plucked up the courage to tell the truth.
‘Good suggestion,’ I said, and, taking a deep breath, headed to the lion’s den.
I gave the closed door a quick rap and winced as my knuckles protested. It was a timely reminder I would need to develop a thicker skin if I were to survive the next few rounds with Dr Matt Bishop.
‘Come in.’
I walked into his office but it was nothing like his predecessor had left it. Gone were the lopsided towers of files and patient notes and budgetary reports. There were no family photos on the cluttered desk. No empty or half-drunk cups of coffee. No cookie crumbs. No glass jar full of colourful dental-filling-pulling sweets. The office had been stripped bare of its character. It was as sterile and as cool as the man who sat behind the acre of desk.
‘Close the door.’
I paused, giving him an arch look. I might have had an alternative upbringing but at least my parents taught me the magic word.
‘Please,’ he added, with a smidgeon of a lip curl.
Round one to me, I thought.
The door clicked shut and I moved a little closer to the desk. The closer I got the more my skin prickled. It was like entering a no-go zone monitored by invisible radar.
I wondered what my mum would make of his aura. Matt Bishop had a firm mouth that looked like it wasn’t used to smiling. His jaw had a determined set to it as if he was unfamiliar with the notion of compromise. His skin was olive toned but it looked as if he hadn’t been anywhere with strong sunshine for several months … but, then, that’s our English summer for you. His hair was a rich, dark brown, thick and plentiful but cut short in a no-nonsense style. He was closely shaven and in the air I could pick up a faint trace of lime and lemongrass, a light, fresh scent that made my nostrils widen in appreciation. I’m a sucker for subtle aftershave.
I hate stepping into the lift with a bunch of young male medical students who’ve gone crazy with those cheap aerosol body sprays. I once had to hold my breath for six floors and the lift stopped on every one. I was wheezing like I had emphysema by the time I got out.
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