Chapter Four

Jay

My head is all over the place. I get lost on the way to the operating theatres, even though I’ve been there already this morning and have a map of the hospital layout on the rota in front of me. It’s him! Christ, the man from the nightclub, it’s him! I can’t believe it; of all the thousands, nay millions, of gay men in London, I had to pick one who doesn’t even live in bloody London and is going to be my educational supervisor for the next year. Just fucking shoot me now.

Come on, Jay, I tell myself, get yourself together. It could be much worse. He could have recognised me, and he could be laughing right this minute about my amateur blow job to Emily and that other doctor, and then everyone would know what I’d done. But he didn’t recognise me, I’m sure of it, he was cool as a cucumber. No, he definitely didn’t recognise me, not a flicker of recognition. I’d have known. I’d have seen it in his eyes or something. Thank God it was so dark in that fucking nightclub.

If I were at some sort of Alcoholics Anonymous-type therapy meeting, I’d introduce myself like this: Hello, my name is Jay Sorrentino, and I’m a closet homosexual. Possibly homosexual. No, scratch that. Probably, definitely homosexual, although the extent of my homosexual experience is giving a beautiful stranger a blow job in a nightclub. Once. A week before I was due to get married to my lovely, long-term girlfriend, Ellie. Of course, it’s not that I need therapy because I think I’m gay. Being gay is fine, like being born left-handed or having a lifelong hatred of mushrooms. No, I need therapy because I was too dumb to realise I was gay and nearly got myself fucking married to a woman.

After diving into one of the changing room toilet cubicles, I slump onto the closed toilet seat and take a few deep breaths. My pulse slows. First things first. Dr Lucien Avery is fucking stunning. The most stunning man in the history of stunning mankind. He looks even better than my hazy recollection from the club. And he’s tall, taller than I remembered, slim and graceful like a dancer.

Evan nearly pissed himself laughing when I told him who I’d been assigned as my educational supervisor for the coming year. He’s already been working at Allenmouth for six months on the surgical rotation and has plenty of tales about the legendary Androgynous Albino, most of them centring around the fact that he’s scary as hell. He said it served me right for the wedding fiasco, and that after a day spent in the operating theatre with Dr Avery, I’d be begging Ellie to take me back, if only to mop my brow when I wake from recurring nightmares about him.

Dr Lucien Avery is not an albino, just very, very fair. His hair is white-blond, the same colour as Boris Johnson’s, but any similarity most definitely ends there. Dr Avery’s hair is longish and sleeked back off his smooth, pale face, highlighting those amazing cheekbones. He’s like a Jean Paul Gaultier aftershave model in a magazine advert, one of the not quite real, airbrushed, impossibly beautiful ones who are too pretty to be male but too masculine to be female. Um…androgynous, in fact. And his eyes—the palest shimmering blue. I hadn’t fully appreciated them in the dark club when I was on my knees with my mouth stretched around his knob.

Quickly checking the time on my phone, I take a few more deep breaths. He’ll be expecting me to join him in less than three minutes. I’ll just walk right in there and brazen it out. I can do this; I’m ‘Goldenballs’ apparently.

I arrive in Theatre Seven’s anaesthetic room ahead of Dr Avery and ahead of the patient. Thank God—it’s always a good move to arrive before the boss. The anaesthetic nurse is a cheerful chap in his late fifties called Roger, and I introduce myself.

“You drew the short straw today, then,” he remarks as we prepare the intravenous drugs together and perform a safety check of the anaesthetic machine. “He’s never very straightforward. My advice to you? Only speak when you’re spoken to and concentrate on the pint of beer you’ll be having afterwards. You’ll need at least one by the time he’s finished with you.”

Great. This day is getting better and better.

