Julie looked at his chart. Mike Simpson was a twenty-three-year-old who had come off his motorbike the day before. He had lost a chunk of his calf in the collision and Pierre planned to graft some skin from his thigh to help the wound heal. Mike was sitting up in bed plugged in to his MP3 player, which he removed as soon as they approached. Pierre talked the patient through what he planned to do later in Theatre.
‘How long before I can go biking again?’ Mike asked. ‘It’s pretty boring being cooped up inside while all my mates are out having fun.’
‘I’d give it at least four weeks for the graft to heal,’ Pierre replied. ‘But your broken leg will take longer.’
‘You haven’t been put off, then?’ Julie asked. She knew from the notes that Mike had been lucky to escape with his life from the accident.
‘You’ve got to be kidding!’ Mike replied. ‘The insurance has already said they’ll pay out and I’ve decided which new bike to buy. A Kawasaki 750. I’ve always wanted one of those beauties.’
‘I’ve got a Harley Davidson. I brought it with me from France.’ Pierre said, and as the men launched into a discussion on the various advantages of different motorbikes, Fiona and Julie exchanged a look. Julie knew how Mike felt. After her accident she couldn’t wait to get back on her skis. Being near death’s door wasn’t what had stopped her from skiing competitively—it had simply been that her accident had meant that she’d had too much time off training to be selected for the Olympic squad. That had been almost the worst thing about the accident. All those years of training, getting up in the small hours of the morning to go to the slopes, leaving her parents from a very young age to go abroad to train—all of it—for nothing. Still, she couldn’t regret everything about it. If she hadn’t had the accident she would never gone in for medicine. And now she couldn’t imagine any other life.
Their next patient was in the paediatric ward. Shona was a girl of ten who was scheduled for an operation to have her ears pinned back. She was shy and clearly overawed by her surroundings. Her anxious mother sat by her bedside, reading to her from a book.
‘Phillip Pullman,’ Julie said reading the title. ‘He used to be one of my favourite writers. Still is.’ She grinned down at the young girl, who smiled back.
‘But you’re a grown-up,’ she said.
‘I think his books are so good anyone can read them, don’t you?’
While Julie distracted the young girl, Pierre finished examining Shona’s ears.
‘You know what we are going to do, petite?’ he said.
She nodded.
‘And you are certain that this is what you want?’
The girl glanced at her mother, before nodding. Pierre frowned and looked enquiringly at the mother.
‘You know, Shona,’ Julie said gently, ‘you don’t have to have the operation if you don’t want to. It’s not a big operation— not at all—but, still, if you’d rather not…’
The mother glanced at Julie. ‘I’ve told her so many times,’ she said, ‘that there is nothing wrong with her ears.’ She leaned across and stroked her daughter’s head.
‘You are such a pretty girl, no one will even notice your ears,’ Pierre said. ‘We discussed this when I saw you yesterday. You know you can still change your mind?’
The girl looked at the three adults and folded her arms across her chest, a mutinous line to her mouth.
‘I want this operation. They tease me at school. They call me Dumbo!’ Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘You don’t know what it’s like to be teased because of the way you look.’ As she said the words she looked at Julie and her hand flew to her mouth in horror. ‘I’m sorry…I mean…’ she stumbled.
It took every ounce of Julie’s willpower not to raise her hand and cover her scar. Instead she sat down on the edge of the bed.
‘No one teases me,’ she said. ‘At least, not to my face. They wouldn’t dare. But I do know what it’s like to feel self-conscious about the way you look. It can hurt when people stare at you.’
Shona nodded, clearly gratified that someone understood. Pierre was watching Julie closely.
‘So if you are sure that this is what you want, that is fine. As I said, it’s not a big operation, but you’ll be sore for a while.’ Julie repeated.
‘I want it,’ Shona said.
‘Then you shall have it, of course,’ Pierre said. ‘I just wanted you to know that you could still change your mind.’
Pierre and Julie left Fiona finalising the patients’ prep for theatre.
‘Let’s go and see Tom in ITU,’ Pierre suggested. ‘I’ve added him to the end of the list. His operation is the trickiest and most time-consuming.’
As they made their way towards Intensive Care, Pierre stopped and turned to Julie. He lifted long fingers to her face and gently felt along the ridge of her scar. It was all Julie could do not to flinch, but whether it was from embarrassment or the electric tingle she felt from his fingertips, she didn’t want to hazard a guess.
‘What happened?’ he asked softly, dropping his hand to his side.
‘Accident at speed. While I was skiing,’ she said
His mouth relaxed.
‘Now, why am I not surprised? It seems to me you are someone who enjoys danger,’ he said. ‘Going too fast, I think?’
‘It was part of it. I had to go fast. I was training for the woman’s downhill. For the Winter Olympics.’
Pierre’s eyebrows shot up. He let out a low whistle. ‘Why did you stop competing? Was it because of the accident?’
‘Yes, I had missed too much training so I was dropped from the team. I still ski, although now it’s only for pleasure. I go up north—usually to the Cairngorms—whenever I get the chance.’
Together they started walking again. Julie was relieved that they had moved on from discussing her face, although she found talking about her aborted skiing hopes no less distressing.
‘I’d heard one could ski in Scotland, but I didn’t really believe it. I didn’t think there was enough snow.’ Pierre said, sounding surprised. ‘I would like to see for myself if it is still possible.’
‘Oh, there’s plenty of snow still if that’s what you’re worried about.’ Julie reassured him. ‘We haven’t had much the last few seasons, but this year’s made up for it in spades.’
Pierre frowned. ‘In spades? What do spades have to do with skiing?’
Julie laughed. ‘I’m sorry. It’s an idiom. It just means there is plenty of something—in this case snow.’ Amazingly she found herself beginning to relax in his company.
Pierre stopped outside the door of ITU. He looked down at her, his blue eyes searching her face. ‘I should like to see you ski,’ he said. Something in his tone made Julie’s heart thump. ‘Perhaps you could show me these Scottish mountains of yours one day?’
Confused at the turn the conversation was taking, Julie could only nod. Was he asking her out?
‘I have skied all my life,’ he went on. ‘But I haven’t had much chance recently. I find it’s a good way to relax and I know Caroline would like to learn,’ he said, looking thoughtful. ‘Maybe it could be something she and I could do together.’
Of course, Julie thought. He was thinking about his niece. Not her. Acutely aware of feeling irrationally disappointed, she was relieved when he turned away towards Tom’s bed.
The DJ was still sedated, and was being monitored by an intensive care nurse called Linda, whom Julie had