‘I can’t let them get away with that shit,’ Jamie explained.
Pav put the rigid cystoscope back up on the theatre trolley and narrowed his eyes at Jamie. ‘There’s a time and place, Jamie. That was a bit of a public dressing down. She’s only just starting out. You could have let her explain.
‘Oh come on,’ Jamie scoffed. ‘You know as well as I do why she’s tired: young, beautiful student? Falling asleep in clinics? Think what we were like for Christ’s sake.’
‘Don’t judge her by your standards, Jamie.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘Youknow nothing about that girl’s life. When did you become such a hard-arse? Everyone’s fighting their own unique war, man. Wait until you know hers before you judge.’
Chapter 3
“How high?”
‘That request is inappropriate.’
Libby waited for Dr Morrison to continue, but that was apparently all the bitch of a radiologist had to say.
‘Um … okay,’ Libby said slowly, feeling another chunk of her hair work its way out of the elastic bands and holding back a sigh. Dr Morrison’s hair was fastened at the nape of her elegant neck in a sleek chignon, her make-up was flawless, her clothes immaculate; she was Libby’s complete opposite in appearance.
Libby was wearing one of her two work outfits – the sleeves of the oversize jumper were frayed, her trousers were a nasty polyester, and her flat chunky leather shoes had an unfortunate hole in the sole. Looking at Dr Morrison, Libby had to concede that clothes would need to work their way up her priority list somewhat. She felt like a homeless person next to this woman’s perfection. The problem was, Libby’s priority list was long and filled with things that just wouldn’t wait – sacrifices had to be made, and so far it had been okay for her appearance to take a back seat. But now that she was no longer able to hide in the back of lecture theatres, that would have to change.
‘Would you mind … I mean, could you possibly give me a reason to tell them?’ Libby asked, pasting on a fake smile.
Dr Morrison’s eyes flashed very briefly to hers before looking back at her computer screen; it was the first time she had even glanced in Libby’s direction. She then continued to flick through the x-ray films on the monitor, but with her brows now drawn together and her mouth tight.
‘Are you a foundation doctor?’ she asked.
‘Uh … no, actually I’m a medical student.’
Dr Morrison’s jaw clenched further at this information but she didn’t glance up again. Libby felt herself start to sweat, and she did what she always did when she was nervous: she fiddled. There were three paperweights on the desk in front of her. She picked one up to turn it over in her hands, but quickly returned it when she saw Dr Morrison look over out of the corner of her eye. After she put it back at random, Dr Morrison immediately adjusted it so it was again in perfect alignment with the other two, her movements jerky, either with stress or annoyance: Libby was guessing it was the latter.
‘Sorry,’ she whispered, her face flooding with colour.
‘Tell them to consider a CT. An ultrasound is just a waste of time,’ Dr Morrison said, not bothering to look up at her again.
‘Chin up, love,’ Dr Philips, the much more jolly, white-haired radiologist who shared the office with Dr Morrison, said. Libby had heard that he was a good decade over retirement age – but he looked about a hundred and two. ‘Don’t worry, we’ve all been there, haven’t we, Millie?’
Dr Morrison’s shoulders tensed but she didn’t say anything in response, and Libby took that as her cue to leave.
*****
‘She said that it wouldn’t be appropriate. Her advice was to request an urgent CT,’ Libby told Peter, the ICU registrar, when she got back to the unit.
‘Ugh,’ he spat, pushing away from the central desk in disgust. ‘For fuck’s sake. Did you tell her the bloody history?’
‘Well … yes. I told her everything you said, and the results of the echo, and I – ’
‘One thingI ask you to do and you bugger it up,’ he said, standing up to loom over her.
In her other world, her other existence, men like this idiot would be dealt with as soon as they threatened her in any way. It was ironic, really, that she felt more vulnerable in this environment than where she was arguably more exposed. But there were no huge bouncers here waiting in the wings to give this guy a well-deserved punch in the face, no women with inch-long nails ready to claw his eyes out should he dare to touch her. She took a small step back and watched irritation flash across his face.
It was only her first week of her ICU and anesthetics attachment, and she had run into trouble of the male variety already. This particular unpleasant specimen of misogyny had spent the first day of her placement standing too close to her and talking to her breasts; then, after handover, he’d asked her out for a drink. Libby gave him a totally unambiguousno. She’d made the mistake too many times before with men like him by being polite, unwittingly making them think they stood a chance. In the long run it was better to be blunt.
Libby knew she was beautiful. Men and boys had been watching her since she turned thirteen and went through puberty in the space of a few weeks. As a teenager the attention it garnered her was exciting … until it wasn’t. Now she viewed her beauty with a kind of pragmatic detachment. If she needed to use it she would. Of course there were advantages, but in this environment, and without a willingness to use her looks to get ahead, they became a distinct drawback. This prick of a registrar being a case in point.
‘Well, at leasttryto make yourself useful,’ Peter sneered. ‘Go and cannulate Mr Westbeach.’
