Free Always Mr. Wrong by Joanne Rawson Page B

listen
as he spoke to the nurses who evidently were in as much awe as me
with the dashing doctor, taking careful note of the actress, music,
and books he loved, hatching my plan.
    The day before the unveiling of my new
nashers, I spent all afternoon hogging the bathroom, dying my brown
hair ash blonde. Copying make-up from Just 17 that promised to make
me look older and sophisticated in the hope that when Dr. Foreman
detached the mouthful of metal that for the last twelve months made
me look like Jaws from James Bond, he would stand back in
amazement, as Lionel Richie crooned ‘ Hello,’ softly in
background. The ugly duckling would have turned into a beautiful
swan, and he would fall helplessly in love with me.
    The next day I glided into his surgery,
hoping I resembled Sharon Stone or at least Glen Close, only to be
devastated when a complete stranger stood there. The new doctor
informed me Dr. Foreman had moved onto a new appointment in
Birmingham.
    For the next week I locked myself in my
bedroom after school, sobbing that I would never find another man I
loved as much. That was until Timothy Knowles asked me to the
end-of-term disco, timidly uttering he liked my new hair colour.
“It makes you look like Sharon Stone.”
     
    I do not know how long I stood gawking at
him, but he managed a smile and jokily said, “This is obviously a
bad time. A party that sucks, and on behalf of all us geeks, I’d
like to say sorry. But do you happen to know if there is more ice?”
He scooped off the suds from his grey sweater and flicked them into
the sink.
    OMG I’m sixteen again! I ran my tongue
over my teeth, just to make sure I wasn’t wearing a brace. Don’t
be stupid, Clare. You are twenty years older. You are well and
truly over your teenage crush. You’ve been married, divorced and
have a child for goodness sakes. Get a grip!
    Clutching my wet sodden hands to my throat, I
finally caught my breath. I could feel the warm soapy water running
down the cleavage of my dress.
    “Here, let me help.” He grabbed a towel from
the side.
    Dreamily taking in the musky smell of his
aftershave, the distraction had failed to alert me to what Dr.
Foreman was doing until I finally looked down and realised he was
not dabbing but rubbing the front of my dress. Yeah gods, the water
had soaked through the chiffon that was now transparent, exposing
my bare boobs, and my nipples sticking out like church organ pegs. Was this a breach of patient privacy? Even after twenty
years?
    “Please, it’s fine,” I protested.
    “It’s okay. I’m a doctor.” Yeah, famous last
words. The old ones are always the best, as he still kept rubbing.
His nose now inches away from my bosom.
    “Doctor Foreman, please,” I stepped back,
slipping on the pool of water. He reached out and grabbed me. “It’s
me, Clare Darby. Well, Clare Coleman, that was.”
    He let go of me as if I was damaged goods. I
wouldn’t say there was disgust on his face, more a look of
skepticism when you bite into a juicy looking apple and find a
great ugly green grub in there and wonder if you’ve eaten part of
it. It was at that this point he noticed my pair of juicy cox
pippins, shrink wrapped in chiffon, on full display.
    A rush of colour flooded his face as he began
hastily pushing the towel into the neck of my dress, covering my
ripe fruit. His fingers, as smooth as silk, sent a tingle though my
body like an electric shock, a feeling I perhaps had at sixteen,
but never really knew what it meant. But I sure as hell knew
now.
    For a moment, he stood staring at me as if
trying to comprehend what I’d said. Well, if past experience was
anything to go by, whenever I’d spoken to Dr. Foreman I seemed to
create my own language of gibberish. Or perhaps he was shocked to
hear me say a full sentence without blushing or giggling.
    “Clare, you look... I mean you turned out...
You always were... What I’m trying to say is, you look great.” He
took my hands and stepped back, taking