Kitabı oku: «The Best Of The Year - Medical Romance», sayfa 12

My mum reckons she can read auras. I’m more of a wardrobe reader. Matt Bishop was wearing a crisply ironed white shirt with a black and silver striped tie with a Windsor knot and black trousers with knife-edge pleats that spoke of a man who preferred formality to casual friendliness. But to counter that the sleeves of his shirt were folded back past his wrists, revealing strong forearms with a generous sprinkling of dark hair that went all the way down to his hands and along each of his long fingers. His nails were neat and square, unlike mine, which had suffered the fallout of the last two weeks after months of coaxing them to grow, and were now back to their nibbled-to-the-quick state.

I curled my fingers into my palms in case he noticed and sat down in the chair opposite his desk. I sat not because he told me to. He didn’t. I sat because I didn’t care for the schoolgirl-called-into-the-headmaster’s-office dynamic he had going on. It was much better to be seated so I could look at him on the level. Mind you, with his considerable height advantage I would have had to be sitting on a stack of medical textbooks to be eye to eye with him.

His unreadable gaze meshed with mine. ‘I believe congratulations are in order.’

‘Erm … yes,’ I said. What else could I say? No, I found my fiancé in bed with one of the bridesmaids’ sister the night before the wedding? And that he dumped me before I could get in first? And how I tipsily wrote postcards that were subsequently sent about what a fabulous time I was having on my honeymoon? Not going to happen. Not to Matt Bishop anyway. I would tell people on a need-to-know basis and right now no one needed to know.

I needed no one to know.

There was a pregnant silence.

I got the feeling he was waiting for me to fill it, though with what I’m not sure. Did he want me to tell him where I went on my honeymoon? What I wore? Who caught the bouquet? I thought men weren’t all that interested in weddings, even when it was their own.

I stared back at him with my heart beating like a hummingbird had got trapped in one of my valves. You could tell him. The thought slipped under the locked door of my resolve. No way! the other side of my brain threw back. It was like a tennis match was going on inside my head. I was so flustered by it I shifted in my seat as if there were thumbtacks poking into my jeans.

His eyes drilled into mine. ‘Is everything all right?’

‘Yes.’ I smiled stiffly. ‘Sure. Fine. Absolutely.’

Another silence passed.

Here’s the thing. I’m not good with silences. They freak me out. It’s because my parents went through a no-speaking phase when Jem and I were kids. They wanted us to pretend we were living in an abbey like at Mont Saint Michel in Normandy in France, where talking is banned in order to concentrate on prayer. It would have helped if they’d taught us sign language first. Thankfully it didn’t last long but it’s left its mark. I have this tendency to talk inanely if there’s even a hint of a break in the conversation.

‘So, how are you liking St Iggy’s so far?’ I said. ‘Isn’t it a nice place? Everyone’s so friendly and—’

‘Harrison Redding, the CEO, tells me you’re doing a research project on stress reduction,’ Matt Bishop said.

‘Yes,’ I said. As much as I didn’t care for his clipped tone, at least I was back on safer ground. I mentally wiped my brow. Phew! I could talk all day about my project. ‘I’m looking at ways of mitigating the stress on patients, relatives and staff when a patient is in ICU, in particular when a patient is facing death. Stress is a costly burden to the unit. Staff take weeks—sometimes months—of stress leave when cases are difficult to handle. Patients lodge unnecessary and career-damaging lawsuits when they feel sidelined or their expectations aren’t met. My aim is to show how using various stress intervention programmes and some physical ways of reducing stress, such as aromas and music tones and other environmental changes, can significantly reduce that cost to the hospital. My stress cost abatement model will help both staff and patients and their loved ones deal better with their situation.’

I waited for his response … and waited.

After what seemed like a week he leaned forward and put his forearms on the desk and loosely interlaced his fingers. ‘You’ve had ethics approval?’

‘Of course.’

I watched as he slowly flicked one of his thumbs against the other. Flick. Flick. Flick. I tried to read his expression but he could have been sitting at a poker tournament. Nothing moved on his face, not even a muscle. I was having trouble keeping my nervous bunny twitch under control. I could feel it building inside me like the urge to sneeze.

His eyes bored into mine. ‘I have some issues with your project.’

I blinked. ‘Pardon?’

