In Ash’s experience, patients could react in perplexing ways to his diagnoses. Some laughed upon being told they had a serious illness. Others became angry when the complaint proved minor, or took umbrage that he did not support what the internet had assured them they were suffering from, apparently preferring to have a fatal disease than a temporary atopic rash.
He’d become resigned to being confused by those initial responses, but in this case, he felt he was on firmer ground. When a patient clutched their head and groaned, ‘No, no, please God, no-o,’ he could, with some certainty, assume they weren’t entirely happy.
‘But I can’t be.’ Sidney Gillespie’s whole expression was a rictus of despair. ‘We use contraception. Every time. Without fail.’
‘Unfortunately, no form of contraception, bar abstinence, has been proved one hundred per cent effective. So even if you did use prevention without fail,’ said Ash, ‘the method itself would not necessarily follow suit.’
‘God, why me?’ Sidney expelled the phrase with vigour. ‘Was I a truly appalling person in a past life? Do I have to be taught every lesson in the book in this one?’
‘Forgive me if I’m being obtuse,’ Ash ventured, ‘but what makes it so catastrophic?’
Sidney looked at him as if he had asked why everyone was so concerned about climate change.
‘I already have two children,’ she said, enunciating carefully in case he missed a vital point, ‘whom I struggle enough to provide for. The youngest is ten, which is a significant age gap, and to be honest, the prospect of returning to sleepless nights, nappies and breastfeeding makes me want to seize your paperknife and stab it through my heart. I have known the father of this child for approximately twenty seconds and have no idea what his plans are for staying in the country, let alone with me. Nor do I know what my feelings are on the matter of long-term commitment. I’m thirty-three, and I’ve been quite looking forward to having grown-up children in my forties. Now, given today’s insanely expensive and uncertain world, I’ll probably have my gold card before this one leaves home. Unlike more maternally minded women, I found most aspects of toddler rearing mind-numbingly repetitive, and I’ve been enjoying my children more the older and more articulate they become. I worry about my children’s happiness and future every day, and adding in a third might tip me over the edge of sanity. I put on dramatic amounts of weight during both my pregnancies, and, as you can see, my body was determined keep most of it, and I was young then and much more physically resilient. The father is ginger, so what are the odds this one will face a lifetime of social ostracism and ridicule? My house has only two bedrooms, and it isn’t fair to ask my boys to share with a wailing infant. This is all covered under patient confidentiality, right?’
It took Ash a second to realise he’d been asked a question.
‘Yes, of course.’
Sidney’s eyes narrowed, like a teacher who’d spotted a pupil masticating a spitball.
‘And you won’t become loose-lipped after a few beers at the Boat Shed?’
‘I promise you that I have never discussed a patient with any person at any time, including friends or family.’
Fair to say that he never discussed anything with family.
‘What about Mac?’
Ash’s sense was that Mac would not let patient information be prised from her cold, dead hands. But, let’s face it, Magnus Torvaldsen’s was the only file she had not read in detail.
‘Mac will not communicate anything that you do not wish her to,’ was the best he could offer.
‘Shit,’ said Sidney.
Ash could sympathise. Knowing Mac was aware that you were wrangling with a tough situation amplified the pressure like a thumb on your carotid artery.
‘You do have options,’ said Ash.
‘Hmm,’ said Sidney. ‘I guess the point I need to get clear on is whether that choice is entirely mine. How long do I have to procrastinate?’
‘To be on the safe side, I’d leave it no more than a week. The, er, termination clinic in Hampton is short-staffed and over-booked, and if you are too close to twelve weeks, then that option may no longer be available to you.’
‘Can you give me a plausible cover story? Food poisoning?’
‘Unfortunately, most types of food poisoning will last no more than a few days. We could say we are testing for giardia? That can linger in the system, and does cause bloating, fatigue and nausea.’
‘Super.’
‘However, it is also a notifiable disease, and you would not be allowed around children or your workplace.’
‘Not super.’ Sidney sighed. ‘I’ll just have to bluff it out. Say you haven’t a clue.’
‘I will do my best to bear the slur on my reputation,’ said Ash.
