Sue Margolis - Neurotica

Contents

To Jonathan, who never has a headache

C H A P T E R O N E

D AN BLOOMFIELD STOOD IN FRONT of the full-length bathroommirror, dropped his boxers to his ankles, moved his penisto one side to get a better look and stared hard at the sagging,wrinkled flesh which housed his testicles. Whenever Dan examinedhis testiclesand as a hypochondriac he did this severaltimes a weekhe thought of two things: the likelihood of hisimminent demise; and the cupboard under the stairs in his mother'shouse in Finchley.

It was a consequence of the lamentable amount of storagespace in her unmodernized fifties kitchenette that Mrs. Bloomfieldhad always kept hanging in the hall cupboard, alongside theovercoats, macs and umbrellas, one of those long string shoppingbags made pendulous by the weight of her overflow Brussels sprouts.From the age of thirteen, Dan referred to this as his mother'sscrotal sac.

These days Dan reckoned his own scrotal sac was a dead ringerfor his mother's. His bollocks couldn't get any lower. Dan supposedlower was OK at forty; death on the other hand was not.

By bending his knees ever so slightly, shuffling a littlecloser to the mirror and pulling up on his scrotum he could get abetter view of its underside. It looked perfectly normal. In factthe whole apparatus looked perfectly normal. There was nothing hecould see, no sinister lumps, bumps or skin puckering whichsuggested impending uni-bollockdom, or that his wife should startbulk-buying herrings for his funeral. Then, suddenly, as hesqueezed his right testicle gently between his thumb andforefinger, it was there again, the excruciating stabbing pain hehad felt as he crossed his legs that morning in the editors' dailyconference.

A nna Shapiro, Dan's wife, needed to pee rightaway. She knew because she had just been woken up by one of those dreams inwhich she had been sitting on the loo about to let go when suddenlysomething in her brain kicked in to remind her that this wouldnot be a good idea, since she was, in reality, sprawled across thebrand-new pocket-sprung divan on which they hadn't even made thefirst payment. Looking like one of those mad women on the first dayof the Debenhams sale, she bolted towards the bathroom. Here shediscovered Dan rolling naked on the floor, clutching his testiclesin one hand and his penis in the other with a look of agony on hisface which she immediately took for sublime pleasure.

As someone who'd been reading So you think your husband isa sexual devianttype advice columns in women's magazines sinceshe was twelve, Anna knew a calm, caring opening would be best.

Dan, what the fuck are you up to? she shrieked. I meanit, if you've turned into some kind of weirdo, I'm putting my hatand coat on now. I'll tell the whole family and you'll never seethe children again and I'll take you for every penny. I can't keepup with you. One minute you're off sex and the next minute I findyou wanking yourself stupid at three o'clock in the morning on thebathroom floor. How could you do it on the bathroom floor? What ifAmy or Josh had decided to come in here for a wee and caughtyou?

Will you just stop ranting for one second, you stupid fatbitch. Look.

Dan directed Anna's eyes towards his penis, which she hadfailed to notice was completely flaccid.

I am not wanking. I think I've got bollock cancer. Anna,I'm really scared.

R elieved? You bet I was bloody relieved. God, I mean for amoment there last night, when I found him, I actually thought Danhad turned into one of those nutters the police find dead on thekitchen floor with a plastic bag over their head and a ginger tomhalfway up their arse. Of course, it was no use reminding him thattesticular cancer doesn't hurt.... What are yougoing to have?

As usual, the Harpo was full of crushed-linen, telly-mediatypes talking Channel 4 proposals, sipping mineral water andswooning over the baked polenta and fashionable bits of offal.Anna was deeply suspicious of trendy food. Take polenta, forexample: an Italian au pair who had worked for Dan and Anna a fewyears ago had said she couldn't understand why it had become sofashionable in England. It was, she said, the Italian equivalent ofsemolina and that the only time an Italian ate it was when he wasin school, hospital or a mental institution.

Neither was Anna, who had cellulite and a crinklypostchildbirth tummy flap which spilled over her bikini briefs whenshe sat down, overly keen on going for lunch with Gucci-ed andArmani-ed spindle-legged journos like Alison O'Farrell, who alwaysordered a green salad with no dressing and then self-righteouslydeclared she was too full for pudding.

But as a freelance journalist, Anna knew the importance ofsharing these frugal lunches with women's-page editors. These days,she was flogging Alison at least two lengthy pieces a month for theDaily Mercury's Lifestyles page, which was boostingher earnings considerably. In fact her last dead-baby story, inwhich a recovering postnatally depressed mum (who also justhappened to be a leggy 38 DD) described in full tabloidgruesomeness how she drowned her three-month-old in the bath, hadalmost paid for the sundeck Anna was having built on the back ofher kitchen.

Dan, of course, as the cerebral financial editor of TheVanguard, Dan, who was probably more suited to academia thanFleet Street, called her stuff prurient, ghoulish voyeurism andcarried on like some lefty sociology student from the seventiesabout those sorts of stories being the modern opiate of the masses.Anna couldn't be bothered to argue. She knew perfectly well he wasright, but, like a lot of lefties who had not so much lapsed ascollapsed into the risotto-breathed embrace of New Labour, she haddecided that the equal distribution of wealth starting with herselfhad its merits. She suspected he was just pissed off that hertabloid opiates earned her double what he brought home in amonth.

B ut what about Dan's cancer? Alison asked,shoving a huge mouthful of undressed radicchio into her mouth and pretending toenjoy it.

Alison, I've been married to Dan for twelve years. He'sbeen like this for yonks. Every week it's something different.First it was weakness in his legs and he diagnoses multiplesclerosis, then he feels dizzy and it's a brain tumor. Last week hedecided he had some disease which, it turns out, you only get fromfondling sheep. Alison, I can't tell you the extent to which noJewish man fondles sheep. He's a hypochondriac. He needs therapy.I've been telling him to get help for ages, but he won't. He justsits for hours with his head in the Home Doctor.

Must be doing wonders for your sex life.

Practically nonexistent. He's too frightened to come incase the strain of it gives him a heart attack, and then if he doesmanage it he takes off the condom afterwards, looks to see how muchsemen he has producedin case he has a blockagesomewherethen examines it for traces of blood.

As a smooth method of changing the subject, Alison got up togo to the loo. Anna suspected she was going to chuck up her salad.When she returned, Anna sniffed for vomit, but only got L'Eaud'Issy. Listen, Anna, Alison began the instant her bony bottommade contact with the hard Phillipe Starck chair. I've had anidea for a story I think just might be up your street.

D an bought the first round of drinks in the pub and then wentto the can to feel his testicle. It was less than an hourbefore his appointment with the specialist. The pain was stillthere.

Almost passing out with anxiety, he sat on the lavatory, puthis head between his knees and did what he always did when hethought he was terminally ill: he began to pray. Of courseit wasn't real prayer, it was more like some kind of sacredtrade-union negotiation in which the earthly official, Dan, set outhis positioni.e., dyingand demanded that celestialmanagement, God, put an acceptable offer on the tablei.e.,cure him. By way of compromise, Dan agreed that he would startgoing to synagogue againor church, or Quaker meeting house,if God preferredas soon as he had confirmation he wasn'tdying anymore.