Spare Brides by Adele Parks Read Free Book Online Page B

reserve.
    Dr Folstad leaned forward and turned on the desk lamp. It had been a dull day. The sky, originally the colour of the hem of a wedding dress, had now darkened to something more akin to a groom’s topcoat. It had drizzled non-stop since Boxing Day. The inclement weather was hard to ignore; it had a devastating effect on the perkiness of hats and hearts. The light from the lamp helped ease the gloom marginally, but Sarah wished someone would offer them a cup of tea; she was sure Lydia would benefit. Irritation at the lack of hospitality emboldened her further. ‘Do you have a view?’
    The doctor held Sarah’s gaze, not offended, rather amused by her challenge. ‘I think moderate exercise is to be recommended, as is the moderate consumption of alcohol. Drink milk but make sure it’s pasteurised. Eat plenty of eggs and leafy greens.’ Lydia nodded enthusiastically at every syllable that dropped from his mouth, as though he was spitting pearls. ‘Try not to get too stressed, Mrs Chatfield. Stress is an enemy in all health issues.’
    ‘Lady.’
    ‘Sorry?’
    ‘Lady Chatfield.’ Lydia blushed, immediately wishing she hadn’t corrected him. What did it matter if this foreigner failed to address her properly? Few Englishmen truly understood how to address whom, whom to address how.
    ‘Lady Chatfield,’ he repeated carefully; was he laughing? ‘And you could try some new positions during sexual intercourse.’
    Lydia sensed Sarah shudder at her side. It was good of Sarah to attend this appointment, as sex and all the associated, wasn’t a subject she’d ever felt comfortable discussing, even before she became a widow. Before, she had found it embarrassing; now, no doubt, it was both embarrassing and painful. Lydia had married a year after Sarah, and she remembered trying to talk to her friend about what to expect on her honeymoon. Sarah had told her to pack Hartmann’s Hygienic Towelettes and lots of spare pairs of knickers, and not to worry if she didn’t immediately get the hang of it. Still, blushes aside, if positions could help, then Lydia had to know more.
    ‘Any you’d recommend especially?’ she asked, taking care to keep her eyes trained on the green leather desk.
    ‘I have a leaflet. Produced in Oslo but written in English.’ He didn’t need to be any more specific; both the women already understood that the leaflet would no doubt be considered obscene in British terms. Whilst having children was deemed patriotic, any discussion as to how this might come about was still judged as perverse. Folstad stood up and rooted in a cabinet drawer; while he had his back to them the women shared a quick glance. They were unsure whether to be excited for Lydia, hopeful or panicked. Lydia wanted to giggle. Nervous.
    ‘Here we are.’ He handed her a very thin five inch by three inch sheet of paper. It was the same thin texture as her confirmation Bible and she wondered whether this was significant; she read so much into everything nowadays. The print was tiny and difficult to read. There were no pictures.
    Blushing again, Lydia folded the piece of paper in half and then into quarters, and carefully stowed it in a buttoned pocket inside her bag. ‘Do you think it might be worthwhile my husband coming to visit you?’ she asked tentatively.
    ‘I can’t imagine there’s any point in that,’ replied Dr Folstad. ‘What possible help would it be? No doubt your husband is a busy man, and invariably the problem lies with the woman, you know.’
    ‘I see.’
    ‘Vitamins are essential. And cod liver oil. Do be sure that the receptionist has your correct address. I send bills out on a Tuesday. Any questions?’ The doctor’s moustache stayed still for a moment.
    ‘No, I don’t think so.’
    Just one.
Why? Why not?
But she knew he couldn’t answer that.

8
    O UT ON THE pavement it was miserably cold. The streets were teeming with people rushing to find shelter from the drizzle that had started while they