Just then, Dr Avery sweeps into the room, giving Roger a curt nod. I receive the same treatment. A diamond stud twinkles in his left ear, and from my recent engagement ring shopping, I can confidently estimate the stone as at least a carat, defying all the hospital health and safety rules. I hadn’t noticed it when we were introduced in the coffee room as I was too busy focussing on not passing out. He’s changed into theatre pyjamas, too, obviously. It’s pretty difficult to look good in cheap blue cotton, but somehow, he manages it; they hang from his angular frame as though specially designed for him.

“Would you like to go and fetch the first patient, Roger?” he suggests. Actually, it’s not a suggestion; from the tone, it’s a definite command dressed up as a suggestion. He is soft-spoken, but his voice is clear, nonetheless, and unapologetically upper class. It’s not camp exactly, but neither is it manly—more breathy, seductive. Full red lips, the briefest hint of the tip of his pink tongue. Fuck. Roger scuttles off.

“You can watch me anaesthetise the first patient, Jay, so that you know how I like to do things, seeing as we will be working together a lot. That way, I shan’t be subjected to you demonstrating all the bad habits you’ve undoubtedly picked up from elsewhere.”

He flashes me a small, slightly threatening smile, and I glimpse neat white teeth and pointy canines. If I wasn’t feeling so het up, I’d be drooling. His looks and the aloof, moody thing he’s got going are sexy as hell.

“I’ve drawn up the anaesthetic drugs, Dr Avery,” I venture. Why am I so bloody nervous? I’m a twenty-nine-year-old bloke. And a reasonably successful, fairly popular doctor to boot. I remind myself that he’s only a bloke too. “Roger told me your preferences, but if you could just check.” Feeling bolder, I add, “Do you like to be called Dr Avery, or do you prefer Lucien?”

He rewards me with a sphincter-loosening look. Shit, I’ve overstepped the mark. Already.

“I prefer Dr Avery, thank you, Jay,” he responds crisply. Stepping closer, he brings those delectable red lips to my ear. “Sucking my cock, darling, doesn’t give you permission to use my Christian name. Especially as you didn’t even perform that particularly well.”

The cut-glass, whispering voice is menacingly low, and he throws the words out so casually that, for a split second, I’m convinced I must have misheard. He steps back again, seemingly unperturbed.

“You…you recognised me straightaway, didn’t you?” I stutter, weak-kneed. My heart has leapt up to my throat.

“I’d recognise the top of your curly dark head anywhere, Dr Sorrentino. Your mouth, too, probably.”

What an utter bastard.

He’s waited until we’re alone before twisting the knife. Bastard. But how the hell he managed not to reveal anything in front of his colleagues earlier, I don’t know. I doubt he’s a closet gay like me—he goes to gay clubs for a start, but he must have ice running through his veins not to have shown any shock at all when we met.

Fuck him. And his fucking taunt. I might be quivering like a jelly baby on the inside and about to see my whole life fall apart, but I’m not giving him the satisfaction of witnessing it. I’ll disintegrate in private later. I’ve just got to get through this afternoon first. And then all the other afternoons we’ll have to spend together. Those lips though. Fuck. I breathe deeply, steeling myself.

“I’m sorry if I disappointed you, Lucien. You didn’t have many complaints at the time.” I hope my voice sounds a lot steadier than I feel. “Hmm. Lucien.” I roll the fanciful name round my tongue a few times. “I’m not sure about that, a little too similar to Lucifer. Living proof that nominative determinism is actually a thing.”

Okay, so it’s not the greatest of comebacks, but on short notice and chop suey legs, it could have been a hell of a lot worse. I mimic his own movement from a few seconds earlier and lean in close to those flawless features. “And considering I’ve never sucked a cock before in my entire life, I don’t think I did too bad a job. It achieved the desired outcome pretty quickly at least. Trigger happy, I think is the term for it.”

I’m satisfied to see a slight tinge of pink cross his lovely cheekbones. Not completely bloodless, then.

The doors open, and thankfully, Roger returns, pushing an elderly lady on a trolley before him. “There you go, my dear,” he says to her. “This is the anaesthetic room, and here’s Dr Avery waiting for you.”

