Kitabı oku: «The Rebel Doc», sayfa 6
‘Don’t be. It’s in the past.’
He let her foot down then settled himself on the other end of the couch. Lifted her foot again and continued to stroke it as if it was the most normal thing he’d ever done. He smelt of dark brown Betadine, that distinctive hospital smell, but over-laced with his own particular scent of spice and pure raw man. ‘But you are still affected by it, Ivy, I can see.’
‘Plenty of people have worse than this, you only have to spend a day in this hospital to see that. It doesn’t hurt much.’ Actually, it did. Not a day or an hour went by without pain, but talking about it made it worse. What had hurt much more had been the reaction from everyone else. Cripple. Ugly. Time-waster. Her own mother hadn’t been bothered enough to listen, to care, to fight.
‘But that’s why you’re here, doing this job.’
‘Yes.’ She twisted round and leant back on the arm of the sofa to get comfortable. As if having a man like Matteo touching her skin would ever be a comfortable experience. It was terrifying. It was lovely. ‘Sure, that’s my calling. Righting the wrongs. Capturing the evildoers and taking them to task. Saving the world. Maybe I should get a cape too. Super-Lawyer.’
‘Sure, you’d look cute in Lycra. We could be a dynamic duo. But now I understand a lot more about you.’ He paused, waited until the smile had faded. ‘And he apologised, this man?’
‘The surgeon? Never. But he was eventually struck off after he got caught doing a similar thing—maybe six years later. Turns out he was a serial drunk and had hurt a lot of people over the years.’
‘And the man who was swinging you round and round?’ His face darkened. ‘You went through too much because of him.’
She thought about how much to say. Did it matter? Was she breaking any of her own cardinal rules by just talking to Matteo? It was only words. She could do words easily. She just didn’t have such a great handle on emotions. Especially not these new ones—desire, lust, need.
‘My mum married him. They all said it was my fault for wriggling while he was swinging me. Said he thought my screams were because I was having fun, not because I was frightened. And Mum was so bowled over by him she believed anything he said. She wasn’t interested in my version of events, or in seeking any recompense from the surgeon, or to try make sure he didn’t maim anyone else’s kid.’ It was all too much trouble.
‘So that’s why you distrust people too. Ah, you are textbook.’ He raised his eyebrows and wagged a finger at her.
She grabbed it and twisted slightly. ‘Glad I’m so transparent when I thought I was much more complex.’
‘And twelve more surgeries?’
She shrugged, trying at the same time to shrug off the memory and the pain she’d endured time after time after time. And learning to walk. Over and over. ‘Yep. Internal fixations, pins, plates. Infected wound debriding … You could say I was more of an in-patient than an out-patient for a lot of my growing up. It got to the point that I used to take myself to my out-patient appointments on the bus on my own.’
‘As a child?’
‘As a young girl. A teenager. Mum wasn’t very good at the parenting details of being a mother. There were always too many other things for her to do …’ Or, rather, men to pursue. Relationships to sort out. Dramas. Lots and lots of dramas. Unfortunately, not one of them had involved looking after the only child she’d ever had. ‘It was just easier to do it on my own than try to rely on her. Although, obviously, she had to come to sign the consent forms for the surgeries, but she didn’t tend to hang around much.’
It had always felt as if it had been just too much of a hassle for her. That her needs had been a hindrance to her mother’s social life. Until, that was, every time her mother’s life had imploded, and then she’d clung to Ivy the way she’d clung to her husbands—with the desperate, all-consuming need that they all learned to despise in the end. The need that Ivy had seen once too often in her friends—the need for a man that overwhelmed them.
So she’d vowed never to be like that. Ever. Never to let a man take over, to take so much of her that there was too little left. But she didn’t feel in any danger of that happening with Dr Delicious here—she knew exactly the score with him. He was the kind of guy who didn’t offer any promises, and that was just fine, because she didn’t want any.
The stroking of his hands had become more intense, the sensation he instilled reaching more than just her leg. It was travelling through her, heating every part of her. He nodded. ‘So this is why you’re so independent and argumentative? Because you want justice. And because you need to be heard. Because your mum let you down.’
She thought about it, and, yes, he was probably right, but she didn’t want him to know that. Like a lot of things, it was easier to shove them deep down than face them. ‘I suppose you could say that my relationship with my mother is as broken as my foot.’ In fact, the thought of even discussing anything other than the weather with her mum brought Ivy out in hives. As far as she was concerned, it was better to be on her own than risk her heart again. A girl could only take so much emotional fallout.
