Chapter Three

Lucien

I never planned to end up working here. Not that it isn’t a decent hospital, because it is. It’s just that I was quite happy with my anonymous London existence. Being a square peg in a round hole is fine as long as there are other square pegs nearby with whom to compare notes. At St George’s there were plenty, but here, in sleepy, provincial Allenmouth Hospital Department of Anaesthesia and Intensive Care, I’m the only one. Probably the only gay in the village where I reside, too, and certainly the only gay in the anaesthetic department.

I share my office with two glamorous forty-something female consultant anaesthetists, who seem totally oblivious to my unfriendly demeanour. My other colleagues received the message loud and clear yonks ago: Dr Avery has no desire to make friends. Friends ask questions one has no desire to answer, and then one grows fond of them, or even grows to love them, and I can’t afford to lose anyone else I care about. I no longer have the emotional bandwidth to cope with that. The same goes for my intensive care patients; I try not to learn too much about them either. I prefer only to concentrate on the failing physiology of lungs and hearts and kidneys and my attempts to rectify it.

Believing I’d be the only consultant with an admin session this morning, I must have misread the rota, as Emily and Annabel are in the office, too, gossiping happily. Somehow, these two ladies managed to slip under the no-friends barrier when I wasn’t paying attention, and while we don’t socialise or anything, I like having them around every once in a while. Probably because they remind me of my mother and her old pals, how they used to share tea and cake in front of the Aga, putting the world to rights. Listening in on Emily and Annabel’s conversations, an eavesdropper would have no idea they are senior doctors as they succeed in covering every conceivable topic apart from any remotely related to medicine.

Our office is not much larger than an average-sized toilet cubicle, and I endeavour to turn my back to them, hunching over my laptop as they cover the usual litany of book club, last night’s telly, annoying husbands, the kids’ latest achievements, and another female anaesthetist’s appalling dress sense. This is the best bit, when they start to slag off our other colleagues and usually when I’m compelled to join in, especially if it concerns Dr Leitner, the head of department. Honestly? He’s a total cock. Chauvinistic, misogynistic, bigoted, homophobic; you name it, he fits the bill. I’m convinced I was only offered the job as he was on leave that day, and Emily stood in for him at the interview. Fortunately, she is none of those things. In fact, both she and Annabel are absolute sweeties. Although they don’t know it, they keep me sane. Sane-ish.

“And it’s not just that skirt either!” hisses Annabel, sotto voce. The aforementioned colleague with the appalling dress sense uses the office next door, so she’s keeping her voice down. “God knows who dyes her hair, but my eight-year-old could do a better job.”

Listening to these women bitching about our colleagues is easily the highlight of my day.

“Honestly, Annabel,” whispers Emily after a quick glance round. “I was in the theatre changing rooms on Tuesday, and I’m not joking, she has pubic hair down to her knees! It’s like the Amazon rainforest down there! I’m not surprised she can’t find herself a man.”

“I’d love to take her somewhere for a makeover,” responds Emily dreamily. “You know, decent haircut and colour, new clothes, a razor… She’d be all right if she sorted that lot out.”

I can’t stay quiet any longer. “Gosh, and a decent bra. She needs to go for a proper bra fitting. Her boobs flap around her hips.”

“I knew you were listening, Lucien,” nudges Annabel, delighted they’ve provoked me sufficiently to join in. “Maybe you could suggest that to her sometime.”

“No, darling. Then I’d find myself embroiled in some sort of conversation with her; she’d corner me for hours, droning on about stationery or the new photocopier or another equally dreary topic.”

“Good heavens, Lucien, you mean that you would actually have to talk to someone?” Emily replies sarcastically.

“It has been known,” I respond.

Annabel butts in. “Stop bickering, you two. Look, I have an email here from the Education Lead. The junior doctors are swapping around this week, and we’ve all been assigned a new one to supervise.”

Marvellous, a role I usually try to dodge. I’d rather not supervise a junior if I can help it, preferring splendid isolation in the operating theatre—just the patient asleep, the steady hiss-pump of the anaesthetic machine, and the Scrabble app on my phone. Or a copy of the Telegraph crossword. While the surgeon does all the work. But every now and again, the powers that be insist I show an interest in the education and training of the next generation. I’ll probably be assigned a super-keen girly swot who bursts into tears the first time I give her a bollocking—sorry, some comprehensive constructive feedback. And she’ll report me to Dr Leitner, and I’ll have to pretend I’m bothered that I hurt her feelings or some such crap. Bloody strawberry generation. Annabel is still reading out loud from the email.

