The Best Of The Year - Medical Romance

I caught up to Matt half an hour later just as he was coming out of his office. I didn’t wait to be invited in. I put my hand flat on the door just as he was about to close it. ‘Can I have a word?’

He drew in a breath and released it with a sound of impatience. ‘I have a meeting in five minutes.’

‘I’ll be brief.’

He opened the door and I walked past him to enter his office. My left arm brushed against his body as I went. I brush past people all the time. It’s hard not to in a busy and often crowded workplace, especially in ICU or Theatre. But I had never felt a tingle go through me quite like that before. It was like touching a bolt of lightning. Energy zapped through my entire body from my arm to my lady land. I was hoping it didn’t show on my face. I’m not one to blush easily … or at least not until that morning. I stopped blushing when my parents went through their naturalist phase when I was thirteen. I think my blushing response blew a gasket back then. But right then I could feel warmth spreading in my cheeks. I could only hope he would assume it was because of the message I was there to deliver.

I got straight to the point. ‘Did you have to be so blunt with Jason Ryder’s wife and family? Surely you could’ve given them a little ray of hope? You made it sound like the poor man is going to die overnight or be a vegetable. I’ve seen much worse than—’

‘Dr Clark.’ His curt tone cut me off. ‘I don’t see the point in offering false hope. It’s better to prepare relatives for the worst, even if it doesn’t eventuate. It’s much harder to do it the other way around.’

‘But surely you could have dressed it up a little more—’

‘You mean lie to them?’ he said, nailing me with a look.

There was something about his stress over the word ‘lie’ that made my skin shrink away from my bones. I tried not to squirm under his tight scrutiny but I can tell you that hummingbird was back in my heart valve. ‘I think you could have found a middle ground. They’re completely shell-shocked. They need time to process everything.’

‘Time is not something Jason Ryder has right now,’ he said. ‘That was a significant bleed. You and I both know he might not last the night.’

I pressed my lips together. I wasn’t ready to give up hope, although I had to admit Jason’s condition was critical.

‘Have you mentioned organ donation to the family?’ Matt said.

I frowned. ‘No, but I’m surprised you didn’t thrust the papers under their noses right then and there.’

His dark blue gaze warred with mine. ‘If Jason’s a registered donor then it’s appropriate to get the wheels in motion as soon as possible. Other lives can be saved. The family might find it difficult at first, but further down the track it often gives comfort to know their relative’s death wasn’t entirely in vain.’

I knew he was right. But the subject of organ donation is enormously difficult for most people, including clinicians. Relatives are overwrought with grief, especially after an accident or a sudden illness or surgery that didn’t go according to plan. They want to cling to their loved one for as long as they can, to hold them and talk to them to say their final goodbyes. Some relatives can’t face the thought of their son or daughter or husband or wife being operated on to harvest organs, even when those very organs will save other lives.

It was another thing I wanted to cover in my research. Finding the right time and the right environment in which to bring up the subject could go a long way in lifting organ donation rates, which were generally abysmal. All too often organ donation directives signed by patients were reversed because the relatives were in such distress.

I let out a breath in a little whoosh. ‘I’ll talk to them tomorrow. I think they need tonight to come to terms with what they’ve been told so far.’

There was a little silence.

I was about to fill it with something banal when he said, ‘Would you like Jason moved to the end room?’

I looked at him in surprise. ‘But I thought—’

‘It will give the family a little more privacy.’

I couldn’t read his expression. He had his poker face on. ‘That would be great,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’

He gave me the briefest of smiles. It was little more than a little quirk of his lips but it made something inside my stomach slip. I suddenly wondered what his full smile would look like and if it would have an even more devastating effect on me. ‘How do you get on with Stuart McTaggart?’ he said.

‘Fine.’

He lifted a dark eyebrow as if that wasn’t the answer he’d been expecting. ‘You don’t find him … difficult?’

I gave a little shrug. ‘He has his moments but I don’t let it get to me. He’s under a lot of pressure and he doesn’t know how to manage stress. Stress is contagious, like a disease. You can catch it off others if you’re not careful.’

He leaned his hips back against his desk with his arms folded across his broad chest. His eyes never once left mine. I would have found it threatening except I was so fascinated by their colour I was practically mesmerised. In certain lights they were predominately grey but in others they were blue. And now and again they would develop a tiny glittery twinkle as if he was enjoying a private joke.