Sidney seemed reluctant to leave. Ash could sympathise. Big problems felt smaller when you could share them with people who could offer perspective and reassurance. His consuming infatuation with Emma Reid, for example, shrunk to the proportions of a mere schoolboy crush in the company of Magnus and Oksana. Particularly Oksana, who dismissed anything she considered nonsense with a single wave of her hand and a ‘Pfff’ — an exhalation she could invest with remarkable scorn.
‘Feel free to phone me any time,’ said Ash. ‘I am not a bad listener.’
‘Thanks.’ Sidney’s smile was wan but grateful. ‘Be warned. I might take you up on that.’
‘I’ll come out to the front desk with you,’ said Ash. ‘I may be able to distract Mac from asking questions.’
‘You’re a prince among men, Dr Ghadavi,’ Sidney told him as he held the door.
Ash let his chest swell for around two seconds, the time it took for him to see who was talking to Mac at the desk. And then an iron fist punched right through said chest and ripped out his trembling heart.
‘Hey, Emma,’ said Sidney. ‘What happened?’
‘She got smacked in the eye by a branch,’ said Mac.
‘Mum insisted I come here.’ Emma held a compress to her face. ‘Said I’d be waiting hours at Hampton A and E.’
‘Ouch. Hope it’s not serious.’
Sidney handed her bank card to Mac, who completed the transaction with speed and without chat, which was probably why Sidney winked at Ash on her way out. At least, Ash thought he caught a wink on the periphery of his vision. Difficult to tell when he could not stop staring at what he assumed was his next patient.
‘I know it’s your lunch break,’ Mac said to him. ‘And she’s not registered with us but with a clinic in Hampton because she didn’t want me knowing her business. But she’s here now. You don’t mind, do you?’
It was not actually a question. And even if it were, Ash would have only one answer.
‘Of course not.’
He gestured to his consulting room, the door of which he was mildly surprised to find he still held open. ‘Please. Come this way.’
Ash regretted that he’d not had time to check his breath, but as there was no way to examine an eyeball without being in close proximity, all he could do was keep his mouth shut and try not to exhale until he was back behind his desk.
‘Luckily, the corneal abrasion is only superficial,’ he said. ‘And it should heal within two to three days. I will give you a prescription for antibiotic drops.’
‘Hurts like hell,’ said Emma. ‘Like I’ve got a chunk of pumice in my eye.’
‘Yes, even small abrasions can be very painful. You must do your best not to rub it.’
Ash completed the prescription and handed it to her.
‘Do you also require a note for your employer?’ he asked. ‘I would recommend that you take the rest of the day off. Guard against irritants that could cause infection.’
She screwed up her mouth. It did not diminish her beauty one whit.
‘Can’t. Have to drive a friend home at the end of the day.’
‘The friend cannot take a taxi?’
‘We’re not all on a GP’s pay,’ she said, with a derision that stabbed him right in the heart that would have been there had the iron fist not plucked it out.
‘No, indeed.’
He agreed hastily, while quashing the urge to point out that in terms of doctors’ salaries, he could only earn less if he volunteered for Médecins Sans Frontières. And besides, wasn’t being a small town doctor an honourable profession? He was a community GP, not some Jaguar-driving Harley Street surgeon.
But now was not the time to quibble. Emma was on her feet, eager, he hoped, to get back to what she was doing, rather than be free of his presence. In a few seconds, she’d be out the door and gone. He hesitated for two reasons, the first professional; an inappropriate relationship could mean the end of his career. But before entering the country, Ash had carefully studied the guidelines, and a one-off minor consultation with a patient who would from now on be visiting her usual doctor was within the bounds of propriety. The second and more troublesome hesitation was purely personal — was he about to make whacking great fool of himself?
In his mind, he heard Magnus say, ‘If you’re going to make an error, make it one worth remembering.’
And Oksana had once seen a Siberian tiger prowling near her bus stop, and had stayed put because the tiger did not have to earn a living and she did.
Her hand was on the doorknob. Now or never.
‘Emma, I, um, that is to say …’
He had her attention. Or, at least, she’d turned back with a look of bemused impatience.
‘I realise that I am close to being a complete stranger to you,’ he pressed on. ‘But would you consider coming for a drink with me next Friday evening, and by that I mean not this Friday but the one after? And not at your father’s establishment, which is not to say that it is not excellent, but perhaps at a cocktail lounge, if such a thing exists, or upmarket bar in Hampton? Of course, you will undoubtedly have a full social schedule, so if next Friday is too short notice then—’
‘Sure.’