‘Thanks for the psychology lecture. But I’m just who I am, Poison Ivy, who won’t tolerate defective people thinking they’re immune to the law or to recrimination. Or surgeons who think they’re God. Or people who don’t take me seriously. Okay, so I’ve learnt to be like this, but I’m not ashamed of it.’
‘You are Ivy. Yes. And you are stronger for your experiences.’
‘And do you know, I don’t think I’ve ever really talked about them before.’ Not in so much detail. So God only knew what the hell that meant. That she’d exposed her weakness, not only allowed him to see her scars but discussed them too.
Suddenly she felt a little vulnerable. She shrugged her foot from out of his hand and scuttled her feet under her bum as she sat up, inadvertently shuffling closer to him as she resettled herself. ‘So, please, please, don’t say anything to anyone, I don’t really want this to be hospital gossip. Every surgeon’s going to think I’m on some kind of witch hunt and I’m not at all. I just want to do my job to the best of my ability, and scuttling out dodgy surgeons is only a tiny part of it. The rest is to put systems in place to prevent these things happening again.’
He frowned. ‘Of course. But the scarring and the injury are hardly something you should be ashamed of.’
‘If you’d seen the cruel reaction of the kids I grew up with, and then the men I dated who wanted tabloid perfect, you wouldn’t be saying that.’
‘Then they are all idiots.’
Yes. Maybe they were. And so was she for being taken in by his words. By his touch. By the way he sounded so unlike every man she’d ever dated—his words like a salve to her wounds. By the little dimple in the cleft of his chin. And by that tiny frozen part of her that had started to thaw, just a little, leaving her open and vulnerable.
She did not want this. Did not have space in her life for this. And, really, she should have stood up and left, but she reached to him anyway, placed her hand over his. Because it seemed a perfectly natural thing to do. ‘Thank you. That was a nice thing to say.’
‘My pleasure.’ His hand cupped her face and he looked at her with such intensity that her heart beat a wild staccato against her ribcage. ‘So don’t be so hard on yourself.’
He was just being kind in that Italian way of his. He was being gallant and it was so nice to actually be on the receiving end of something like that. Just for once in her life. And he was so close. Looking down with a heated gaze that stoked something deep inside her. Something that answered the question in his eyes.
Then, unable to stop herself, she lifted her face and pressed her lips to his.
What kind of madness was this? Matteo mused in a barely coherent thought process as his hands curled around her, dragging her onto his lap and returning the kiss like a starving man. He was jaded and cynical and not able to offer anything more than this.
Her fingers spiked his hair and she moaned his name, her voice tinged with that cute accent that was so different and refreshing and intriguing and haughty. She tasted delicious. Of risk and freedom and the melting of barriers. Of layers and depth and heat. And wetness.
Her tongue slipped into his mouth and meshed with his, dancing an age-old dance that fired an intense need within him. He pulled her against him, relishing her soft body against his, and then, unable to wait any longer, he slipped his hand underneath the scrub top to her bra. With one easy flick of his fingers he’d undone it and palmed a hand over warm silken flesh and the tight bud of a nipple.
At his touch she moaned again, wriggling her backside against his erection, slowly gyrating on his lap. She was driving him crazy. Wild with desire. That clever mouth that kissed as well as it shot out smart retorts. This achingly sexy body with the softest skin and the scars of a history that made his gut clench. And that drive deep within her that had elevated her from her experiences and made her so much more. He wanted to do anything to erase that hurt.
But wait.
Taking her in the staffroom? That was not his plan. She was worth more than that, deserved more. What kind of madness indeed. But he wasn’t thinking straight. It had been a long, hard day and she was just so irresistible. Such a bundle of contrasts, and so damned hot. And he did not know what any of it meant, what this need that drove him was about, that he dreamt about her. But he knew it was intense. That it was something he should be afraid of, yet at the same time he was intrigued and, mio Dio, he just couldn’t keep away.
A vibrating whirr and a tinny sound had her jumping off him, swiping a hand across her mouth and straightening her top. She reached into her pocket, pulled out a phone and frowned. ‘Oh. Er … strange? I should probably get this.’
