A corner torn from a newspaper sits on the occasional table and, atop that, a cold cup of half drunk tea. In the sink, a discarded teabag leaks it's tannin-brown stain into the porcelain and, across the worktop, a generous sprinkling of sugar crystals adhere fiercely to the surface. By some miracle, the milk has made it back into the refrigerator but, sadly, not to its appointed place inside the door. Instead it balances precariously among new and mysterious packets of processed meats, a plethora of soft cheeses, and an unsteady stack of plastic pots, bulging with ready-made salads. I cannot understand why she seems drawn so compulsively to trans fats and complex carbohydrates and, despite my warnings on the proliferation of listeria, to pre-prepared supermarket foods, created and stored in environments that are perfect for gram-positive anaerobes to flourish.
I discover her latest paperback stashed down the side of the chair, a stick from some sort of frozen confectionary her bookmark, the cover savagely creased and dog-eared. There's usually a sock, but this time there's a pair, and shoes inevitably, spread haphazardly across the room. Hair ties and hair pins, nail files and lip balm, I collect it all into a pile. When I return to the bedroom, I will take it all with me, grumbling at her sleeping figure as she lies there, a picture of innocence; unconcerned, oblivious and so very very beautiful. Around her, discarded garments hang from handles and are draped over chairs. I am familiar with this phenomenon now, the practice of choosing an appropriate outfit for a function by trying on almost every item of clothing she owns, staring at herself in the mirror, grimacing in despair.
When I'm here, and the selection process starts, of course I feign irritation, folding my arms and staring at her impatiently as I hover in the doorway, glancing at my watch. Sometimes I will snatch disapprovingly at wet towels discarded onto the bed, or attempt to impose some sort of order in the chaos of the en-suite but, all the time, I can barely wrest my eyes from her as she wanders distractedly about the room. It gives me an oddly encouraging feeling of intimacy, as if I have been inducted into some sort of secret society, a world where rescuing bras snagged in door handles, and folding the most delicate of undergarments retrieved from the floor, has now become second nature to me.
"What do you think?" She'd asked breathlessly, folding back the page and thrusting a magazine into my line of sight.
I'd sighed resignedly but I wasn't entirely averse to the distraction. As soon as I'd realised it was some sort of lingerie catalogue, my fascination with endothelial dysfunction markers evaporated almost instantly and I'd frowned in concentration at the image she tapped with her finger. I noticed how she chewed at her lip, and I suspect she was perhaps holding her breath, but I could never bring myself to lie to her, to consciously mislead her in any way. If she walked past in an an old coal sack, I would be hard pressed not to take a second look, but there's something about the item she showed me that has the opposite effect to the one I suspect she hoped for.
"Umm…no." I told her quickly and diffidently, passing it back, and stealing a glance at her when I think she's not looking.
"Oh." She replied and I sense her surprise, noticing how she frowns, her hands twisting at her cardigan where it lies across her lap. "Right. I just thought…you know…"
I look at the photograph again; a healthy, young woman, rendered impossibly severe and rather aggressive by the cold, light-absorbing darkness of the garment in which she she is clad. How can I explain to Louisa that seeing her soft curves restrained in some sort of unyielding, taffeta prison is anathema to me, that stiff, black bodices fill me with the same sort of gothic horror that cadaver dissections would cause the average man in the street. I wince as I picture her in it, in fact my whole body seems to shrink in disgust and I struggle for an appropriate way to respond.
"Is there anything you do like?" She said hopefully, after a moment, easing the pages from where they are gripped in my fingers, and flipping it open again at the front.
I'd swallowed hard and glanced down, casting my eyes cautiously over clusters of bored and sulky looking women, their poses wooden and artificial, their regret at their career choices clearly apparent. Skimming through the catalogue with growing disinterest, I'd felt nothing at all. Every style seemed extreme, either sordid and seedy, or verging on cartoonish until, to my inordinate relief, I have a glimmer of hope. I see something I can point at with a degree of approval, something so pleasantly feminine and natural, colourful and spirited and soft. I clear my throat, equal parts relieved and embarrassed, and pass the magazine back to her.
"Oh, right." She said, raising her eyebrows, and smiling at me, as if a light has come on in her head.
As she took it from me though, I couldn't help but glance at it again. It seemed to me to be so ineffably Louisa; so pretty and floral, a delicate chinoiserie silk in subtle pastels and greens, as light and refreshing as a gentle summer breeze. Even now, days later, the thought of her in it momentarily raises my heart rate and I shift in my seat as I imagine how she might feel beneath my hands. With hindsight, this will not be my finest professional moment, as I realise I have not been paying attention. Focusing intently once again, I listen to Sholto's grimly-delivered summation of the situation, ashamed that my usually fearsome powers of concentration were rendered null and void by the recollection, even it were only for the briefest of moments.
I'd arrived before anyone else this morning, and I'd felt a vague spring in my step, fortified and rendered more resilient, buoyed by the growing realisation that everything that matters does not happen solely within these four walls. Eschewing the lift, I'd run up the stairs only to come face to face with the irritating little maintenance man on the third floor landing, a pot of paint in his hand, a preposterous smirk wrapped around his asinine head. I turned my shoulders away, my back to him, and slipped past with a vague grunt, determined not to engage, noticing how he smelt of linseed oil and cheap aftershave, wrinkling my nose in vague disgust.
"You're up and about early." He chirruped, but I steadfastly refused to be drawn.
I admit to understanding what it is all about, that this is the sort of interaction that Louisa rather inaccurately refers to as 'pleasantries'. She makes such an effort to convince me but, despite her best attempts, I still can't see that there's much point to it all. I have so much to do, and nothing to gain, and simply no interest in wasting my time on such a ludicrous exchange, especially when the premise is so pathetically obvious. I know I'm early, and it's none of his business, and both of us presumably have more important things to do with our time.