‘So what are your top three hints for relieving stress?’ he said.

‘Regular exercise, eight hours’ sleep, good nutrition.’

‘Not so easy when you work the kind of hours we work.’

‘True.’

He was still watching me with that unwavering gaze. ‘What about sex?’

I felt a hot blush spread over my cheeks. Yes, I know. I’m such a prude, which is incredibly ironic given my parents talk about their sex lives at the drop of a sarong. ‘Wh-what about it?’ I stammered.

‘Isn’t it supposed to be the best stress-reliever of all?’

I ran the tip of my tongue out over my suddenly parchment-dry lips. The heat in my cheeks flowed to other parts of my body—my breasts, my belly and between my legs. Even the base of my spine felt molten hot. ‘Erm, yes, it’s good for that,’ I said, ‘excellent, in fact. But not everyone can have sex when they’re feeling stressed. I mean, how would that work in the workplace, for instance? We can’t have staff running off to have sex in the nearest broom cupboard whenever they feel like it, can we?’

I wished I hadn’t taken the bait. I wished I hadn’t kept running off at the mouth like that. Why the hell was I talking about sex with Matt Bishop? All I could think of was what it would be like to have sex with him. Not in a broom cupboard, although I’m sure he would be more than up to the challenge. But in a bed with his arms around me, his long legs entangled with mine, his body pressing me down on the mattress in a passionate clinch unlike any I’d had before.

Just to put you straight, I’m no untried virgin. I’ve had three partners, although I don’t usually count the first one because I was drunk at the time and I can’t remember much about it. It was my first year at med school and I was embarrassed about still being a virgin so I drank three vile-tasting cocktails at a party and had it off with a guy whose name I still can’t remember. What is it about cocktails and me?

But I digress. The second was only slightly more memorable in that I wasn’t drunk or even tipsy, but the guy had performance anxiety, so I blinked and missed it, so to speak. I guess that’s why Andy had seemed such a super-stud. At least he could go the distance and I actually managed to orgasm now and again. Told you I was good at lying.

Matt kept his gaze trained on my flustered one, a hint of a smile still playing around the corners of his mouth. ‘Perhaps not.’

My phone started to ring and I grabbed at it as if it were the lottery office calling to inform me of a massive win. It wasn’t. It was my mother. ‘Can I call you back?’ I said.

‘Darling, you sound so tense.’ My mother’s voice carried like a foghorn. I think it’s from all the chanting she does. It’s given her vocal cords serious muscle. ‘He’s not worth the angst.’

I could feel my cheeks glowing like hot embers. ‘I really can’t talk now so—’

‘I just called to give you your horoscope reading. It’s really amazing because it said you’re going to meet—’

‘Now’s not a good time,’ I said with a level of desperation I could barely keep out of my voice. ‘I’ll call you later. I promise.’

‘All right, darling. Love you.’ She made kissy noises.

‘I love you too. Bye.’ I ended the call and gave Matt a wry look. ‘My mum.’

‘Who’s causing you the angst?’ he asked. ‘Not me, I hope?’

I backed my way to the door, almost tripping over my own feet in clumsy haste. ‘I’d better let you get to your meeting.’

‘Dr Clark?’

My hand reached for the doorknob and I turned my head to look at him over my shoulder. ‘Yes?’

A glint danced in his eyes. ‘Check the broom cupboards on your way past, will you?’

CHAPTER THREE

I WAS ABOUT to leave for the day when the CEO’s secretary came to see me. Lynne Patterson was in her late fifties and had worked at St Iggy’s for thirty years in various administrative roles. I had only met her a handful of times but she was always warm and friendly. She reminded me of a mother hen. She oozed maternal warmth and was known for taking lame ducks under her wing. Not that I considered myself a lame duck or anything, but right then I wasn’t paddling quite the way I wanted to.

‘How did the wedding go?’ Lynne asked as her opening gambit. What is it with everyone and weddings? I thought. People were becoming obsessed. It wasn’t healthy.

My smile felt like it was set in plaster of Paris on my mouth. ‘Great. Fabulous. Wonderful. Awesome.’ I was going overboard with the superlatives but what else could I do? In for a penny, as they say, but now I was in for a million. I had to keep telling lies to keep the others in place. I was starting to realise what a farce this was becoming. I would have been better to be honest from the start. But now it was too late. I would look completely ridiculous if I told everyone the wedding had been cancelled. Maybe in a couple of months I could say things didn’t work out, that Andy and I had decided to separate or something. But until then I had to keep the charade going. Oh, joy.