‘I’m not convinced this unit can afford the space you’ve been allocated,’ he said. ‘I understand Dr Hooper was the one to approve the end room for your use?’

‘Yes, but the CEO was also—’

‘And the room next to the relatives’ room?’

‘Yes, because I felt it was important to give people a choice in—’

‘What sort of data have you produced so far?’

I wished I hadn’t gone on leave for more reasons than the obvious one. It felt like ages since I’d looked at my data. Most of it was descriptive, which was something the survey questionnaire over the next few critical weeks would address. I understood the scientific method. Data had to be controlled, repeatable and sufficient; otherwise, it was useless. But I also wanted a chance to change the thinking around death and dying. Everyone was so frightened of it, which produced enormous amounts of stress. ‘I’m still collecting data from patient and staff surveys,’ I said. ‘I have a series of interviews to do, which will also be recorded and collated.’

I wasn’t too keen on the sceptical glint in his eyes. ‘Multiplication of anecdotes is not data, Dr Clark.’

I silently ground my teeth … or at least I tried to be silent. Jem says she can always hear me because she listened to it for years when we shared a bedroom when we were kids. Apparently I do it in my sleep.

I so did not need this right now. I had enough on my plate in my private life, without my professional life going down the toilet as well. I understood how Matt Bishop was in brisk and efficient new broom mode. I understood the pressure of coming in on budget, especially when you’d inherited a mess not of your own making. But I wasn’t going to be intimidated by a man who had taken an instant dislike to me for how I dressed or wore my hair.

He would have to get over himself. I wasn’t changing.

‘Will that be all, Dr Bishop?’ I asked in mock meekness as I rose from the chair. ‘I have some pre-assessments to see to on the ward.’

This time a muscle did move in his jaw. In and out like a miniature hammer. A hard sheen came over his gaze as it held mine—an impenetrable layer of antagonism that dared me to lock horns with him. I’m not normally one to pick fights but I resented the way he’d spoken to me as if I were a lazy high-school student who hadn’t done their homework. If he wanted a fight then I would give him one.

I felt a frisson pass through my body, an electric current that made my nerves flutter and dance. I can’t remember a time when I felt more switched on. It was like someone had plugged me into a live socket. My entire body was vibrating with energy, a restless and vibrant energy it had never felt before.

Without relaxing his hold on my gaze, he reached for a sheet of paper on the desk in front of him, which I presumed was an outline of my research. His top lip lifted in a sardonic arc. ‘Your project name has a rather unfortunate acronym, don’t you think?’

I looked at him blankly for a moment. And then I got it. I was annoyed I hadn’t realised it before. Stress Cost Abatement Model. S.C.A.M. Why on earth hadn’t someone pointed it out earlier? I felt like an idiot. Would everyone be snickering at me once Matt Bishop shared his observation around the water cooler? My stomach knotted. Maybe they already were … Was that why everyone had looked at me when I came to the office just now? Had they been talking about me … laughing at me?

I was incensed. Livid to the point of exploding with anger so intense it felt like it was bursting out of each and every corpuscle of my blood. I could feel the heat in my cheeks burning like the bars of a two-thousand-watt radiator. I had spent most of my childhood being sniggered at for my unconventional background. How would I ever be taken seriously professionally once this did the rounds?

I don’t often lose my temper, but when I do it’s like all those years of keeping my thoughts and opinions to myself come spilling out in a shrieking tirade that I can’t stop once I get started. It’s like trying to put a champagne cork back in the bottle.

I hissed in a breath and released it in a rush. ‘I detest men like you. You think just because you’ve been appointed director you can brandish your power about like a smart-ass kid with a new toy. You think your colleagues are dumb old chess pieces you can push around as you please. Well, I have news for you, Dr Bishop. This is one chess piece you can’t screw around with.’

I probably shouldn’t have used that particular word. The connotation of it changed the atmosphere from electric to erotic. I could feel it thrumming in the air. I could see the glint of it in his grey-blue gaze as it tussled with mine. I’m not sure where his mind was going, but I knew what images mine was conjuring up—X-rated ones. Naked bodies. His and mine. Writhing around on a bed in the throes of animal passion.

Thing is … it’s been ages since I’ve had sex. I’m pretty sure that’s why my mind was running off the way it was. I’d put Andy’s lack of interest over the last couple of months down to busyness with work as a stock analyst. I put down my own to lack of interest, period. I blamed it on the contraceptive pill I’d been taking. But then I changed pills and I was exactly the same. Go figure.

