maternity leave was over and I was back at work. And she also explained the workings of the National Health Service, and how to register myself at my local doctor’s office in Putney. It turned out to be a group practice, where the receptionist made me fill out assorted forms and then informed me that I had been assigned to a certain Dr Sheila McCoy.
    ‘You mean I can’t choose my own doctor?’ I asked the receptionist.
    ‘Course you can. Any doctor in the surgery you like. So if you don’t want to see Dr McCoy …’
    ‘I didn’t say that. I just don’t know if she’s the right doctor for me.’
    ‘Well, how will you know until you’ve seen her?’ she asked.
    I couldn’t argue with that logic but, as it turned out, I did like Dr McCoy – a pleasant, no-nonsense Irish woman in her forties. She saw me a few days later, asked a lot of thorough, no-nonsense questions, and informed me that I would be ‘assigned’ an obstetrician … and if I didn’t mind crossing the river into Fulham, she was going to place me under the care of a man named Hughes.
    ‘Very senior, very respected, with rooms in Harley Street – and he does his NHS work out of the Mattingly … which I think you’ll like, as it’s one of the newest hospitals in London.’
    When I mentioned this last comment to Margaret, she laughed.
    ‘That’s her way of telling you she doesn’t want to horrify you and your need for newness by sending you to one of the grimmer Victorian hospitals around town.’
    ‘Why did she think I had a need for newness?’
    ‘Because you’re a Yank. And we’re supposed to like everything new and shiny. Or, at least, that’s what everyone over here thinks. But hey, when it comes to hospitals, give me new and shiny any day.’
    ‘I’m not exactly thrilled either about being “assigned” an obstetrician. Do you think this guy Hughes is some second-rater?’
    ‘Well, your GP told you he has rooms on Harley Street…’
    ‘Makes him sound like a slum-lord, doesn’t it?’
    ‘Tell me about it. I mean, the first time I heard my doctor’s office over here referred to as a surgery …’
    ‘You thought that’s where they operate as well?’
    ‘What can I say? I’m a new, shiny American. But listen, Harley Street is the place for all the big-deal specialists in town. And all those guys do NHS work as well – so you’ve probably landed yourself a top ob-gyn. Anyway, you’re better off having the kid on the NHS. The doctors are the same, and the care’s probably better … especially if anything goes wrong. Just don’t eat the food.’
    Certainly, there was nothing new or shiny about Mr Desmond Hughes. When I met him a week later at an office in the Mattingly Hospital, I was immediately struck by his reediness, his beak-like nose, his crisp, practical demeanour, and the fact that, like all British consultants, he was never referred to as Dr (as I later learned, in this country all surgeons were traditionally called Mr—because, back in less medically advanced times, they weren’t considered proper doctors; rather, high-end butchers). Hughes was also a testament to the excellence of British tailoring, as he was dressed in an exquisitely cut chalk-stripe suit, a light-blue shirt with impressive French cuffs, and a black polka-dot tie. Our first consultation was a brisk one. He ordered a scan, he requested blood, he felt around my stomach, he told me that everything seemed ‘to be going according to plan’.
    I was a little surprised that he didn’t ask me any specific questions about my physical state (beside a general: ‘Everything seem all right?’). So when we reached the end of this brief consultation, I raised this point. Politely, of course.
    ‘Don’t you want to know about my morning sickness?’ I asked.
    ‘Are you suffering from it?’
    ‘Not any more …’
    He looked at me