If looks could burn, I’d already be ash on the wind. “I didn’t realise a cock came in handy when running a medical practice.”
“It’s not because you’re a woman.”
Yeah, Dr Amy Redford wasn’t exactly my biggest fan. I couldn’t blame her. Back in the autumn, not long after I’d returned to Kinleith, my dad had taken a pretty bad fall and Amy had been the on-call doctor to treat him. I’d behaved like a complete arsehole. Undermining her authority, acting like those peacocking pricks I’d gone to medical school with who thought women were too emotional to succeed in the medical field.
I didn’t believe that.
In my opinion, the female doctors I’d worked with were far superior to the men. Compassionate and whip-smart, without the ego.
“You’re what? Twenty-seven? You have plenty of time.”
“I’m thirty.” She glowered. “After your dad got sick, I worked with a revolving door of locum doctors. I practically ran this place until you came along—”
My phone rang in my pocket and I hurried to pull it out, pausing when I noted the Glasgow number. “I need to take this; we’ll talk about this later.”
I felt every one of the mental daggers she threw at my back as I walked toward my office – my dad’s office, technically. It was still his name hanging on the door, Dr J Macabe. I didn’t look at it as the door clicked shut behind me. “Alistair Macabe.”
“Dr Macabe, it’s Sarah calling from MedSearch. We’re handling your recruitment search for a new senior partner for Kinleith Surgery.”
“That’s right.” Shoving my phone between my ear and my shoulder, I slung my briefcase onto the desk and switched on my computer. “Do you have an update for me?”
I’d started working with them a few weeks ago. After I’d finally made the decision to sell, I’d posted the opening on the NHS website. When the ad didn’t receive a single hit, I’d quickly realised that no one wanted to own a pokey little surgery on a rural Scottish island.
Except Dr Redford, it seemed.
“An honest update, I’m afraid. I’ve spoken to a few potential candidates about the vacancy and while the role itself is competitive in terms of flexibility and potential income, I’m finding people are still hesitant to proceed.”
I frowned, watching the log-in screen take its usual five minutes to load. “What are their concerns?”
“Several things. The most common complaint is your recent bout of poor patient feedback.”
“Really?” I paused. This was the first I’d heard of it. “What kind of feedback?”
“Well, that brings me to my second point of hesitation.”
“Which is?”
“I think it’s better if I’m candid.”
“I’d prefer it,” I clipped. I hated fake niceties.
She cleared her throat pointedly before speaking. “It’s you, Dr Macabe. The situation in Glasgow specifically.”
My entire skeleton calcified. The office walls, painted a calming shade of duck-egg blue, suddenly closing in on me.
Glasgow. The succinct name for the incident made it sound overly dramatic. That single word held transportation powers to a specific point in my history. Like the Battle of Culloden. Or . . . Barbenheimer. “That was almost three years ago,” I said.
“And still relevant,” she replied. “I’ve read the complaint report and your counter-complaint. You and Dr Mercer were both very thorough.”
“How did you get that?” My complaint had been confidential. Only accessible by medical regulatory bodies.
“A potential candidate raised the concern and I did my research; that’s my job. It isn’t a very well-kept secret, I’m afraid. Medical circles are rife with gossip.”
“Saying?”
“That you have an attitude problem.”
Fucking lies. “Ah, and here I thought they were admiring my lock-stitch technique.”