I saw Matt Bishop’s eyes take in my scorching cheeks and then he lowered his gaze to my mouth. It was only for a moment but I felt as if he had touched me with a searing brand. I bit my tongue to keep it from moistening my lips but that meant I couldn’t say anything to break the throbbing silence. Not that I was going to apologise or anything. As far as I was concerned, he’d asked for a verbal spray and, given another chance, I would give him one again.

He sat back in his chair, his eyes holding mine in a lock that made the backs of my knees feel fizzy. It took an enormous effort on my part not to look away. I had an unnerving feeling he could see through my brief flash of anger—the overly defensive front that disguised my feelings of inadequacy. I’d spent most of my life hiding my insecurities but I got the sense he could read every micro-expression on my face, even the ones I thought I wasn’t expressing. His gaze was so steady, so watchful and so intuitive I was sure he was reading every thought that was running through my mind, including—even more unsettling—the X-rated ones.

‘I’ll keep that in mind,’ he said. ‘Close the door on your way out.’ He waited a beat before he added with an enigmatic half-smile, ‘Please.’

CHAPTER TWO

I FINISHED MY pre-assessment clinic and walked back to ICU. Stalked would be more accurate. I was still brooding over Matt Bishop’s treatment of me. Why had he taken such a set against me? I wasn’t used to making instant enemies. I considered myself an easygoing person who got on with everyone. Mostly.

Come to think of it, there have been a couple of times when I’ve run up against someone who didn’t share my take on things. Like my neighbour, who kept spraying the other neighbour’s cat with a hose every time it came into his garden. That’s just plain cruel and I didn’t refrain from telling him so. I got myself hosed for my trouble, but at least I felt good about standing up for Ginger.

And then there was the guy who’d been ripping off another elderly neighbour a few doors down. Elsie Montgomery employed him to do some gardening and odd jobs but it wasn’t long before he was doing her shopping and taking her to the doctor or on other outings. At first I thought he was doing it out of the goodness of his heart, but then I found out from Elsie—reluctantly, because she was embarrassed—he had been taking money out of her bank account after he’d got her to tell him her PIN.

I wanted Elsie to press charges against him for elder abuse but she thought he’d been punished enough by me shouting at him in the street in front of all the neighbours. That and the naming-and-shaming leaflet drop. That was a stroke of genius on my part. I got a team of local kids to help me distribute them. It will be a long time before he gets to cut any lawns in our suburb, possibly the whole country.

I was walking past the staff change rooms when Gracie appeared. ‘How did it go? What did he say to you?’

I rolled my eyes. ‘He has issues with my project.’

‘What sort of issues?’

I gave her a disgruntled look. I wasn’t going to spell it out for her. Word would spread fast enough. ‘The rooms I’ve been allocated, for one thing. He thinks we can’t afford the space.’

Gracie frowned. ‘But you’re doing amazing things with the patients and families. Everyone says so. Look at what you did for the Matheson family. You brought such comfort to them when they lost their son before Christmas.’

I pictured the Matheson family collected around Daniel’s twenty-one-year-old body as he breathed his last breaths after a long and difficult battle against sarcoma. I spent hours with them, preparing them and Daniel for the end. I encouraged them to be open with Daniel about their feelings, not to be ashamed of the anger they were feeling about his life being cut short, but to accept that as a part of the journey through grief. I taught Daniel’s father, who was uncomfortable showing emotion or affection, to gently massage his son to help him relax. When Daniel finally passed it was so peaceful in the room you could hear the birds twittering outside.

I let out a breath as we walked along the corridor back to the unit. ‘I can’t stop now. I’m only just beginning to see results. I’ve had three nurses tell me how much they got out of the meditation exercise I gave before I went on leave. When nurses get stressed, patients get stressed. It’s not rocket science. It’s common sense.’

‘But surely Dr Bishop can’t block your project now,’ Gracie said.

I held my hands out for the antiseptic gel from the dispenser on the wall, my mouth set in an indomitable line. ‘I’d like to see him try.’