‘Sure.’ It would give him time to calm down a little and get things into perspective. Actually, to man up and put a stop to this fooling around in a public place. Said the guy with his ass hanging out over the internet. The more he thought about that, the more he realised what a stupid prank it had been. But he wasn’t about to admit that to Ivy.
She turned away from him, her shoulders rising up to her ears as she talked. ‘Oh. Okay. I see. When? Where?’
A silence stretched as she listened. The longer she stood there the more her body tensed, her hand slowly moving up to her mouth. And, as if in harmony with her, Matteo’s heart clutched too. Clearly there was a problem and it went deeper than a work issue.
‘Of course,’ she said finally, her voice weak and wobbly. ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can. Please, tell her to … I don’t know … Tell her to hold on.’
As she slung the phone back into her pocket she turned to him, her face pale now, all traces of their passion erased. ‘I have to go back to York. My mum’s sick. She’s had a heart attack … they think, they’re running tests as we speak. Er … she’s asking for me.’
‘Of course. You must go.’ But there was something about her hesitation that gave him pause too. After all, it hadn’t sounded like she had the best relationship with her mother. And he knew how being angry and disillusioned with family could affect someone. ‘You think that’s the right thing to do?’
She raised her head enough to hold his gaze, and in her darkened, hooded eyes he saw fear and sadness and determination. Her voice was calm. ‘Just because she’s a lousy mother, it doesn’t mean I have to be a lousy daughter. If she needs me, I’ll be there for her.’
‘Of course, and you shall go. Do you need help organising things?’
‘Oh. Well, I guess I need to either hire a car or get the train. Driving’s crap on a Friday, but it means I’ll be able to go see her straight away, and also pop home for things she might need. But I think the train might be quicker … but … I don’t know …’ She took a step forward, then back. Almost as if she didn’t know how or where to start. For the first time since he’d met her she seemed totally out of her depth. Blindsided.
And he needed to step up.
Didn’t want to—because that would make things infinitesimally more complicated. But it wasn’t about him. Or this. It was about her and healing things with her mamma. ‘I’ll take you.’
‘What? No. No. No, don’t be silly. It’s fine. I can drive. I just need …’ she fished her phone out again ‘… to call a decent car hire place … or something.’
Wrapping his arms around her, he took the phone from her hands, gave her a hug that she clearly didn’t know what to do with but accepted anyway. And he was probably doing this all wrong and sending the wrong message, but he couldn’t stand here and watch her sink. She was too proud for that. ‘You are upset. Look, you’re shaking. You shouldn’t drive. Let me take you?’
She shook her head vehemently. ‘No, it’s too much to ask anyone. This is my problem, not yours. Besides, it’s a hell of a long way, a good four hours’ drive on a Friday night—more, probably, the traffic’s usually a nightmare. You can’t do it there and back in one go, not after a long day. And don’t you have plans for tomorrow? A rugby game you sold your soul to the devil for or something?’
He hugged her to him, as he would have any friend who was suffering, trying through his actions to say what he wasn’t yet ready to say in words. Hell, he didn’t know what he was trying to say.
‘It’s rugby. We will win. It will be over in eighty minutes. This is more important.’ You are more important, was what he actually thought. The shock of that shuddered through him. He didn’t know her. He didn’t like her, goddamn. Okay. So he could probably admit to liking her when she wasn’t being a prim lawyer chasing his ass. Literally.
She spun out of his arms, looking embarrassed and flustered and about as far from a prim lawyer as anyone could get. ‘And what about Joey and your other patients? They need you here.’
‘I told you, the on-call team is fabulous—the best in the city. In fact, Dave Marshall taught me everything I know about renal surgery. So they’re all in the best hands. It is fine. Really. I’m not due at work until Monday as it is, and I’m only a phone call away.’ And he should have heeded the warning bells again then, but he didn’t. Should have remembered the last time he’d allowed a woman to invade his life and his heart—and then plundered it and smashed it into tiny pieces and thrown it into the trash. The betrayal. The double whammy of hurt.
But this was different. Ivy needed help and he could give it to her. What kind of a man did otherwise?
CHAPTER SEVEN
IT WAS LATE and dark when they arrived at the hospital, after a long journey where Ivy had felt herself withdraw into her worries. But Matteo had kept a constant stream of trivial conversation to dredge an occasional smile and for that she was grateful.