“Ooh, I’ve been assigned to supervise someone called Dr Wang Xiu,” reads Annabel, hesitating over the surname. “Who is a complete anaesthetic novice and apparently has a needle phobia. Oh dear, that doesn’t bode well for his future career choice. Who the hell gets on the interview panels at med school these days? Emily, you’ve got that girl we talked about in the meeting—you remember, she keeps on failing the final exam? I think she’s on her sixth attempt.”

Emily nods in a resigned fashion. At least I haven’t been allocated that unfortunate soul; the level of patience required to mop up that ocean of tears is well beyond me.

“And you, Lucien my love, have the pleasure of a chap called Dr Jay Sorrentino, a first-year registrar. Hmm…that’s a name I don’t recognise. According to this, he’s been a doctor for six years, has completed three years of anaesthesia training already, has passed the final exam, and is interested in pursuing a career in intensive care medicine.”

Okay, so it could be worse. At least he’ll be able to vaguely recognise one end of a propofol syringe from the other. Inexplicably, Emily has started squealing and wriggling in her chair.

“Ooh, Lucien, it’s Goldenballs! Remember? I told you about him. I interviewed him for the registrar job back in April. He wasn’t supposed to be starting for another couple of weeks, due to his honeymoon or something, if I recall? Maybe they mixed up the dates as he’s coming earlier instead. Oh, you are seriously going to love him! There was no way on earth I wasn’t going to give him the job when we interviewed.”

I disliked him already. “Pray, what gives you the impression I’ll love him? I have an aversion to all juniors on principle.”

“For goodness sake, Lucien, stop being so mean. For a start, he’s bloody gorgeous. I mean, really gorgeous. His CV was quite impressive, too, and he was so nice.” She nods happily. “It’s about time this department had some eye candy—present company excepted, obviously.”

“Obviously,” I agree magnanimously. “The gorgeous, clever, and nice Dr Goldenballs. You make a boy giddy with anticipation.”

“Now, now, don’t be catty, Lucien. You’re also gorgeous, and your CV was just as amazing. You only need to work on the niceness part, and then you, too, could be as lovely as Dr Sorrentino. Rather foxy shirt today, by the way,” Emily adds, looking me up and down. “Navy really suits your fairness. Is it Ted Baker?”

“Yves Saint Laurent.”

No point having oodles of cash if you don’t spend some of it on yourself occasionally. But she’s right, navy does work with this ridiculous snowy hair and my pale complexion. Sighing in a world-weary fashion, I study my nails.

“So, when do I get to meet this amazing, gorgeous Dr Jay Sorrentino, then, so I can bring him down a peg or two? Or is he still enjoying a lavish honeymoon somewhere?”

Emily frowns at me. “Don’t be so naughty, Lucien! No, he’s not on his honeymoon; he’s starting today with the rest of them, which you would have known if you’d listened properly and read your own emails! They are having an induction session this morning, and then Dr Leitner will be boring them with his welcome-to-the-department speech at lunchtime; therefore, I expect the lovely Dr Sorrentino will be joining you in the operating theatre this afternoon. And I’m confident you will give him a super, cuddly Dr Avery welcome.”

Huh. So my afternoon plans to listen to the test match during the long spinal surgery case are completely scuppered. Instead, I’m going to have to make polite chit-chat with a cocky boy who thinks he’s made of chocolate. And he will expect me to talk to him; I’ll feel obliged to ask him about his previous anaesthesia training, his future professional development plans, and maybe even try to teach him something useful. Ugh, just kill me now.

*

Lunchtime. I don’t really do food, not in the way everyone else likes to wolf down packets of cardboard sandwiches and bumper bags of crisps as if they’ll turn into a pile of useless goo on the floor halfway through the afternoon without them. I’ll maybe snack on an apple if my day is turning out to be particularly taxing, but truthfully, I haven’t much of an appetite these days, and cooking for one lacks a certain appeal. I like marmite, and I like apples, sometimes I like them both together. And for supper, when I summon the energy to eat, I’m partial to Waitrose macaroni cheese. If the mood takes me, I’ll occasionally swap the macaroni cheese for a bowl of organic granola. My diet has most of the basic food groups covered. The remainder of my calories and vitamin C come from Campari and orange, with a splash of soda. And on high days and holidays, I may treat myself to a slice of Battenberg cake.