I got busy doing a PICC line for a chemotherapy patient and then I had to help one of the registrars with setting up a patient’s ventilator. I was due for Theatre for an afternoon list with one of the neurosurgeons, Stuart McTaggart. Not my favourite person at St Iggy’s, but while he had an abrasive personality there was certainly nothing wrong with his surgical skills. Patients came from all over the country to see him. He had a world-class reputation for neurosurgery and was considered to be one of the best neurosurgeons of his generation.

I went to the doctors’ room to grab a quick bite of lunch. It was a medium-sized room big enough for a six-person dining table and chairs, a couple of mismatched armchairs, a coffee table, a sink and a small fridge. The daily newspapers were spread out on the table, where a bowl of fruit acted as a paperweight.

Personally, I thought the place could do with a facelift, maybe a bit of feng shui wouldn’t go astray, but I was fairly new on staff, considering some people had been here for their entire careers, so I picked my battles.

I reached for an apple out of the bowl as the door opened. I looked up to see Matt Bishop enter the staffroom. His expression showed no surprise or discomfit at seeing me there. In fact, I thought I caught a glimmer of a smile lurking in his eyes. No doubt he was still enjoying the joke he’d made of my project. I hadn’t heard anyone say anything about it so far but I knew it wouldn’t be long before they did. He wouldn’t be able to keep such a gem of hilarity to himself.

I felt my anger go up another notch. Why did I attract this sort of stuff? Why couldn’t I go about my life without people making fun of me? Now, you might ask why would a girl wear bright, fun clothes and twist her hair into wacky hairstyles if she was afraid of people laughing at her? Duh! If they’re laughing at my clothes and my hair I don’t have to feel they’re laughing at me. There’s a difference and to me it’s a big one.

I bit into the apple with a loud crunch. I was down a round and I had some serious catching up to do. I chewed the mouthful and then took another. And another. It wasn’t the nicest apple, to tell you the truth. But I was committed now so I had to finish it. I can be stubborn at times—most of the time, to be honest. I hate giving in. I hate being defeated by something or someone. I’d spent a lot of my childhood being bullied so I guess that’s why. It’s not just about losing face. I hate failure. It goes against my nature. I’m positive in my outlook. I go into things expecting to achieve my mission. I don’t let the naysayers get to me … or I try not to.

‘So where did you go on honeymoon?’ Matt Bishop asked, just as I’d taken another mouthful.

I swear to God I almost choked on that piece of apple. I thought he’d have to give me the Heimlich manoeuvre—not that we do that any more, but still. I coughed and spluttered, my eyes streaming, my cheeks as red as the skin of the piece of apple I was trying to shift from my airway.

He stepped towards me. ‘Are you okay?’

I signalled with one of my hands that I was fine. He waited patiently with his steady gaze trained on mine. Of course I couldn’t pretend I was choking forever, and since—technically speaking—I had been on honeymoon/holiday I decided to stay as close to the truth as possible once I got my airway clear. ‘Skiing … Italy.’

‘Where in Italy?’

‘Livigno.’

He acknowledged that with a slight nod as he reached for a coffee cup. ‘Good choice.’

I put the rest of my apple in the bin. It wasn’t my choice. I’m a hopeless skier. I’d only agreed to it because it was what Andy wanted. And rather than waste the money—because he hadn’t paid the travel insurance as I’d asked him to—I’d doggedly stuck with the plan. I must admit I was proud of myself in that I progressed off the nursery slopes, but not very far. ‘You ski?’ I asked.

‘Occasionally.’

There was a silence broken only by the sound of coffee being poured into his cup. I waited to see if he put milk or sugar or sweetener in it. You’ve guessed it. There’s a lot you can tell about someone from how they take their coffee. He was a straight-up man. No added extras. And he drank it smoking hot. I watched as he took his first mouthful without even wincing at the steamy heat.

‘What does your husband do?’

The question caught me off guard. I was too busy watching the way his mouth had shaped around the rim of his cup. Why had I thought his mouth hard and uncompromising? He had the sort of mouth that would make Michelangelo dash off for a chisel. The lower lip was sensually full and the top one neatly defined. I don’t think I’d ever seen such a beautifully sculpted mouth. I began to wonder what it would feel like pressed to my own …

‘Pardon?’

‘Is your husband a doctor too?’

Something about the way he said the word ‘husband’ made me think he was putting it in inverted commas or even in italics. It was the way he stressed the word. That, and the way his mouth got a slight curl to it as if he thought the notion of someone wanting to marry me was hilariously unbelievable.

