“Oooh discretion.” I smiled, as excitement leaked into my voice. “You don’t have to worry about me. I’m thesoulof discretion. Like a blind badger with laryngitis – you can trust me.”
He blinked. Twice.
“Just . . . just please,tryto be professional, alright?”
“Yes, sir!” This time for some reason I gave a double salute, which ended up as sort of jazz hands manoeuvre. Nigel closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose for a second.
“Okay,” he said eventually. “Follow me.”
*****
“Dr Murphy?”
I knew my mouth was hanging open, but I didn’t seem to have the power in my jaw muscles to close it. I was lost for words. Not a common occurrence for me. In fact, I could not recalleverbeing lost for words before, even in childhood.
I stared at the strong, tanned hand that was extended in my direction. His shirt had cufflinks,cufflinks. The only time any of the men in my life ever wore cufflinks was to weddings, and only then if they could find them: often they settled for safety pins. Nigel cleared his throat and I gave a small start. My hand jerked forward, but instead of just taking his, I smacked it . . . hard. Horrified, I withdrew my hand and took a small step back. He blinked at me and slowly lowered his arm, without changing his expression – as if small women smacking him happened on a regular basis. I felt heat flood my cheeks and realised I was blushing. I never,neverblushed. I was a sexual health doctor for badger’s sake: nothingeverembarrassed me. Embarrassment just wasn’t a Kira thing. But standing here in front of this man, I was paralysed with it.
Barclay Lucas.
In the flesh.
Standing in Nigel Derwent’s office and regarding me with a baffled expression.
He looked even better than he did on the telly. His tie was ever so slightly loosened. His thick, dark hair was more ruffled than normal and he had stubble darkening his jaw line. The only thing that remained immaculate was his pocket square. And he was tall. Really tall. Damn it, Ineededto close my bloody mouth.
“Kira?” Nigel prompted through clenched teeth and finally, finally I managed to snap my mouth closed.
“Er, sorry,” I said into the silence, “about the hand slapping.” I gestured between my hand and his. “That was weird.”
Barclay gave me a measured look, ran his fingers through his hair and then turned his attention to Nigel. “Thisis the Dr Murphy in question? There isn’t another,differentDr Murphy?” His crisp, posh, public school accent was unbelievably intimidating at close range.
Nigel shrugged. “She’s the only Dr Murphy in the hospital. Believe me, if I could find another one, I would.”
I scowled at Nigel and crossed my arms over my chest.
Barclay sighed and propped a hip up against Nigel’s huge desk. “Dr Murphy, please, take a seat,” he offered, sweeping his hand out to the two crappy, plastic NHS standard-issue chairs beside me.
“Yes, yes,” Nigel said, bustling to the other side of his desk to his own leather over-sized chair. “Let’s all sit down and discuss this . . . situation.”
Barclay, however, made no move from his position next to the desk. He had crossed his arms over his broad chest and was staring at me like I was a bug under the microscope. My eyes flicked from Barclay to Nigel and I raised my eyebrows but did not sit down.
“You treated my brother,” Barclay told me.
I frowned. “Your brother?”
“Yes, my brother. Henry.”
“Henry?” I said under my breath and then my mouth dropped open again. “Holy sh–Shetland Iles! HenryLucas. Henry is your brother?”
I felt the heat fade from my cheeks as they drained of all colour. Was he here to complain? I thought Henry had got over the wholemetelling him he’s a wankpuffin, a pussy and a misogynistic dickhead thing. It had happened over a month ago, and last week when I’d seen him in the waiting room, he’d lifted his chin and given me a very small smile of acknowledgement. His skin had been clear and he was looking way less skeletal now. Prof said his viral load had dropped dramatically. Had the little shit gone whining to his brother because I’d sworn at him? If so, he was more of a pussy than I’d thought.
“Listen, I’m sorry if he found my methods a bit . . . heavy on the profanity and light on the, er . . . respect. But, before I started dropping f-bombs . . .” Nigel made a choked sound from behind his desk which I ignored “. . . he wasn’t listening to a word I was saying. And I didn’t–”
“Dr Murphy,” Barclay said, cutting me off. “You saved my brother’s life.” Barclay didn’t say this in an emotional way, merely as if he was stating a fact.
My eyes went wide with surprise. Not a complaint then.
“Before you saw him in clinic, he hadnevertaken his antiretroviral medication. After he nearly died of pneumonia, he cut my parents off completely and barely speaks to me. Nothing we said, nor any of the private consultants I paid thousands for, or even Professor Patel could convince him to start treatment. But he sees you for ten minutes and he’s . . .” Barclay paused and looked away for a moment as he swallowed. When he spoke again, his voice had a rough edge to it. “He has hope. You gave him hope. So, Dr Murphy I don’t give a damn what sort of profanity you used when you spoke to him. In my mind you’re a miracle worker.”