Now she knew he liked rugby more than football. That he preferred bottled beer to wine. That he’d had his wisdom teeth removed when he was twenty. Nothing deeper than that. But it had been enough. More than enough to keep her from going out of her mind with concern.
He pulled up outside the entrance, a hand on her knee as he spoke. ‘I’ll find a parking spot. You go in, I’ll find you.’
‘She’ll be in the cardiac ward, I imagine. Or High Dependency or something … I’ll ask at Reception. Perhaps I should text you?’ She went for her phone in her bag. Did she have his number?
He put his hand on hers and gave her a smile that went bone deep. ‘Ivy, I know my way around a hospital. I’ll find you. Go.’
‘Of course. Yes. Yes.’ What was wrong with her? One stolen kiss and she’d been reduced to fluff. Her brain wasn’t functioning. Maybe it was the worry about her mum …
After she watched him pull away she went to find her mother, feeling empty and bewildered, her own heart bruised and broken enough too. There was so much between them that needed to be said, that she wanted to fix but wanted to avoid at all costs.
The hospital corridors were silent as she walked to the reception desk, a grey-haired lady pointing her in the direction of Cardiac Care. Darkness outside the windows penetrated her heart. She’d been talking about her mum and then something bad had happened. What did that mean?
She didn’t want to rail at her, to blame her for the crappy upbringing she’d had—it was too late for that. All Ivy had ever wanted was recognition that she was important in her mother’s life. But, in the end, she supposed, it didn’t matter a jot. Ivy’s mother was important to her and if love only went one way, then so be it. It was too late for recriminations.
One of the nurses greeted her and showed her to her mother’s bed with a stern warning to be quick and quiet.
‘Ivy.’ Her mum looked frail and old, lying on pale green sheets that leached colour from her cheeks. Tubes and wires stuck out from under the blanket, attached to a monitor that bleeped at reassuringly regular intervals. A tube piped oxygen into her nostrils, but she sucked in air too, pain etched across her features. ‘Thank you for coming, I said not to bother you. I know you’re busy—too busy to have to come all this way to see your old mum.’
‘Mum, you’ve had a heart attack—since when was that not enough to bring me to see you?’ Guilt ripped through Ivy, as she’d known it would. It was what happened every time she saw her mum—whatever Ivy had done it had never been enough to make her mother love her and she just didn’t know how to make things better. She gave her a hug, which was always difficult, and this time it was hindered by the tubes. Movement made her mother’s monitor beep, and consequently made Ivy’s heart pound—loudly—and so she quickly let go. The space between them seemed to stretch.
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Lousy.’ Breathless and wheezing, her mum settled back down and the beeping stopped. ‘I had … an angioplasty. They’ve cleared the occlusion … put in a stent … so I just need a short stay in here … then do some rehab … as an out-patient.’
It was fixable. Just faulty plumbing. Relief flooded through her as she held her mum’s hand. But once again she felt very much like their roles had been reversed, that she was the one taking the care, being the parent. ‘That’s great news. I was … I was worried about you.’
‘Thanks, love. I’m glad you came. You’re all I’ve got now. Can you stay … you know, a while?’
Responsibility tugged Ivy in every direction. Her job, everything, could be put on hold. Couldn’t it? She’d only been there a few weeks—but they’d understand. Wouldn’t they? She had a nagging sensation that things weren’t going to be easy, that she’d have to fight to take time off—time she hadn’t yet earned. And she had that upcoming sexual harassment case that was so important for everyone involved. She needed to be in London all clued up for that.
And she needed to be here with her mum. Someone who had never been there for her. Maybe she could trust the case to a junior? Maybe she could teleconference with them all. Maybe, surely, they’d understand? What would happen if they didn’t? She didn’t want to contemplate that. She’d finally got her dream job, and now … She looked at her mum, frail and anxious. ‘I’ll stay here with you as long as you need, Mum.’
‘I’d appreciate it. I don’t have anyone else.’
‘You have me.’ Even though it had never seemed enough. ‘Is there anything you need? Once they have you settled …’
‘I’ve been thinking, Ivy. About everything … We need to talk. I need to …’ Her mum’s eyes drifted to a spot just behind Ivy and as her skin prickled in response to an external stimulus, also known as Dr Delicious, she turned. Her mum’s voice suddenly sounded a lot more healthy. ‘Who’s this?’
