“How very dare you! I’m 53, and I’ll be pouting until the day I die! But seriously….not an interrogation, just a question, from one friend to another, woman to woman – have you shagged him yet?”
She laughs at the outraged look on my face, and pats my arm.
“Sorry. Just did that for effect,” she says. “And because I’m nosy. I just…well, you two seem good together. I thought it might even develop into a Three L situation.”
I know I’m going to regret it, but I can’t quite stop myself from asking: “Three L situation?”
“Yep,” she answers, counting them off on her fingers as she speaks: “The Three Ls – Love, Lust and Like. Though not necessarily in that order.”
It’s actually a pretty accurate shorthand for what, it seems to my less than expert eyes, you need to make a relationship work. I think I had all of them with Mark, in years gone by. And with Jake…well, two out of three ain’t bad. I like him, for sure. I lust after him, especially when I’m asleep and can’t stop myself. But love? That doesn’t feel like an option that’s available to me right now.
Connie is looking at me thoughtfully, and I end this line of conversation as effectively as I know how – by suggesting it’s about time she rolled up her sleeves and submitted to a blood pressure check. She bleats and argues, but eventually gives in.
I tell her all is well, and we spend the next few minutes discussing a plan to introduce wellness appointments for the over 50s in the village.
It is enough to distract her – but not quite enough to distract me.
ChapterTwenty-Five
Life continues in a similar vein for the next few weeks. I get to know my patients, none of whom are overly demanding, and also begin to make some house calls to the residents who have trouble getting out and about.
I meet dozens of people, most of whom simply want to introduce themselves rather than look for medical help, and also visit a lovely couple called Ed and Viola. They’re in their 90s, but still live independently in the highest house on the hill that tumbles down to meet Starshine Cove. While I’m there, I spend more time listening to their life stories than I do on any physical exam.
In fact, that’s one of the biggest adjustments I have to make all round – not rushing, not pushing, not trying to get to the heart of a diagnosis within my allotted few minutes. In a busy health centre, it’s a numbers game – out here, the only number that seems to matter is how many cups of tea I can drink before my bladder explodes.
I have been to visit Miranda at home, and found that she lives alone in a spotless but cramped flat out near the retail park. I have to admit I am a little concerned about her, especially as she seems to be so isolated from any normal support network. When I very gently raise the issue of the father or her family, she shuts down straight away and I back off. She reminds me a bit of Larry when I first met him – prickly and scared, though admittedly she smells a lot better. I hope that I might be able to tempt her a little closer, bit by bit.
George has had his appointment with his GP while I’ve been away, and is now waiting on a referral to have his mole investigated – he seems cheery enough about it, and has taken to calling it Adrian if it comes up in conversation.
I have meetings with the main branch of the GP partnership, which I value – it’s a chance to make contacts, to gain a better understanding of the services in the area, and, vitally, remind myself that there is a world outside of Starshine Cove. I am happy here in many ways, but I’m also reluctant to fall completely under its spell just yet. The trial period goes both ways.
I take Dan with me to some of the meetings, as he seems to be taking this medical school thing a lot more seriously than I’d expected. He’s done some shadowing of the routine health checks, and I mentor him on the basics, and on my advice he’s applied for a job in a care home. I worked in one myself when I was a teenager, and I probably learned more about actual patient care and the realities of aging during those two years than I did in the first few years of medical school.
He knows he has to work his backside off to make his grades, and jump through the many hoops that medical school demands, and he seems fine with all of that – but he was decidedly unhappy when I told him the green hair probably wouldn’t fly.
“Why not?” he asked, outraged. “Does it make any difference what colour someone’s hair is, or what they look like, as long as they’re a good doctor?”
“Absolutely not,” I replied, patiently, “and once you’re qualified you can get a full-face tattoo of Spider-Man’s mask if you like – but medical school is competitive, and the people interviewing can be conservative. They might not be, but it could be a risk. Up to you, pal.”
Like most teenagers, he didn’t love being told what to do by the Man, and I added: “Look, I know you, and I think you’d make a great doctor. People on an interview panel don’t know you, and they don’t have long to make a decision about you. All I’m saying is that you should think about it.”
He seemed mollified by the fact that I thought he’d be a great doctor, and I’ve left it alone since – I can mentor him, but I can’t manage him. That’s his job.
On the non-work front, I went to a sing-along screening ofGreasein the village hall, where Connie and Sophie dressed up as Pink Ladies and George and Dan were T-Birds; I’ve done a Zumba class, and Matt the barman persuaded me to come along to his Real Ale Club, which proved to me what I’d always suspected – that real ale would be Satan’s drink of choice.
Today, it is Friday, and it is my day off. It is also my birthday, and I am woken up by Larry yapping his head off. He had the snip last week and has only just forgiven me.
The melodious sound of a disturbed dog is not the best of ways to be woken up, and he’s certainly not doing it to the tune of ‘Happy Birthday’. I make my way groggily towards the door, but when I open it, there is nobody there. Instead, I find a small white box left on the step. Larry is extremely interested in it, which leads me to believe it is either edible, or a decomposing fish, both of which he finds irresistible.
I bring the box inside, and cautiously cut the pale blue ribbon it’s tied up with. I am greeted by a small but perfectly formed cake, the words ‘Happy Birthday Dr Zhivago’ piped onto the white icing. Dr Zhivago was eventually my agreed-upon call name on the walkies, not that I’ve had to use them yet.
I have been very careful not to tell anybody about my birthday, because I fear the worst – huge surprise party, brass marching band, strippers, Connie jumping out of a cake wearing a cheerleader outfit. Clearly, though, someone has rumbled me.
I quickly pull on some clothes, and take Larry downstairs, glancing through into the bakery and seeing the Betties hard at work. As ever, the smell is enough to make me swoon.
“Morning!” I say, poking my head around the corner. “Are you responsible for the mystery birthday cake?”
“Ooooh,” replies Big Betty, her face smeared with flour and a mischievous grin on her face, “how did you guess?”