If I thought he had ice running through his veins a few seconds earlier, then he has pure warmth running through them now. His bedside manner is a masterclass in how to put an anxious patient at ease before surgery. Even his voice softens and relaxes, his upper crust accent less pronounced as Roger attaches her to the monitoring. Lucien inserts a cannula into her arm, all the while keeping up a reassuring patter. In the space of about three minutes, they’ve covered the latest happenings on Coronation Street and the price of lamb in Asda, and before she knows it, she’s anaesthetised, and we’re wheeling her through into the operating theatre.

This afternoon’s operating list comprises two patients undergoing spinal surgery. Lucien—sorry—Dr Avery introduces me to the theatre team and to the surgeon, Mr Bayer, who is as smiley and open as Lucien is surly and uptight. Lucien expertly leads the team in turning the patient onto her belly, which isn’t as straightforward as it sounds when she is anaesthetised and has intravenous lines, a breathing tube, and a catheter, but an essential task seeing as how the surgeon needs to stick a knife in her back. He keeps up an explanation of his rationale for all the steps he’s taking as we go along. As we fall into the familiar teacher-pupil role, I calm down a little, and he responds to my, hopefully, sensible questions with comprehensive answers.

The best way to describe delivering anaesthesia is that it is like flying a plane, with the most challenging moments at take-off and landing or, in our case, drifting the patient off to sleep and waking them up again. For the vast majority of non-emergency surgeries, the boring bit in the middle—when the surgeon is operating—is straightforward. Apart from the anaesthetist required to be constantly present to monitor the patient and manage intravenous drugs and fluids, there is often an opportunity to sit back and relax. Unless the anaesthetist is me and I’m cosied up next to a very un-cosy Dr Avery, who has extended his long legs out on the adjacent chair and is writing up patient observations on the anaesthetic chart with a rather stylish fountain pen. There isn’t a lot of space, and we are both wedged together between the anaesthetic machine, the X-ray machine, and the operating table. His knee accidentally brushes against mine.

“Tell me, Jay, are you a local boy?”

Okay, so we’re doing the small talk thing and pretending our previous conversation never happened. I’m very cool with that plan. I explain that I moved down from the Midlands a few years ago, after I qualified, and bought a house in town.

“Live there alone, do you?”

His knee touches mine again, and this time, he leaves it resting there, outwardly oblivious and from the tone of his voice, bored with my company already. Through the thin cotton of our theatre pyjamas, I’m acutely aware of the warmth of his leg and struggle to concentrate on anything else. The only way this could get any worse is if I find myself developing a boner just from having his lean but muscular thigh pressed alongside mine. Um…okay, so it just got worse. Fuck. I hastily cover my lap with the patient’s thick set of medical notes. I seem to have acquired a stutter as well as an inconvenient erection.

“Er…no. I…um…I live with my…er, ex-fiancée, Ellie? She’s…um…a doctor too. She’s training in the Emergency Department.”

He raises one eyebrow and continues writing. “Fairly recent break-up, is it?”

I don’t actually have to answer these questions if I don’t want to. He’s my educational supervisor, not my counsellor. But on the face of it, this is fairly standard anaesthetic chat when you have an operating list with someone new. Actually, it’s harmless chat for any new acquaintance of the ‘what’s your name’ and ‘where do you come from’ variety. Anyone listening would think nothing of it. But of course, anyone listening doesn’t know that I sucked his knob eleven days ago. Not yet anyway. Christ, I’ve made a shitty mess of my life recently.

“Er…yeah. You could say that. We’d been together for about four years.”

Another raise of a shapely pale eyebrow. I feel the need to clarify.

“It’s complicated. I’d rather not explain. Sorry.”

“Don’t feel you have to explain yourself to me, Dr Sorrentino. Although it’s always refreshing to meet someone even more fucked up than I am.”

He pauses and sucks on his pen thoughtfully. “So I take it she found out about your extracurricular activities?”