‘—we could …’ His brain caught up with his ears. ‘Pardon me?’
‘I said: Sure. Drink. Not this Friday but the one after. Meet you here at six.’
And she smiled, and shut the door behind her.
Was he dreaming? Ash replayed the words and they seemed supremely unambiguous. Yet, how could she have answered in that way? In the affirmative? Without hesitating?
He pictured her face as she spoke. Was there mockery in her expression? But apart from broken capillaries and wateriness in her left eye, she appeared as open and flawless as always. Unfazed, as if such invitations were ten a penny, which given her beauty, they probably were—
No. He should arrest this unprofitable line of thinking. He had dared to ask, and she had said yes. He should consider that a victory. Completely unexpected and confusing, but a victory nonetheless.
But why? Why had she said yes? What was it that had persuaded her? He was not unsightly, but he did not have the charisma of his older brothers, the confidence that illuminated their handsomeness and drew beautiful women to them like moths, though said women would have done well to heed the simile, as relationships with his brothers tended likewise to be short and brutal.
That, too, could be a perverse part of the attraction. Ash had been told by one girl he’d fancied that he was too nice, as if niceness were akin to having terrible taste in clothes — a flaw that made him embarrassing to be seen with. His mother also viewed niceness as a flaw, but one of character. Boiled down, her advice had been for him to grow a spine. He needed to be more commanding, more certain, more upright and one thousand per cent less apologetic. Stray dogs begging for scraps had more dignity than he did. More authority, too.
Had Emma said ‘yes’ to be kind, because she felt sorry for him? Felt that, like a stray dog, he needed to be rescued?
And what about the rumours that she was already spoken for? Ash had heard about the man with dreadlocks, but no one had yet confirmed that he and Emma were an item. He would not have asked her out had he been certain she was committed to another. And if she were in a relationship, why would she say ‘yes’? Perhaps to make the dreadlocked beau jealous? Was Ash only a pawn in an emotional game?
There was no one he could ask. Except Magnus, of course, but any answer he gave would be purely theoretical, not knowing Emma from a bar of Pears.
Mac would know, and Devon, Emma’s best friend, but to confide in them would be to invite ridicule. If Ash were to be completely honest, it might also confirm the suspicions that continued to worm away. Emma was a goddess, and goddesses did not fall for mere mortals, especially ones who resembled stray dogs. Emma quite possibly had a boyfriend and might be using Ash for her own ends. Emma might have a whole other reason for wanting to humiliate him that his brain hadn’t yet managed to conjure up.
Next Friday. He would know in ten days. And until then, he would have to keep the secret to himself, unable to share his fears or, as he still wanted to, shout about it from the rooftops.
A knock on the door at the same time it was opened — why did she bother? Mac entered, bearing a cup of tea and a sandwich.
Ash’s stomach did a nasty flip. Emma would surely have told her mother about his clumsy invitation. All this time he’d been agonising, they’d probably been having a good old chortle.
Mac placed the tea and roll on his desk. Ash could hardly bear to face her.
‘Thanks for seeing Emma.’
She sounded sincere. No trace of scorn or levity.
Ash risked it. She looked as she always did — like a short fluffy-haired prison guard whom even the convicts with tattooed eyelids wouldn’t dare disobey.
‘You’re very welcome,’ he said. ‘Thank you for bringing me lunch.’
‘It’s tuna. All they had left. Like it or lump it.’
‘I’m fond of tuna.’
‘Sheila Swanson’s here in ten,’ said Mac. ‘I thought when Doctor Love retired we’d seen the back of her, but no. Menopausal symptoms for the last decade, apparently.’
‘It can happen.’
‘Well, you’re the doctor,’ said Mac. ‘But I’d advise you to play it cool. One minute, you’re expressing sympathy about a dry vagina, and the next, you have visitors dropping in with cake. Your Sunday afternoons will no longer be your own.’
‘Warning heeded,’ said Ash. ‘I’ll, as you say, play it cool.’
An excellent strategy for next Friday night, he thought, as she closed the door.
If only he would work out how on earth to do it.