postcard was right in the centre of the noticeboard. In pride of place. Flashing like a beacon. The last time I’d seen it had been in my chalet room at the ski resort in Italy, along with two others I’d written to my elderly neighbours. I swear I hadn’t actually intended to post them. It had been a therapeutic exercise my mother had suggested to rid myself of negative energy, but the super-efficient housekeeping staff must have seen them lying on the desk and helpfully posted them for me. That’s service for you.
If I turned that wretched postcard around I would see the lies I’d scrawled there after consuming a lonely cocktail or two … actually, I think it was three. All went amazingly well! Having an awesome time!
Now that I look back with twenty-twenty hindsight I can see all the signs. The red flags and the faintly ringing alarm bells I ignored at the time. I hate to sound like a cliché but I really was the last person to know. My mother said she knew the first time she met Andy. It was his aura that gave him away. My dad said three of Andy’s chakras were blocked. My sister Jem said it was because he was a twat.
I guess they were all right in the end.
The chance to get rid of the postcard escaped me when Jill, the ward clerk, came in behind me with a couple of residents and chorused, ‘Here’s the blushing bride!’ I was blushing all right. Big time. Looking at that sea of smiling faces, I didn’t have the heart or the courage to tell them the wedding hadn’t gone ahead. I smiled inanely and made some excuse about seeing an elderly patient and scooted out of there. I had only been at St Iggy’s a little less than a year so I didn’t know anyone well enough to consider them close friends, although some of the girls were really nice, Gracie McCurcher—one of the intensive care nurses—in particular.
And as to anyone finding out on social media, I’d closed my profile page a couple of years ago after someone had hacked into my account and used my image in a porn ad. Try explaining that to your workmates, especially the male ones.
My home village in Yorkshire is a long way from London—in more ways than one, but more on that later—so I figured it didn’t matter if I didn’t tell everyone I’d got dumped the night before the wedding. Cowardly, I know, but, to tell you the truth, I was still trying to get used to being single. Andy and I were together—not actually living together, because I’m idiotically old-fashioned, which is ironic when you consider my unconventional upbringing—for five and a half years.
I know what you’re thinking. How could I not have known he wasn’t in love with me after all that time? I’m not sure how to answer. I loved him so I expected him to love me back. Naïve of me perhaps but that’s just the way I’m made. But maybe on some level I’d always known he was marking time until someone better came along.
I stood by the bedside of Mr Simmons, a long-term elderly patient, on that cold and dismal January morning and watched as he quietly slipped away. There is something incredibly sacred about watching someone die. Mind you, it’s not always peaceful. Some struggle as if they aren’t quite ready to leave their loved ones. Others slip away on a soundless sigh the moment their absent loved one arrives. It’s as if they’ve waited until that moment of contact to finally let go. I’ve lost count of how many deaths I’ve seen. But I guess that’s one of the downsides of working in ICU. Not everyone walks out with a smile on his or her face. Not everyone walks out, period.
I can cope with the death of an elderly person like Mr Simmons. I can even manage with a middle-aged person’s death if they’ve lived a full and happy life and are surrounded by the people they love. It’s the kids that get me. Babies in particular. It seems so unfair they don’t get a chance to have a go at screwing up their life like I’ve screwed up mine.
Mr Simmons’s grandchildren and great-grandchildren had been in the night before and said their final goodbyes. His wife died a couple of years ago so there was only his son and daughter by his bed. I watched as they each kissed his forehead, and then stroked his papery hand, and each shed a tear or two for the long and happy life that was coming to a close.
ICU is a pretty public place to die, which was why I had wrangled for months with the CEO to give me a quiet corner—if there is such a thing in an ICU department—so relatives could spend an hour or two without nurses or orderlies or whatever interrupting their last moments with their loved one. I had even had special permission granted to light candles of reflection and operate an aromatherapy infusion machine so the patients and their relatives and friends could breathe in their favourite scents instead of the smell of hospital-grade antiseptic.
Because it was my baby, while I’d been away things had fallen a little by the wayside, but I was back now and intent on finalising the introduction of my stress cost abatement model. I proposed to show how improving the environment in which relatives experienced illness or death in ICU ultimately reduced costs to the hospital—less demand for later counselling, reduced incidence and costs of litigation, and even reduced stress leave for ICU staff. I planned to present it at an upcoming hospital management meeting because I knew I could prove there would be benefits to the whole department with reduced stress in the ICU environment, not just for patients but for staff as well.
I softly closed the door—yes, not a curtain but an actual door!—on the grieving relatives and headed back to the glassed-in office where the registrars, interns and residents were being briefed by one of the consultants. I hadn’t yet met the new director. He’d started the day after I’d left for my … erm … break.
I was looking at the back view of the consultant. At first I thought it was Professor Cleary—we call him Professor Dreary behind his back because he’s such a pessimist—but when I got closer I realised it was someone much younger. He had very broad shoulders and he was tall. I mean really tall. He was at least a couple of inches taller than the registrar, Mark Jones, who we affectionately call Lurch.
I’m not sure if someone said I was coming over or whether the new director heard me approach. But he suddenly turned and his eyes met mine. Something fizzed in the air like a stray current of electricity. I actually felt the hairs on the back of my neck lift up. I had never seen such startling grey-blue eyes. Piercing and intense, intelligent and incisive, they looked at me in a frank and assessing manner I found distinctly unnerving.
‘Dr Clark?’
‘Bertie,’ I said with a smile that felt a little forced. ‘It’s short for Beatrix with an X.’
He stood there looking down at me as if I were a strange oddity he’d never encountered in ICU before. I wondered if it was my hairstyle. I have longish wavy honey-brown hair, which I like to keep under some semblance of control when I’m working. That morning I’d tied it in two round knots either side of my head like teddy-bear ears.
Or maybe it was my outfit that had caused that quizzical frown to appear between his eyes. I’m the first to admit I’m a little out there in my choice of clothing. No white coat—not that we doctors wear them any more—or scrubs for me unless I’ve come from Theatre. I like colour and lots of it. It can have a powerful effect on patients’ moods, particularly children. Besides, all you ever see in winter is black and brown and grey. That morning I had on skinny-leg pink jeans and a pea-green jumper with blue frogs on it. The new director glanced at the frogs on my breasts before returning his gaze to mine. Something closed off at the back of his eyes, as if he were pulling up a screen.
I didn’t offer him my hand but, then, he didn’t offer his. I’m normally a polite person but I wasn’t sure I wanted to touch him until I had better control of myself. If his gaze could make me feel like I’d walked in wearing a string bikini then what would his touch do?
‘Matt Bishop,’ he said in a deep, mellifluous baritone that had an
