It was well past nine when Vee pried her lids open. She hefted a pillow off her head to find the sun up and the rest of the bed empty. So much for facing consequences of the night in the harsh light of day. If there was an uncomfortable, regretful conversation on the cards, it would have to wait. Joshua was on his grind and she had a day pass, thanks to Portia. Joshua had kept her awake all night long and not in the way she’d been hoping for. He’d worried that she really would slip into a coma and he’d be left with a body to explain. If she never had to play another game of chess or splash under a freezing shower again, it would be too soon.
She tottered to the bathroom, peed and scrutinised the damage in the mirror. The swelling was down, but her face was going for gold in the bruising category. A red splotch tainted the white of one eye. She sighed and poked it gingerly with a finger. It didn’t look too bad, and thank God she was a fast healer.
She slipped back into her clothes and wandered to the kitchen. Fresh coffee was in the pot, and on the counter a red apple lay on top of an envelope. She grinned and sank her teeth into the crispy, sweet flesh, grateful she didn’t have to trudge to the shops to buy her own.
She opened the envelope. ‘I’ve had better, but thanks,’ read Joshua’s note. Next to it, a hundred rand note.
‘Asshole,’ Vee giggled, and tucked the cash in her pocket. Even if bread money was all her passionate efforts were worth, she wasn’t going to turn it down. Times were hard.
After a huge sandwich, she tracked down her phone. A missed call from the office and an email from Chlöe. The latter bore positive news: Rachelle Duthie, the nurse acquainted with Sean’s case, had returned their call. She could squeeze in a quick chat over tea or lunch as her shifts were less hectic this week. Vee checked her watch. If she made for home now to freshen up she wouldn’t make tea, but she would just about make the lunch option. It was time to call on Nurse Duthie.
*
‘There was some talk.’
The view through the window was depressing. It looked out onto the WI’s west-facing lot, the centre of the construction work. The misshapen hole in the ground – it wasn’t a swimming pool yet, though that appeared to be the objective – looked like the site of a meteor crash. It was half finished, the aqua tiles rimming the circumference in stark contrast with the basin, sloshing with muddy water and debris. Flimsy metal fencing and strips of orange plastic mesh cordoned off the perimeter. Either the WI’s construction team had forgotten how unpredictable the weather was or time was pressing and they’d chosen to hedge their bets. Vee’s eyes hurt looking at it, and they’d had their share of pain to deal with already.
She turned her attention back to Rachelle. ‘Sorry, you were saying?’
They were sunning themselves on the terrace of a second floor café, the café itself tucked into a building dwarfed by the glittering WI across the road. Vee knew this area was an enclave for private hospitals and practices, for some odd reason; Kingsbury Hospital was a stone’s throw away. Looking around, it was obvious that the café was making change from its prime location. Vee estimated that half the customers sipping lattes and munching chicken wraps were in the healing business. Doctors were as easy to spot as cops: billboards on foreheads.
Rachelle eyed Vee’s blueberry muffin, so she pushed it towards her. Duthie wasn’t much older than Vee, but her chubbiness indicated it had been many kilos and a significantly lowered restraint since she’d been the slim nurse in the old photograph.
‘You said there was talk going around. What kind of talk?’ Vee asked. Duthie hadn’t told her anything new yet, recycling the Ian–Carina–Adele saga that had been an open secret on the ward, fully wrung of all its juices by now.
‘The medical community here isn’t so big. We know each other’s business. Dr Ian’s a prominent guy and whispers can take a long time to die down. Years ago, there was an incident when I was still at Claremont L&M.’ Rachelle took her time to finish the muffin, pausing for dramatic effect, then wiped her mouth. ‘Not long after Sean passed on, questions started flying around about how he climbed the transplant list so quickly. It usually takes months, years even, so naturally it drew some attention. CLM was tanking fast by then, so a lot of doctors were under fire or investigation for something or other. Most of it was bogus, noise generated in the panic. We were bleeding money and clients, and administration needed to point fingers.’
‘What exactly was Dr Fourie accused of?’
‘Oh, no, no, no,’ Rachelle pumped her hands, slow down. ‘He never got accused of anything, not formally. I’m talking rumours. Admin started a witch-hunt, saying it was quote unquote ‘highly questionable and unethical that a doctor would use his power or connections to turn favours for next of kin.’ Hospital policy.’ She shrugged. ‘It died down. Far as I know they had no hard evidence and there were bigger issues – who had time to chase whispers? The staff thought it was bloody cruel and we let them know. They’d just buried their child, where was the harm in dropping it?’
Vee took a sip of carrot and orange juice. The Fouries were well respected; only a mob of monsters would’ve harassed them until they got their pound of flesh. CLM had made the sensible choice. Or … Vee cocked her head. The heat from the peanut gallery may have died a natural death, or someone may have pissed all over it. Damning allegations didn’t disappear magically. Who, again, had the power to kick the legs out from under a thoroughbred, make it all appear groundless? Philemon ‘The Man’ Mtetwa, no less.
‘They’ve put all that behind them now. They’re both doing fantastic at WI. Ian’s aiming for head of the cardio unit, and from what I hear, and know, he deserves it. When the rest of us bolted from CLM, he broke his back to build it up again.’
‘You sure he’ll be the lucky man for the job?’
‘If ever there’s a man, he’s it. Though it might be a woman,’ Rachelle smiled at her gaffe. ‘That’s possible, too. It’s a brave new world, Miss Johnson. Women are up for everything now. Except maybe the things we used to be up for before, which are now suddenly beneath us.’ She gave a cynical turn of the mouth before picking up her chai tea. ‘Sorry, recent divorce. I find myself quoting my ex-arsehole too often.’ She sipped and cleared her throat. ‘But Ian’s the prime candidate, no question. He’d have to really mess up this time to get passed over.’
Vee leaned closer. Maybe there was an angle there. ‘So he doesn’t automatically get the division head appointment? He has to work for it.’ And make sure he doesn’t work against himself. Keep that past in the past.
‘Oh, yes. WI rounded up the finest staff and the competition’s hectic. Ian’s a shoo-in, he’s local and all that, but it’s not a given. The selection process involves a CV assessment, board review and performance evaluations. Colleagues can weigh in … You don’t want a black mark on your record, even in your private life.’
Sounds like a presidential race, Vee mused. For a man so upwardly mobile, Ian’s children were weights around his ankles. The rumours surrounding his son’s death, his extramarital affair, Jacqui’s disappearance … A lot of bad luck haunting one guy. No wonder he looked fit to pop a blood vessel every time he saw her. How far would a type-A achiever go to protect everything he’d worked for? And compared to that, what was Carina willing to do to save her family?