‘Well, that’s why I thought you’d be perfect for the job,’ Lynne said with a beaming smile.

‘Erm … job?’

‘The St Valentine’s Day Ball,’ she said. ‘We hold it every year. It’s our biggest fundraising event for the hospital. But this year it’s ICU that’s going to get the funds we raise. We hope to raise enough for an intensive care training simulator.’

I’d heard about the ball but I thought it was being organised by one of the senior paediatricians. I said as much but Lynne explained the consultant had to go on leave due to illness so they needed someone to take over.

‘Besides,’ Lynne said, ‘you’re young and hip and in touch with everything. The ball was becoming a little staid and boring. Ticket sales have been slow. We thought you’d be fabulous at putting on a great party.’

‘We?’

‘Dr Bishop.’ Lynne beamed again. ‘He said you’d be perfect.’

I did the teeth-grinding thing. Silently, I hoped, but I wouldn’t have put money on it. ‘Right, well, then, I guess I can do that,’ I said, madly panicking because it was barely four weeks away. I comforted myself with the fact I didn’t have to organise the venue or catering as the consultant had already done that, according to Lynne. My job was to make the ball entertaining and fun for everyone.

As soon as I got out of the hospital I called Jem. She’s a teacher—another irony, given our parents went through a no-schooling phase. It lasted three years but then the authorities cottoned on and we were marched back into the system. Interestingly, I was a year ahead of my peers academically but well behind socially. For Jem it was the other way around. She had no trouble fitting in but she struggled to catch up in classwork. She’s never said, but I’m pretty sure that’s why she ended up a teacher. She understands how hard it is for kids who aren’t naturally academic. Mind you, she’s no dunce. Once she caught up there was no stopping her. She whizzed her way through university, landing the vice chancellor’s prize on the way through. Now she teaches at a posh girls’ school in Bath.

‘Jem, you got a minute to talk?’ I asked.

‘Sure,’ Jem said. ‘What’s up? I mean, apart from being betrayed by your fiancé with the slutty sister of your bridesmaid, and then jilted at the altar, and going on honeymoon all by yourself.’

That’s another reason I love my sister. She doesn’t sugar-coat stuff. She doesn’t just take the bull by the horns. She wrenches the darned things off. Unlike me, who tentatively pets the bull in the hope it will become my best friend and won’t gore me to death. But one thing Jem and I have in common is a love of black humour. It’s how we dealt with our wacky childhood. If we hadn’t laughed we’d have cried. ‘It’s way worse than that,’ I said, and told her about the postcard fiasco.

‘What? You mean you still haven’t told anyone? No one at all?’

‘No.’ I kept my head down against the icy cold wind as I walked along the frozen footpath. The last thing I wanted was to slip and end up in the orthopaedic ward. Although come to think of it …

‘What about your friend, what’s her name? The nurse you said was really sweet.’

‘Gracie.’

‘That’s the one. What about her?’

I sidestepped a sheet of black ice. I decided I didn’t want to break a leg. How would I explain no husband coming in to visit me? ‘I’m going to tell her … soon.’

‘It’s not that hard, Bertie,’ Jem said matter-of-factly. ‘You have nothing to be ashamed of. Andy’s a twat. You don’t have to protect him. Tell the world what a flipping jerk he is.’

I guess you can tell by now Jem is not the sort of girl to get screwed around by guys. In fact, I think she terrifies most men, which kind of explains why she hasn’t had a steady boyfriend for ages—years, actually. She dated a Sicilian guy once but it didn’t last. It was a whirlwind affair that ended badly. She’s never talked about it. Won’t talk about it. I know better than to ask.

‘I got caught off guard because of the new director at work,’ I said. ‘It was too embarrassing to go into the gory details.’ Understatement.

‘What’s he like?’

‘How do you know he’s a he?’

‘Because you wouldn’t have been caught off guard if it was a woman.’

Got to hand it to my sister. She knows me so well. ‘He’s … annoying, but kind of interesting too.’

‘Woo hoo!’ Jem crowed.