I feel myself blushing. “I don’t…I don’t have any extracurricular activities. Generally. That was…er…a one-off. And no, she didn’t. Find out, I mean. No one knows apart from you. I’m…um… Everyone thinks I’m straight.”

He laughs; I glimpse those pointy teeth again. I’d probably find the whole situation funny, too, if I didn’t play the starring role. He deliberately looks down at my lap and where the notes are strategically placed across it before bringing those knowing, languid blue eyes back up to me. Fuck, is he wearing mascara?

“Gosh, I hate to be the one to break it to you, sunshine. But you are not straight. There’s definitely a wiggle in there. And I should know.”

And then he’s grilling me on the pharmacokinetic profile of fentanyl and its shorter acting derivatives, with barely a pause. To be fair, I don’t think I do too badly, considering he’s just frightened me half to death. And it certainly rectifies the trouser situation.

*

The afternoon eventually drags to a close. Conversation stays firmly away from the personal; indeed, Dr Avery becomes quieter and quieter, withdrawing into himself until we find ourselves sitting in total silence with about half an hour of surgery remaining. And it’s not a particularly comfortable silence either.

“Dr Avery, I’m sure you have lots of things to do. I’m happy to finish this operation if you like,” I suggest.

The patient is young and fit, and the surgery is progressing uneventfully. Thankfully, he acquiesces and disappears, whereupon the mood in the whole operating theatre immediately lightens. Someone puts on some music, and the surgeon and his assistant start discussing last night’s football. Taking the vacated chair, Roger pats me on the back.

“You didn’t do too badly, son,” he pronounces sagely. “We’ve seen worse. At least I didn’t have to get my box of tissues out. I think he likes you.”

God help the ones he doesn’t like. I’ve done a lot of operating lists with all sorts of different consultants over the last three years, and that was by far the most gruelling.

“Yes, well, I think maybe he needs to work on his interpersonal skills,” I answer diplomatically, and Roger nods his agreement.

“If you ask me, I think the bloke’s just lonely,” he says. “He ain’t got a partner or much family as far as anyone knows, and whether he’s batting for the other side or not, everyone needs someone to go home to. But with his attitude, I’m not surprised he ain’t got anyone—you would be a bloody fool to take him on.”

*

After the operation finishes and the patient is awake and comfortable in the post-operative recovery area, I take a quick shower in the changing room before putting my civvies back on. Evan has texted, wanting to meet up/harangue me in the pub later. I delay replying—my nerves are too shredded to face a further bout of ‘you’re making a fucking monumental mistake, Jay’. As I’m walking through the operating suite on my way out, one of the nurses from Theatre Seven comes running up to me.

“Dr Sorrentino! Great, I caught you just in time! Either you or Dr Avery left your phone on top of the anaesthetic machine.”

She hands me a slim, rose-gold iPhone, the little Apple logo in rainbow colours. Subtle and cute. Pressing the home button reveals a generic screen saver and a locked screen. Bloody marvellous, just what I need. I’m tempted to leave it on his desk in the department, but if he’s anything like me he’d be lost without it, and the department isn’t securely locked at night. On checking the rota, he’s not due back at work for another couple of days, so with a heavy heart, I contact switchboard and request his home phone number and address. As I head out to my car, I text Ellie to warn her I may be a little late home. Not that she’ll give a stuff, but it will give her more time to spit in my dinner. I ignore Evan, putting him off for a little longer.

After plugging the post code into the satnav, I set off. Estimated time of arrival is in twenty-five minutes, and the journey takes me south out of town, through some small villages, an unfamiliar route I don’t travel very often. My parents live about an hour’s drive north of Allenmouth, and most of my friends are London or Midlands–based. I sit back, switch on the radio, and let the satnav do the work. I’ll just go there, hand the phone over, and get straight back in the car.

Your destination is on the left.