‘No, erm, he’s a stock analyst.’

‘In London?’

‘Yes.’

There’s an art to lying and I like to think I’m pretty good at it. After all, I’ve been doing it all my life. I learned early on not to tell people the truth. Living in a commune with your parents from the age of six sort of does that to you. I wouldn’t have lasted long at school if I had Shown and Told some of the things I’d seen and heard.

No, it’s not the lying that’s the problem. That’s the easy part. It’s keeping track of them that gets tricky. So far I hadn’t strayed too far off the path. Andy was a stock analyst and he worked in London. He was currently seeking a transfer to the New York branch of his firm, which, to be frank, I welcomed wholeheartedly. London is a big city but I didn’t fancy running into him and his new girlfriend any time soon. It was bad enough having him come to my house to collect all his things. I made it easy for him by leaving them in the front garden. Yes, I know, it was petty, but I got an enormous sense of satisfaction from throwing them from the second-floor window. It wasn’t my fault it had snowed half a metre overnight. I’m not in control of the weather.

I decided in order to keep my lying tally down I had to ask some questions of my own. ‘Are you married?’

‘No.’

‘In a relationship?’

He paused for a nanosecond. ‘No.’

I wondered if he had broken up recently, or if the break-up—if there had been one—still hurt. ‘Kids?’

He frowned. ‘No, of course not.’

‘Why of course not?’

‘Call me old-fashioned but I like to do things in the right order,’ he said.

I tilted my head at him. ‘So let me guess … you haven’t lived with anyone?’

‘No.’

I pondered over that for a moment while he took a packet of sandwiches from the small fridge and sat down at the table. He opened one of the newspapers on the table and began to eat his sandwiches in what I could only describe as a mechanical way. I’m the first to admit hospital food isn’t much to get all excited about, but the sandwiches for the doctors’ room were always freshly made and contained healthy ingredients, or at least they had since I’d spoken to the head of catering a few weeks back.

‘That’s bad for you, you know,’ I said. I know it was none of my business what or how he ate but the silence was there and I wanted to fill it. Needed to fill it, more like.

Matt Bishop didn’t bother to glance my way. He turned the newspaper page over and reached for another sandwich. ‘What is?’

‘Eating and reading. At the same time, I mean.’

He sat back in his chair and looked at me with an inscrutable expression. ‘You have something against multitasking?’

I didn’t let his satirical tone faze me. ‘Eating while performing other tasks is a bad habit. It can lead to overeating. You might be full by page three but you keep on eating until you get to the sports page out of habit.’

He closed the newspaper and pushed it to the other side of the table. ‘How long were you going out with your husband before he asked you to marry him?’

There, he’d done it again. I wasn’t imagining it. He’d stressed the word ‘husband’. What was with the sudden interest in my private life? Or did he think it impossible anyone could be remotely interested in me? With the end of my engagement so recent I was feeling a bit fragile in terms of self-esteem. Come to think of it, my self-esteem has always been a little on the eggshell side. ‘Erm, actually, he didn’t ask me,’ I said. ‘I asked him.’

He lifted one of his dark eyebrows. ‘Oh?’

‘You don’t approve.’

‘It’s none of my business.’

I folded my arms and gave him a look. ‘I fail to see why the man has to have all the power in a relationship. Why should a girl have to wait months and months, possibly years for a proposal? Living every moment in a state of will-he-or-won’t-he panic?’

‘Don’t blame me,’ he said mildly. ‘I didn’t write the rule book.’

I pursed my lips, not my most attractive pose, but still. Jem calls it my cat’s-bottom pout. I had the strangest feeling Matt Bishop was smiling behind that unreadable look he was giving me. There was a tiny light in his eyes that twinkled now and again.

‘So how did he take it when you popped the question?’ he asked.

‘He said yes, obviously.’ Not straight away, but I wasn’t going to tell Matt Bishop that little detail. Andy and I had discussed marriage over the years. He just hadn’t got around to formally asking me. I got tired of waiting. I know it’s weird, considering my non-traditional background, but I really longed to be a proper bride: the white dress and veil and the church and the flowers and confetti and the adorable little flower girl and the cute little pageboy.