‘Oh. Yes. Mum, this is Matteo, my …’ What the hell was he? Other than a giant pain in the backside and a damned fine kisser? And, okay, so he was wearing her down a little with his huge generosity of spirit and the four hours’ of driving on a soggy spring evening through interminable traffic on a motorway that had been as clogged as her mother’s arteries. He was also messing with her head. ‘He’s my colleague at St Carmen’s. He drove me here.’
‘All the way from London? Lucky you.’
‘Yes, well …’ She’d never introduced a man friend to her mother before. ‘He’s just helping me out.’
Ivy shot Matteo a look that she hoped would silence any other kind of response. Because it was late and she was frazzled, her mum was sick and this wasn’t the time or place for explanations. I met his bottom first, the rest came later, and I have no idea what any of it means.
And, truth be told, I’m scared. Right now, of everything. Of you dying. Of him becoming too much to me. Of losing myself in either grief or love.
Of not being able to let go.
The nurse bustled over and fiddled with an IV line attached to a large bag of fluid. ‘Hello, there. Look, I know you’ve come a long way and I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but visiting hours finished a long time ago. I let you sit with her for a while but, really, she needs to get her rest and so do my other patients …’
‘It’s okay, Ivy. You go.’ Her mum’s eyes were already closed, but she squeezed Ivy’s hand. A gesture that was the simplest and yet most profound thing Ivy had received from her mum in a very long time. Tears pricked her eyes.
‘Of course. Yes. Of course. I’m so sorry. I’ll be back tomorrow, Mum.’
‘Good. Bring me some toiletries, will you? A nightgown. Make-up.’
‘Make-up? What for?’
‘Standards, darling.’ Typical Mum. But it did make Ivy smile—she couldn’t be at the far end of danger if she wanted to put on mascara.
‘Let’s go, Ivy.’ Matteo touched her arm and he drew her away from the ward and out into the silent corridor of eternal half-night. That was how hospitals felt to her—places where reality hovered in the background, and time ticked slowly in an ethereal way.
It was good to have him there, despite the strange unbidden feelings he provoked. Emotions washed through her—elation that her mum wasn’t going to die, sadness about the gulf between them, and then, interlaced with all of this, the comfort of being with Matteo. A comfort that pulsed with excitement and sexual attraction. Which seemed really inappropriate and out of place right now. But there it was. Maybe she just needed another human being to metaphorically cling to. There was, after all, a first time for everything.
He waited until they were outside before he spoke. ‘So it’s good news, then? She’s going to be okay?’
A long breath escaped her lungs. ‘Yes, it would seem so. She’s had an MI and angioplasty and the outlook’s good.’
‘So why the sad face?’
She tried to find him a smile, because it was good news. ‘I don’t know … I’m really pleased she’s okay. I just feel terrible for saying those awful things about her, for thinking bad things when she was so sick. She could have died and I’d never have forgiven myself.’
He stopped short and looked at her. ‘Ivy, her only job was to love you. If she didn’t do that then you’re right to be angry at her.’
She got the feeling that he was talking from personal experience, that there was something that had happened to him. That he understood what she felt because he’d felt it too. ‘Matteo, do you have a good relationship with your family? Were things okay when you were growing up?’ It was so not her way to ask direct questions like this—to go deeper than she ever wanted to go herself—but maybe learning how other people coped with things could help.
And she’d quite like to feel she wasn’t the only one around here who’d got issues.
At a time like this, in the dark, late at night, with worry hovering around the edges, maybe it was the best time to talk about these things. The things that really mattered.
He shrugged, sucking in the cool fresh northern air. ‘My mum could only be described as wanting to love us all to death. She’s your typical Italian mother—overfeeding, over-smothering and over-loving us.’
‘And your father?’
He shrugged. Opening the car door, his demeanour changed, his voice took on a forced jolly tone. ‘Now, we need to eat something half-decent that isn’t wrapped in plastic packaging and sold for a fortune in a motorway service station, and you need to get some serious sleep. It has been a long day.’
‘Matteo …’ She wanted him to continue talking about his family. This was the guy who believed in openness and honesty. But only, it seemed, when he felt like it.
‘No, Ivy. It’s too late for talking. Now, show me the way to your house.’