I rolled my eyes. I knew what she was thinking—the best way to heal a broken heart was to find someone else and soon. But I’d had enough trouble finding Andy. I didn’t like my chances in the dating game. Besides, I’m not sure I wanted all the drama. Maybe I was destined to be on my own. My heart sank at the thought. I didn’t want to be alone. I wanted to be with someone who loved me. I wanted a family. I wanted it all. ‘He thinks my research is dodgy,’ I said.

‘What’s he look like?’

‘Did you hear me?’ I said.

‘Is he hot?’

‘He’s okay.’

‘How okay?’ Jem said.

I blew out a breath. There was no point fighting it. Jem would get it out of me eventually. Might as well be sooner rather than later. ‘He’s six foot four and has dark hair and blue-grey eyes that change in different lights. He’s got a nice mouth but I don’t think he smiles at lot. Although he gets this little twinkle now and again that makes me wonder if he’s laughing at me.’

‘Way to go, Bertie!’

‘Like that’s going to happen,’ I said. ‘Besides, he thinks I’m married.’

‘Some men get off on having an affair with a married woman.’

‘Not him,’ I said. ‘He’s too conservative.’ Which was kind of what I liked about him, even though I was supposed to dislike him on account of him being so mocking about my project. But for all that I felt drawn to him. He intrigued me. All those shifting shadows in his eyes suggested a man with layers and secrets that were just waiting to be explored.

‘So what doesn’t he like about your research?’ Jem asked. ‘Apart from the funny title, of course.’

I almost tripped on a crack in the footpath. ‘Why didn’t you say something earlier?’

Jem laughed. ‘I thought you did it deliberately. You know how everyone is always poking fun at New Agey things. I thought it was really clever of you, actually.’

‘Yeah, well, Matt Bishop thinks it’s a big joke,’ I said. ‘It will be all round the hospital tomorrow. I just know it. Everyone will be laughing at me.’

‘You’ve been laughed at before and lived to tell the tale,’ Jem said. ‘We both have.’

I couldn’t argue with that. Sometimes when I couldn’t sleep I heard the mocking taunts from my childhood echoing in my bedroom. They were like ghosts from the past who wouldn’t leave me alone. Mean ghosts who delighted in reminding me I wasn’t part of the in-crowd. I was a misfit. A reject. A loner. Alone.

I said goodbye to Jem and walked through the park to my house a couple of streets back from Bayswater Road. I was really proud of my home. I had a shockingly high mortgage, which would take me the rest of my life to pay off, but I didn’t care. I loved my three-storey Victorian house with its quaint pocket-handkerchief front garden.

I was teaching myself how to paint and decorate, not just to save costs but because I found it therapeutic. There was something incredibly soothing about painting. I was doing a room at a time and really enjoyed seeing the transformation happen before my eyes. Cracked and peeling paint replaced by smooth fresh colour. I’d done the master bedroom and now I was working on the sitting room. I scrubbed and sanded back the woodwork and applied the first undercoat before I left for my … well, you know. Andy was going to help me finish it. Or at least that’s what he’d said. Not that he’d helped me with any of it, although I do seem to remember once he carried some old wallpaper out to the recycling bin.

My dad isn’t much help. He can barely change a light bulb, mostly because he and Mum went through a no-electricity phase, which lasted about ten years. Solar power is great when you live in a place like Australia where the sun shines just about every day. Not so good on the Yorkshire moors.

I had a bite to eat and set to work but I had barely got the undercoat lid off the paint tin when there was a knock on the door. I peeped through the spy hole. It was the neighbour who lives six houses up from Elsie. Margery Stoneham was in her mid-seventies and was our street’s neighbourhood watch. Nothing escaped her notice. She had an annoying yappy little dog called Freddy who humped my leg any chance it got. Don’t get me wrong. I love animals, dogs in particular, but Freddy was the most obnoxious little mutt I’d ever come across. He looked like a cross between a ferret and a rat and had the sort of wiry fur that felt like a pot scourer.

I felt on the back foot as soon as I opened the door. I had—inadvertently—sent Margery a postcard, along with Elsie. Who could believe three little pieces of cardboard could do so much damage? The dog was at Margery’s feet, looking up at me with a beady look not unlike hers. ‘Hi, Mrs Stoneham,’ I said, with a bright smile. ‘What a lovely surprise.’ Not.

