The Three of U.S.: A New Life in New York. Peter Godwin

words, and she gives a similarly terse reply.

      Then the Sikh reaches out and very deliberately squeezes Ru’s left breast, like a farmer at a livestock market checking the consistency of a dairy cow he’s considering purchasing. He climbs back in his cab and drives away, and Ru continues her lonely patrol. Whatever has occurred was clearly consensual.

      ‘What do you think they said to each other?’ asks Joanna.

      I imagine he asked her, ‘What are they made of?’ or even, ‘Are they real?’

      And Ru replied, ‘Check ’em out for yourself, darling. On the house.’

      Monday, 11 May Joanna

      The gynaecologist’s office recommended by Dr Falzone is far smarter than anything I have encountered in the British Health Service. With black-leather seating and the latest editions of Vogue, Harper’s Bazaar, Elle, National Geographic, the New Yorker and Time, the reception is more like a discreet hotel lobby. The walls are quietly green, decorated with soothing scenes from Yosemite, each framed in black; thundering waterfalls and proud snow-capped mountains. Each one is accompanied by a motivational slogan: ‘The bend in the road is not the end of the road – unless you fail to make the turn’; ‘Some people dream of success – others wake up and work at it.’

      Indeed, there is nothing in our surroundings to suggest we are in a doctor’s waiting room at all, until I notice a discreet plastic box of leaflets dispensing advice on how to avoid genital herpes: ‘Genital herpes. One in four American adults suffers. There is no cure!’

      ‘Ms Coles?’ one of a troika of receptionists calls, beckoning with a silver-polished nail so long it has curled round on itself like a miniature dough hook.

      ‘Your insurance card?’ I hand over the blue plastic card which I have learned to keep alongside my credit and social security cards at all times in case of emergency. ‘Please fill these forms out and give them back to me before you see the doctor.’

      There are four pages of intricate forms demanding my entire medical history, that of my immediate family, and then another sheet demanding my signature to take full responsibility for payment should there prove to be a problem with my insurance.

      ‘Ms Coles,’ a bouncy-haired woman in a white coat with a badge on indicating she is Beth, and whom I assume to be a doctor, waves a clipboard at me and I follow her into a large wooden-panelled office, where several impressively framed certificates compete for wall space with more motivational photos of Yosemite.

      ‘So, Joanna, I’m Beth. This is the first time you’ve been to us?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘And you’ve filled in all the forms and we’ve seen your insurance card, right?’

      I nod.

      ‘Great. So, what can I do you for today?’

      ‘Well, I’m ten days late and I’m never normally late. So I did a home pregnancy test, but that was negative. But I think I’m pregnant anyway.’

      ‘Why do you think that, Joanna?’

      ‘Well, I just sort of feel it. You know, painful breasts, prolonged period pain …’

      ‘You know what, I’m gonna give you a blood test, but it doesn’t sound to me as if you’re pregnant. Those shop tests are pretty accurate. How old are you?’ She glances down at one of the sheets I’ve filled in.

      ‘Thirty-six.’

      She pulls a face, then shrugs. ‘Thirty-six? The female body starts winding down, hun. Tell you what I’m gonna do …’ And she takes a deep breath. ‘I’m gonna prescribe you Provera which you gotta take for seven full days, that’ll bring your period on, but don’t take it until we have the results of the blood test, just to be sure, OK? Go down the corridor and ask for Donna, the lab technician, she’ll take your blood and then call me on Thursday between 12.30 p.m. and 1.30 p.m., and we’ll give you the results, OK, oh and leave a urine sample too, if it’s negative, your system’s probably adjusting itself to being thirty-six; sorry but that’s the way the cookie crumbles, and you take the Provera.’ Another breath: ‘If it’s positive, well, you make another appointment to see an obstetrician.’

      Down the corridor, Donna, the technician, snaps on skintight cream rubber gloves, ties a rubber tube round my left arm and flicks at my veins like I’ve seen junkies do in movies. ‘You do look a little peaky,’ she observes, withdrawing the needle with one hand and skilfully unpeeling a Band-Aid with the other. ‘Could be a sign. I’ll keep my fingers crossed for ya.’

      Tuesday, 12 May Peter

      Our curiosity piqued by the outsize V sign in our view, Joanna has asked me to phone the Vault, which, she suggests, we should visit. I refuse. S&M is not really my scene. I am a coward. I treat pain as an enemy and go to great lengths to avoid humiliation.

      ‘But it’ll make a great story,’ she wheedles. She is always desperate for column ideas.

      Later in the day, running short of work-displacement activities to divert myself from my book, I pick up the phone and dial the Vault.

      ‘Welcome to the Vault,’ says the earnestly perky male voice on the answering machine. ‘America’s most popular S&M club. Please listen to our upcoming attractions:

      Friday is our bare buns contest;

      Saturday is our foot fetish night;

      Sunday is the finals of our bald beaver competition;

      Monday is our popular schoolgirl evening;

      Tuesday features hot-wax branding;

      on Wednesday our weekly slave auction takes place;

      join us Thursday for Shiatsu bondage;

      and next Friday is our speciality dental ‘n’ head restraint.

      We supper at the garage-like Café Braque, voted New York’s coolest summer hangout, full of slender models nibbling tiny organic mesclun leaves, and I tell Joanna of the varied fare offered by our neighbourhood club. ‘What do you fancy being entered for,’ I enquire. ‘Bare buns? Perhaps a little hot-wax branding?’

      ‘What really intrigues me,’ she confides, ‘is the speciality dental ‘n’ head restraint. What on earth could that be?’

      Thursday, 14 May Joanna

      Though my period has still not arrived, all other symptoms have disappeared. I don’t feel sick and I’ve lost two lbs, but I spend the weekend imagining I may be pregnant. And, as my friends constantly remind me, I am thirty-six and it’s about time.

      At exactly 12.35 p.m., as instructed, I phone Dr Beth’s number and am immediately plunged into another curse of contemporary America: voicemail hell.

      ‘Please listen to the following information BEFORE pressing your relevant number.

      ‘If you are an existing patient press one to hear a series of options.

      ‘If you are a new patient wishing to register with us, please have your insurance number ready to enter via your keypad.’

      I press one.

      ‘If you need help with our fax number, website or e-mail address, press one followed by the pound sign.

      ‘If you would like to book an urgent appointment press two.

      ‘If you would like to make a routine appointment press three.

      ‘To cancel an appointment press four.

      ‘For all queries about billing or to review your account press five.

      ‘For