The emotions didn’t wane as she shakily put the key in the lock of her mum’s central York Georgian townhouse. It had been a long time since she’d been here—too long. And that last time they’d argued—but that was nothing new. Ivy couldn’t even remember what it had been about. It didn’t matter, it could have been one of a zillion things, as there’d always been an undercurrent of dissatisfaction between them. But she did remember that she’d left in a storm. And now she was back because her mum had nearly died.
They were immediately greeted by the smell of coffee—that was one thing she had inherited from her mum, a love of decent coffee. Then the warm press of Hugo, the fat ginger cat, who purred as he rubbed himself against her legs, preventing a step forward or backwards.
‘Hey, cat.’ Matteo took a sidestep through the front door, carrying Ivy’s suitcase, a small overnight bag of his own and two large brown paper carriers. He walked through to the kitchen, knowing exactly where to go as if he had homing radar, and plonked them all on the floor. Looking around at the modern granite surfaces and white cupboards in a house that was over two hundred years old, he smiled. ‘Very English. Nice. My mum would be green with envy if she saw this place. She’s been talking about having a new kitchen since I was born.’
It felt strange, having him here in her space—her old space. It wasn’t as if it felt like home any more and yet it was filled with so many familiar things and smells that gave her strange sensations of hurt and loss and loneliness. She’d always envied her friends who’d had happy chaos at home, whereas hers had been all bound up with suffering of one kind or another.
‘So what’s your home like, Matteo?’
‘I guess you’d call it quaint. Old. Small. Traditional. Stone walls, dark wooden cupboards, terracotta tiles, in a village where everyone knows everyone and everyone tries to outdo each other. That’s why I like London, you don’t have to live in each other’s pockets.’ He nodded to the bags. ‘Okay, so I got what I could from the little supermarket next to the hospital after I parked. It wasn’t great, but it had the basics. I have some chicken breasts, pesto sauce and mozzarella cheese. A plastic bag of something the label refers to as salad but which appears to be just leaves. Olives. Bread. And red wine.’
‘I thought you said you preferred beer.’
Not hiding his smile, he started to unpack the carriers. ‘So you were listening? I thought you were nodding your head in time to the music as you stared out of the window at something no one else could see.’
‘I was listening.’ It wasn’t a lie. She’d been half occupied with dreary thoughts, and half enthralled by the thought of being with him for the next few hours. Alone. ‘Well, thank you. I like red wine.’
‘I know.’ He rustled in the cupboards and fished out a frying pan, some bowls, a chopping board, two glasses and a knife. Then he opened the wine, filled two glasses and handed her one, gently pushing her to sit at the breakfast bar. ‘Drink this while I cook.’
She did as she was told, enjoying having someone to look after her for a change but simultaneously feeling a little ill at ease. ‘Why are you being like this? So kind and helpful?’
Slicing the chicken, he threw it into the pan and tossed it around in garlic-infused oil, then emptied the leaves into a bowl. ‘Because you looked like you needed a helping hand.’
She thought about that. With his explanation it all seemed so obvious and easy. It wasn’t. ‘You once said, too, that I looked like I needed kissing. Do you always presume things, Matteo? Make up your own reality to suit yourself?’
He stopped chopping for a moment, the knife held in mid-air. ‘As you appear not to be able to express your wants and needs, but to repress them and create barriers instead, in some sort of stiff-upper-lip thing, I have to go by gut instinct. Women! You should say what you want. Be honest. Ask and we’ll help. Hinting and hiding stuff just confuses us. Pretending to be okay when you’re not doesn’t help anyone in the end. And definitely not men …’ He pushed the olives towards her. ‘We’re easily confused.’
‘Poor men.’ She shot him a sympathetic grimace. ‘How did you get so knowledgeable about women?’
‘I have two sisters, remember? You learn a lot rubbing shoulders with them twenty-four hours a day.’
‘And girlfriends?’
His forehead creased into a little frown and he paused, this time the hand in mid-air holding a bowl of olives. ‘Of course. I’m a man. We have few desires, but some of them do involve having a woman around.’
Oh, yes, she could see that he was man, thank you very much. In dangerous proximity. And she had no idea why she was taking the conversation down this particular track. ‘Anyone … serious … ever?’
‘Not really …’ He shook his head, eyes guarded. ‘No. I’m an emotional Neanderthal, apparently. Selfish. Unfeeling. Because I like to put work first, because I devote myself to my patients.’