Towns have turned into villages and villages have turned into hamlets. Even the hamlets have become progressively smaller, the houses replaced by fields, the roads replaced by winding semi-dirt tracks. I’ve officially reached the arse end of nowhere. As my precious baby, my beloved Audi, bounces over potholes, invisible in the growing darkness, I repeatedly curse Dr Lucien bloody Avery and his bloody phone. And the bloody warmth of his thigh against mine through cheap blue fabric.

There is no street lighting, and apart from what appears to be a group of shadowy buildings on the left, I can see bugger all. The address reads Rossingley Estate, so I was expecting a conglomeration of houses, not pitch-black sky and the stink of manure. There’s nothing for it; I’m going to have to phone him.

He answers on about the eighth ring, just as I’m wondering if he’s not home, with a curt “Rossingley”, which is a bit weird. But, you know, everything about him is fairly weird, so I should stop being surprised by it. Picking up on the vibe he’s not entirely thrilled to be hearing from me, I explain my mission and my current surroundings as best I can. He identifies my whereabouts from my description, effortlessly making me feel like a total imbecile for not locating his house.

“I suppose it could be slightly tricky in the dark,” he concedes after I point out the lack of street lighting and signage. He goes on to explain that if I drive just a little farther down the road, past some stable buildings on my left, then I will see a set of wrought-iron gates with Rossingley Estate inscribed on a stone panel to one side. He tells me the three-digit code for the gates; I’m tempted to suggest he ought to change it to 666.

“Drive straight on until the floodlight sensor is activated. You’ll find yourself in a courtyard, and I’ll come out to meet you.”

I surmise this must be one of those exclusive gated residences, one of those posh old houses converted into posh apartments for posh single people. And as I drive at a snail’s pace through the gates, my suspicions are confirmed. Various unidentifiable buildings stand hidden in the shadows, and ahead of me is an elegant courtyard backing onto what is clearly part of the rear of a former stately home. There are very few cars parked, and even fewer lights on in the house for that matter. Fortunately, I spy Dr Avery stepping out of the back entrance to the apartments at the precise moment the floodlight sensor kicks into action.

Illuminated on the ground next to him is a small pile of chopped firewood, with a larger pile of bigger logs next to it, still waiting to be split. As I fiddle around nervously, parking up and generally delaying having to get out of the car, Dr Avery retrieves an axe from a nearby bench and resumes what I guess my phone call interrupted.

Jesus, what the fuck is he wearing? A kaftan or something?

It becomes blindingly clear the closer I get. On his top half, he’s changed his work clothes for a ratty, baggy grey jumper, full of holes and perfectly appropriate for such a manual task. But on the bottom half, and also presumably on the top half but hidden under the jumper, he’s sporting—and I’m not kidding—a cream satin negligee. A fucking slinky, satin negligee! Full length and most definitely clingy, it outlines every inch of his long slim thighs. On the upwards strokes of the axe, when the jumper rides up, it outlines pretty much every inch of his block and tackle too. A pair of old green wellies finish off the outfit beautifully.

Not sure what to do, I plump for doing what every well-brought-up boy has been taught and ignore it completely. My mother would be proud of me. Although less proud perhaps if she knew the effect the outline of his junk covered in a thin satin nightie is having on me. She’d just think that was peculiar.

“You really didn’t have to bring my phone” is his super-grateful combined thanks and greeting as he continues swinging the axe. He seems different out here, not so intimidating, although that could be the nightie, I suppose. But he’s evidently completely unfazed that I’ve caught him wearing it. He looks younger, too, more vulnerable. But looks can be deceptive, and before I get too carried away, I remind myself he’s the one holding the axe.

“It was no bother, Dr Avery. I know how lost I’d be without mine.”

“That’s because you have people who probably want to get in touch with you, Jay,” he drawls.

Yeah, right. “Not quite as many as I had about two weeks ago.”

There’s not a lot to say after that. Turning and getting straight back in the car feels a little abrupt. He’s doing an okay job with the axe, but he’s not really made much of a dent in the remaining pile of logs. And the autumn nights are becoming noticeably chillier.

“You’re getting through those all right,” I note after another downwards swing.

