‘I’m sorry,’ Kelly said. ‘But the guy was an arsehole. You should have seen the way he looked at me.’
‘Not every man you meet is a misogynist, Kelly.’
‘No. Just the ones in medicine.’
The mirth left Michael’s eyes. ‘I can’t have my junior doctors abusing other staff.’
Kelly leaned forwards, ready to launch. ‘But I told you—’
Michael raised a hand. ‘Let me finish.’
She sat back in her chair. Michael tilted his head and looked at her with something like fondness. Kelly looked away.
‘You’re a brilliant doctor, Kelly. But there’s more to medicine than brilliance. And this is the second complaint against you in as many months.’
‘Never from patients or their families.’
‘No, just from the people who are part of your team. The people you work alongside. The people whose help and support you will need for the rest of your career.’
‘I don’t need them, Michael. They need me.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong. Being a junior doctor is about clinical skills. Being a consultant is about relationships. Who’s going to give you a job? Who’s going to refer patients to you in private practice? You may be brilliant, but if you alienate everybody, you’ll be lucky to even have a job – and you’ll never get this nameplate.’
Kelly felt heat prickle on her skin. She had never told anybody about her ambition to be head of the department.
‘One more incident and you’ll lose my endorsement.’
Kelly sucked in a deep breath. She felt tears sting at her eyes. She swallowed hard. ‘I know I can go too far sometimes. I’m sorry.’
‘Sorry isn’t enough. No more outbursts, no more smart remarks. Just do your job and focus on passing your exam, okay?’
She nodded. Just do my job, she thought.
It’s the only thing I know how to do.
***
Kelly was exhausted. Her legs felt like they were filled with cement as she trudged around the supermarket aisles. The buzz in her head and the churning in her guts had worsened through the afternoon shift. It was like that more and more these days. The headache she couldn’t shake. The stomach pain that persisted no matter what she ate.
She hated grocery shopping. It was such a waste of her time – time that could be better spent revising, preparing, learning. She’d tried online delivery, but they always fucked up the order or delivered the cold bags in a lukewarm fug. Unacceptable.
Relieved to find a checkout that had only one other customer – some guy with a small amount left to be scanned and packed – she began to lay out her items on the conveyor belt, bottles and boxes first, so they’d go back into the bottom of the trolley and not crush the more delicate items.
She steadily unloaded as the conveyor belt created space but, when she still had a handful of items left, the belt abruptly stopped. Kelly looked up at the cashier, a young woman who was taking a swig from a bottle of water. The man had disappeared. Kelly’s shoulders and neck tightened.
‘What’s going on?’
‘He forgot something,’ the cashier – Daisy, according to her name tag – said. Daisy looked bored, which was fair enough, but where was this man who had forgotten something? Kelly had been waiting at least a minute now – how long could it take to grab one forgotten item and get back to the register?
The conveyor belts on the registers on either side continued to roll. The scanners continued to beep. Bags continued to be packed. Yet she was trapped with the bulk of her groceries already committed and no way to keep things moving.
Kelly clenched her jaw. Her shoulders crept towards her ears. Her breath was shallow in her chest. Another minute passed. Then another. She watched a drip run down the side of her milk carton. Clenched her fists. There was pain behind her eyes.
Then the man returned and when Kelly saw what was in his arms, the pressure that had been building in her body threatened to blow her apart. The selfish bastard was carrying a packet of toilet paper, two bags of chips, a carton of eggs and a bag of apples; wildly unrelated items that he would have had to gather from all ends of the supermarket.
She locked eyes with him as he approached the belt. He was tall and wore the perpetually conceited expression of the middle-aged man.
‘Sorry,’ he muttered without a trace of sincerity.