Margery peered past my shoulder. ‘Is your hubby at home?’

‘Erm, not right now.’ Here we go again, I thought. But Margery was the last person I wanted to announce my failed wedding to. I might as well take out a billboard ad or announce it in The Times. ‘How’s that leg ulcer? Healed up now?’ Freddy had taken a nip at her, not that she admitted that to me. She told me she’d scratched it on the coffee table. I checked out the coffee table when I was over there, dressing the wound for her. As far as I could tell it didn’t have any teeth.

‘Just about.’ Margery looked past my shoulder again. ‘Are you sure I’m not intruding? You’re only just back from your honeymoon. I wouldn’t want to—’

‘It’s perfectly fine,’ I said. ‘What can I do for you?’

That’s one thing I did know for sure. Margery nearly always wanted something. She didn’t just drop in for a chat. I can’t tell you how many prescriptions I’ve written for her and I’ve only been living there just under a year.

‘I wanted to ask a little favour of you,’ she said. ‘I’m going to visit my sister in Cornwall and I need someone to mind Freddy for a few days. I’d ask Elsie but she’s not confident walking him and he does so love his walk.’

I wanted to say no. Jem would have said no but, then, she’s a lot stronger than I am. I have this annoying tendency to want to please everyone. I say yes when I really want to say no because I’m worried people won’t like me if I grow a backbone. ‘Of course I’ll mind him,’ I said. See how good I am at lying? They just slip off my tongue. ‘We’ll have a ball, won’t we, Freddy?’

I knew better than to lean down and try and pat him. He lifted one side of his mouth in a snarl that showed his yellowed teeth. Did I mention his foetid breath? Oh, and he farts. A lot.

When I got to work the next morning there was no change in Jason Ryder. He had been moved to my end room and was surrounded by his family. I spent a bit of time with them before I did a central line on a new patient. The morning was almost over before I ran into Matt Bishop. Literally. I was walking past his office with my head down, thinking about my ridiculous and steadily increasing web of lies, as he was coming out, and I cannoned straight into him. He took me by the upper arms to steady me and a shockwave went through me as if he had clamped me with live voltage. I couldn’t smother a gasp in time. ‘Oomph!’

His hands slid down my arms before he released me. I couldn’t help noticing he opened and closed his fingers once or twice as if trying to rid himself of the feel of me. ‘Sorry. Did I hurt you?’

I looked into his eyes—they were a darker shade of blue than grey as he was wearing a light blue shirt and a dark tie—and I felt like something tight and locked flowered open inside my chest. ‘No. Not at all. It was my fault. I wasn’t looking where I was going.’

He continued to look down at me. He had to look down as I’m only five feet five and I wasn’t wearing heels. I felt like a Shetland pony standing in front of a thoroughbred. And, going with the equine theme, Matt’s nostrils gave a slight flare, as if he was picking up my scent. I hoped to God it was the dash of the neroli oil I’d put on and not the musty smell of Freddy, who’d been dropped off that morning. ‘Did Lynne Patterson speak to you about the ball?’ he said.

‘Yes. Thanks for the vote of confidence.’ I couldn’t quite remove the hint of sarcasm from my tone. ‘I hope you don’t live to regret it.’

‘I’m sure you’ll do an excellent job.’ He gave me one of his enigmatic smiles. ‘Planning a wedding can’t be too dissimilar.’

Every time the word ‘wedding’ was mentioned I felt my cheeks burn up. I was going to have to wear thick concealing make-up or something at this rate. Or maybe I could pretend I had rosacea. ‘I’m going to check out the venue after work,’ I said. ‘And I’m thinking we should make it a costume ball. What do you think?’

‘That could work.’

I angled my head at him. ‘What costume would you wear?’

The twinkle was back in his gaze. ‘Now, that would be telling. You’ll have to wait and see.’

‘Will you bring a partner?’ I’m not sure why I asked that. Actually, I did know. I wanted to know what sort of woman he dated. I bet he would be a wonderful partner. He would be polite and respectful. He would open doors for his date and walk on the road side of the footpath. I bet he could dance, too, proper dancing as in a waltz. Andy mashed my toes to a pulp on the one occasion we waltzed. And he got horribly drunk and I had to get two security guards to help me bundle him into a taxi. Talk about embarrassing.

‘No.’

‘Why not? Surely you could ask someone.’