He nods. “Yeah, it’s a good axe. You can take over if you like.”

“All right.”

Why the fuck did I say that? I could be back in the car by now. He hands the axe to me, then settles on the bench to watch, crossing his legs and lighting up a fag as he does so.

“That smoking won’t do your sperm count any good,” I observe. Christ, I must have a death wish. Sperm count? What the fuck? I could have gone with lung cancer or high blood pressure, one of the more obvious ones. And why should I care that he smokes anyway?

He smiles, showing those pointy canines, and carries on smoking, deliberately taking a huge drag. He’s heart-stoppingly beautiful when he smiles; he should experiment with it more often.

It’s strangely peaceful out here, and silent as the grave, apart from the rewarding thwack of the axe. My headache, a faithful companion these days, recedes a little. No traffic, no pavements, we could be hundreds of miles from any other civilisation. Maybe he’s scared away the occupants of the other apartments. Or murdered them, then chopped them up into little pieces with the axe.

I’ve always enjoyed manual labour, and finding a rhythm, I get through quite a few logs and begin to build up a sweat. Pausing briefly, I remove my hoodie.

“Have you done this sort of thing before, Jay?”

For a second, I’m unsure what he’s asking. Jilted a fiancée? Given a stranger a blow job?

“Chopping firewood, I mean. You’re awfully good at it.”

“Oh, no,” I reply, although I wish I had. I’m finding splicing the dry timber extremely satisfying, particularly after my unbelievably stressful couple of weeks. Perhaps I should take some logs home with me and vent my frustration there, in our tiny backyard. With the added bonus of keeping out of Ellie’s way.

“I grew up in a three-bedroomed semi with central heating. You should think about getting it installed, Dr Avery. It can be quite effective, saves doing this when you get home from a busy day at work.”

“I do have central heating,” he replies, eyeing me lazily. “It just seems pointless turning it on and heating the whole place when I’m in only one room. Anyway, my father always said that wood warms you twice. Once when you chop it and then again when you burn it.”

So he’s tight with money as well as grumpy. I’m not really surprised.

“You don’t have to heat every room, Dr Avery. You can put thermostats on individual radiators and stuff. Timers that switch on and off. You can even control the heating via a phone app when you’re at work.”

Neither of us says anything; he quietly smokes, and I noisily chop.

“Why did you do it, Jay?” he asks suddenly, stubbing out his fag end. “You said that you’d never done it before. So why did you come to the club that night?”

I sigh deeply. “Dunno, really. Maybe I just got pissed and fancied something different.”

Not the whole truth, obviously. It hadn’t been completely spur of the moment—I’d been building up to it for a lot longer than that.

“Gosh! When most people get pissed and fancy something different, they have a kebab instead of a Chinese,” he observes, showing me those pointy teeth again. I hide a smile; I didn’t realise people still used the word ‘gosh’ without irony. And I bet he’s never been drunk, then eaten a kebab in his life; he’s way too posh.

I do need to offload my apparent meltdown onto someone though. My head is such a mess from thinking about it twenty-four seven. I can’t remember the last time I slept for longer than five hours straight. He’d be as good a sounding board as anyone else, and he wouldn’t sugar-coat his opinions, that’s for sure. But not right now, it’s still too raw. Having made a good dent in the pile of logs, I lay down the axe.

“This is weird, Dr Avery,” I gesticulate vaguely. “You, this conversation, me being here. I think I need to go. I’ll come back and finish the logs for you some other time soon, if you want.”

He calls to me as I head back to the car. I carry on walking.

“I lied, by the way,” he says, his clear, quiet tones carrying in the still air. Or that’s what I think I heard. I stop and turn around.

“Huh?”

“I lied. About the cock sucking. It was good actually, really good.”

Heat burns up my neck. I feel something approaching pleasure for the first time in many, many days.

“I know, Dr Avery. I lied about your name too. I like Lucien; I think it’s very manly.”

“Cocky little shit, aren’t you?”