My parents had never formally married because they didn’t believe in the institution of marriage—any institution, really. They have an open relationship, which seems to work for them. Don’t ask me how. I’ve never said anything to them, but every time I looked at the photos of their thirty years of life together I’ve always felt like something was missing.

Matt picked up his coffee cup and surveyed me as he took another sip. ‘How long have you been at St Ignatius?’

‘Ten and a half months.’

‘Where were you before here?’

‘St Thomas’,’ I said, and tossed the question back, even though I already knew the answer because I’d overheard two of the nurses talking about him in the change room. ‘You?’

‘I trained in London and spent most of my time at Chelsea and Westminster, apart from the last twelve months in the US.’

I wondered why he had gone abroad and if it had anything to do with a woman, here or over there. I hadn’t heard anything about his private life. Word has it he kept it exactly that—private.

My phone beeped with an incoming message and I glanced down to see it was a text from Jem.

How r u doing? it said.

I quickly typed back. Fine.

Within seconds she typed back. What did everyone say?

I typed back. I haven’t told them.

She came back with, Y not?

I typed back the emoticon smiley face with red cheeks. She sent me a smiley face with love hearts for eyes. It was times like this I was truly glad I had a sister. She knew me better than anyone. She knew I needed time to sort my feelings out, to get my head around the idea of being single again.

I had a feeling she also knew it was not so much my heart that was broken but my pride. It’s not that I didn’t love Andy. I loved him from the moment I met him. He was charming and funny and made me feel as if I was the most important person in his life … for about a month. I know all relationships take work and I put in. I really did. It’s just he hadn’t factored in my career. His always came first. It caused many an argument. I mean, it’s not as if someone’s going to die if he doesn’t show up for work. He never seemed to understand I couldn’t take off a day whenever I felt like it because he was bored and wanted company.

I put my phone back in my jeans pocket and met Matt Bishop’s inscrutable gaze. I wondered if he could see any of the thought processes of my brain flitting over my face. I like to think I can keep my cards pretty close, but something about his intense grey-blue eyes made me feel exposed, as if all my insecurities and doubts were lined up on show for his perusal.

‘Any further questions?’ I asked, with a pert look.

He held my look for an extra beat. ‘Not at the moment.’

I turned on my heel and scooted out of there. Colour me suspicious, but I had a feeling there was not much that would get past Dr Matt Bishop’s sharply intelligent grey-blues.

Theatre was tense but, then, Stuart McTaggart always operated that way. He wasn’t one of those surgeons who chatted about what he did on the weekend or how well his kids were doing at Cambridge or Oxford—yadda-yadda-yadda. He didn’t have classical music playing, like a couple of the other surgeons on staff did. He insisted on absolute silence, apart from when he had something to say. I’d had to learn early on to button my lips while in Theatre with him. He was gruff to the point of surly and he barked out orders like a drill sergeant. Some of the junior theatre staff found him terrifying. Some of the more senior staff hated working with him.

Funnily enough, I didn’t find him too hard to handle. I understood the pressure he was under. Patients were more demanding of good outcomes than in the past, or at least they had better access to legal representation and were more aware of their rights. The litigious climate meant a lot of clinicians at the pointy end of medicine were under far greater pressure and scrutiny than ever before. That could be a good and a bad thing depending on the circumstances. It was part of why I wanted to pursue my research. Reducing the stress of the hospital experience was a win-win for everyone. Apart perhaps from the greedy lawyers, of course, but don’t get me started.

Stuart McTaggart was operating on a twenty-seven-year-old man with a very vascular and awkwardly placed benign brain tumour. Jason Ryder was a recently married man with a baby on the way. He was a keen sportsman, playing semi-professional golf. He had collapsed whilst playing in a tournament and been admitted to St Iggy’s via A and E. All was going well until he developed a bleed. Alex Kingston, the surgical registrar, was the first to cop the flak from Stuart.

‘Suck the blood out of the way, Kingston!’ he said. ‘I can’t diathermy bleeders if they’re underwater!’

Next in line was Leanne Griffiths, the scrub nurse.

‘Be aware of what’s happening in the operation, Sister Griffiths. I can’t wait around while you call for more swabs. They should be open, on the table, ready when I need them. Which is now!’

Then it was my turn. Woot. Woot.

‘What blood pressure have you got this patient running at, Dr Clark? He looks hypertensive to me and that’s not assisting with this blood loss!’