But if I don’t join the others in the departmental coffee room for ten minutes at lunchtime, then Emily and Annabel will accuse me of being unsociable, and frankly, I could do without the nagging. So when the time comes, I retrieve my apple from my Louis Vuitton briefcase and trail after them.

Comprehensively blocking the doorway to the coffee room is a wide set of shoulders tapering to a sturdy set of hips, covered in blue theatre pyjamas stretched pleasantly snugly over aforementioned shoulders and hips. Not strictly my thing, but appreciated, nonetheless. The dark-haired owner of the rugger-bugger shoulders and the fine, muscular derriere is studying a paper copy of the operating theatre rota and wrinkling his brow.

“Hello, Jay!” says Emily. “Welcome to Allenmouth; it’s good to see you again! Are you finding your way around okay?”

The shoulders hastily move to one side to let us through, and the owner of the shoulders smiles politely, his mouth splitting into a naturally generous grin. Good teeth. “Hello, Dr Grosvenor, how are you?”

The voice is warm and deep, confident, with a Midland inflection. Not full Brummy, thank goodness, the vowels flattened on just about the right side of acceptable.

“Oh, call me Emily.” She giggles, the flirtatious little minx, and then turns to me and Annabel. “Let me introduce you to everybody, Jay. This is my good friend and colleague, Annabel Creasey—she’s our lead paediatric anaesthetist if you have a burning desire to follow that career pathway, and this…” She tugs me forwards by the sleeve. “And this lovely man is Dr Lucien Avery, one of my intensive care colleagues. More importantly, he has the pleasure of being your educational supervisor for the year!”

Since the dreadful day, eighteen months ago, when my beloved parents and brother were unexpectedly wiped out in a horrific helicopter crash, I’ve become quite adept at schooling my features into a bland mask of politeness. For instance, when well-meaning acquaintances tell me how sorry they are for my loss, and then, with concerned frowns, go on to enquire as to how I’m coping. Or, if I bump into a tenant from one of the estate cottages, who begins a lengthy reminiscence about what a delightful man my father was, and do I remember the time that…? The expressionless mask is essential in those circumstances because the alternative would be utterly unthinkable. How do you think I’m coping, you stupid dumb wit? Yes, I know how wonderful my father was; I’m his fucking son. My brother and mother were pretty fucking wonderful too, just in case you think you need to remind me of that as well. None of those are considered acceptable responses for Lord Duchamps-Avery, the sixteenth Earl of Rossingley.

The expressionless mask is also pretty handy when one is faced with the hunky olive-skinned chap who, approximately eleven days earlier, gave you an impromptu blow job in a seedy nightclub and swallowed mouthfuls of your spunk. I put my mask practice to good use and extend my hand.

“Hello. Jay Sorrentino, isn’t it? I’m Lucien Avery; good to meet you.”

Jay Sorrentino clearly has not practiced the mask. From Emily’s brief résumé, it sounds like his life is perfect; he’s probably never needed to acquire it. His rather lovely face turns from lightly tanned through a greyish white to a sweaty green. His large hand in mine is instantly clammy.

“Are you all right, Jay?” asks Emily with concern. “Has Dr Avery’s reputation preceded him? Honestly, don’t believe a word of it. He’s a pussycat, aren’t you Lucien?”

The Italian Stallion pulls himself together somewhat. “Er…yes. Thank you, Dr Grosvenor…er…Emily. I’m fine. I…er…it’s…there’s just a lot to take in.”

“There certainly is,” I reply gravely, maintaining a straight face. “An enormous amount to take in.”

The innuendo is lost on the two ladies. Rapidly releasing my hand, my new protégé wipes his sweaty palm down his theatre scrubs. I make a show of checking the time. “So, Dr Sorrentino. Have a quick lunch now, and I’ll see you in Theatre Seven at one fifteen. It’s a spinal surgery list, but don’t worry about assessing the patients beforehand; I’ll do that.”

He nods dumbly before making a sharp exit, possibly to vomit in the nearest toilet.

Well, this will be interesting. Maybe I’m not the only square peg after all.