I’m back on dayshift, though not at my usual job. I’ve picked a couple of locum evening shifts up at XXX private Hospital over the next few weeks. I’m not hiding from Ben. Not much. More like preparing myself for him to no longer be around. I’m angry. No, I’m pissed! And I’m not sure why. I get what he said—I know he thinks his mansplaining makes sense, but it doesn’t. I get he’s frightened, but hell, I’m frightened to.
I need to harden my heart to him. What else can I do? So I tell myself I’m not in love, that these things don’t happens so far. Maybe if I say it enough I might even begin to believe it.
I’m so stupid for letting him in. Into my home. Into my heart.
And I’m so stupid for letting his cool attitude and even cooler suggestion that Igive him a go, I’m going on a date tomorrow with a dentist who has a great ass. According to his bio, at least.
After Melody left on Sunday, I’d spent Sunday half-heartedly bantering back and forth over Tinder with Jarrod the dentist, just as a way to piss Ben off.
You should give him a go, Penny.
Oh, so I’m Penny now, am I?
I wonder if he feels wretched or pleased that I’m now going out on a date with someone other than him.
I don’t want to take you for dinner, Nell. I wantyouto bemydinner.
Well, now neither of us will be eating!
‘You look like you’re having a mad conversation with yourself, girl.’ The sound of Tammy’s voice pulls me from my head.
‘What? Oh, I was just thinking.
‘I see you found the scrubs cupboard all right.’
I look down at the blue ensemble I’m wearing. I might be in one of the poshest hospitals in the city, but childbirth is a messy business, whether your nightwear is labelled Agent Provocateur or Property of the Maternity Wing.
This would explain why I’m in my second set of scrubs for the evening.
‘Hang on,’ I begin, my brain just catching up on her earlier words. ‘Did you just say... the staff call him Doctor Pussy?’ I can’t have heard that right, except Tammy appears to be nodding eagerly. ‘But why?’ I ask, a little horrified.
Tammy opens her mouth, but an answer isn’t forthcoming. At least, not in her North London accent, but rather in a deep and cultured voice.
‘Care to have a guess?’
The senior obstetrics consultant, aka my temporary boss, or Dr. Pussy as Tammy the midwife seems to think he’s called, places his elbow on the nurse’s station, his chiselled jaw supporting his hand.
‘Go on. Have a stab,’ he continues before turning a suddenly not-so-friendly gaze to Tammy. ‘You should run a book,’ he says,
‘If you’ll excuse me,’ she almost whispers, sliding her paperwork from the desk. The squeak of her hospital grade shoes carrying her quickly away from, what I expect will turn out to be, a severe reprimand. The man is well dressed enough to be senior management. In fact, he’s well dressed and gorgeous enough to be just about anything. Plus, he has a gold Mont Blanc pen. I shove my chewed biro back into the pocket of my scrubs.
‘I mean, we are on a labour ward,’ he continues. ‘I get called it a lot, but I’ve never really found anyone who’ll say why.’
Oh, no. That means ...he’s Doctor Pussy?Surely not. He didn’t go there, did he?
Is that irreverence or misconduct?
‘I... that is... ’ I’ve got nothing. Absolutely nothing. With the exception of the sound of the air currently escaping my flapping gums. I want to swallow my tongue along with my earlier words. I’m not one for gossip—I don’t have the time or the energy. Yes, okay, I’m avoiding Ben, but I still need to earn enough to get the house in a state to sell. I can’t afford to bite the hand that feeds me. Or find out why the owner of said hand is referred to by the midwifery team as Dr Pussy.
‘I’m sorry, Dr P...Travers?’
Shoot me now. Just. Shoot. Me. Put me out of my misery.This is what happens when you take locum shifts—extra shifts—on top of a regular workweek. And after spending most of your free time rolling around having sex. I’m so tired I can barely see, let alone make sense of what I’m saying.
‘Technically, it’s Mr Travers,’ the man adds in that smooth tone of his. Posh with a hint of something a little rougher.Scandinavian, maybe?
And what is it with the UK medical profession? It takes at least fourteen years to get to the rank of consultant, and to mark the achievement, we get to go from being calleddoctorto plain old mister again. Or in my case, miss.If I ever make it that far. I’ve had my doubts recently.
And what kind of senior consultant works overnight on a private ward, anyway? Doesn’t he have a “place in town” to go? Along with the cottage in the country and the villa he no doubt owns in the South of France? Doctors of his paygrade are supposed to be like the queen; only turning up at the last minute to cut the ribbon. Or cord, more appropriately. Most of his patients would be delivering on schedule at a much friendlier hour by atoo-posh-to-pushelective caesarean. And I mean posh—this is the hospital royal babies are frequently born.