"Yes." I reply abruptly, clearing my throat dismissively and avoiding his eye, applying the skills I know I'm proficient in; aloofness, disdain and unapproachability.
"You do realise it's Dress Down Friday?" He calls after me but, again, I ignore him, increasing my pace, taking the stairs two at a time in an effort to put the maximum distance between us as quickly as possible.
Once I was safely in my office, I applied myself methodically, determined to deliver on Sholto's last minute demands. It was clear, however, that this Palter woman had done a professional job of removing all evidence; barely a trace of her remained despite having held the role, apparently unsupervised, for what appears to be several years. What incriminating documentation I do have remained secured within my briefcase, and it would only be photocopies that I submitted for his consideration today. Rolling my shoulders and breathing deeply, I took a moment to compose myself, reminding myself to stay calm and running through the arguments I have prepared, in my head. The last thing I think about, before I lock the door securely behind me, is that, of all the battles I have fought in my life, this one I do not fight for myself alone.
Opposite me, Zalman's face is a mask, and Sholto's temper seems particularly frayed, but we plough through the usual ephemera of a departmental meeting; funding approval for desperately needed new staff, cost overruns, capex requests and purchase orders, implementing new health and safety regulations, expense account forms, even magazine and journal subscriptions, all the usual tedious minutiae of meetings within any institution. At the end of the table, Sholto's secretary scribbles notes in a solemn authoritative silence, only raising her eyes from her notebook in order to fix us all with an expression of grim forbearance.
I have little tolerance for meetings and, as I sit there, stiffly upright and in icy contemplation of my fellow attendees, frustration begins to suffocate me. I am desperate to get back to surgery, writhing at the unjustness of it all, and this gin trap I find myself in, this straightjacket, this unwarranted cage, sees me as tormented as a cruelly baited bear. The prospect of seeing patients, putting together my list, the practice of actual medicine, normal, everyday things, it all seems to shift further into the distance with every minute that passes, and I can't fight it; resentment begins to contaminate my every thought.
As they droned on, I'd been preparing mentally too, anticipating the interrogation to come, and bracing myself for another round of insinuation and accusation. This time, however, I was determined to defend myself at almost any cost. I had my arguments prepared, and the truth on my side, emboldened by the knowledge I had done nothing wrong. And, if push came to shove, and I had to resign, I now believed I'd be able to survive. I picture Louisa, in the tranquil calm of the flat, her smile quick and nervous, her brow furrowed with whole-hearted concern. She would deliver no lectures, not for her the hectoring speech pointing out all my failures, how I was in danger of wasting my potential, that I was a disgrace, intent on sabotaging my own career. She was not my disparager, my critic or my scold; she had become my safety net and I felt as if I were fighting for both of us now.
It had therefore come as quite a shock when Sholto had cleared his throat and addressed me directly, suggesting I put my neatly indexed manila folders to one side before informing me crisply that there was no time to discuss the trial anomalies today. I'd stared at him in disbelief, recalling the depth of the regret I'd experienced this morning, my ridiculous five o'clock alarm forcing me to disentangle myself, from Louisa's tendril-like embrace. I defy any man to be more reluctant to separate himself from the woman he loves, and yet I had done it, out of duty and out of respect. But that well had almost run dry and, whatever reaction he'd seen clearly evident upon my face, he'd pointedly ignored it, simply grunting at Zalman as a sign he should begin.
"Martin, the other day, you may recall that I mentioned Ben Dixon to you in passing?" Zalman says amiably, filling our glasses from the ice-filled carafe.
"Yes."
"And it's my understanding that there really is no love lost between the two of you. Is that an accurate assumption, would you say?"
I glance him cautiously, and then across at Sholto, suddenly concerned at where this might be proceeding, unprepared and already highly suspicious.
"Martin, let me reassure you." Sholto chimes in wearily, "Anything said in this room, on this topic, stays in this room. And I don't need to remind you discretion goes both ways. You must discuss this with no one, do you understand? It's important to point out that, at this time, all allegations are unproven…"
I'm taken aback. His sudden use of 'allegation' is confronting, though I can't honestly say it comes as a complete surprise. Their interest in him, however, is more alarming and a number of unpleasant possibilities arise, settling uneasily within my overactive mind. Whatever this accusation is however, I can only be transparent about my dealings with the man, and leave it to them to infer of it what they may. Sholto's secretary sighs heavily and pointedly lays her pen and notebook down in front of her. Impatience and ill-temper have no effect on me, I will take as long as I need to consider my own position, only too aware that, if patients are in any way at risk, I must tell them what I know to be the unadulterated truth.
"It is my opinion that Ben Dixon lacks competency in anything outside of the most straightforward vascular procedures." I tell them calmly, after a minute. "Furthermore, he has no interest in improving his skills, preferring to shift the responsibility on to others wherever possible. The upshot for him is, at the rate that technology is advancing, I suspect he will be left behind in less than two years."
Inexplicably, Zalman smiles at me, a strange and anomalous act in what is proving to be a grim Friday morning. "Anything else? Any other…perceived….weaknesses? Shall we say…proclivities…perhaps?"
I frown, momentarily incredulous, opening my mouth to ask him if I hadn't just made my myself abundantly clear, having outlined his shortcomings as plainly as I could. This temper of mine is becoming harder to hold, but again I attempt to wrestle it under control. I sense her hand on my chest, I know too well the flex of her jaw and I'm determined not to abandon my self-restraint. Glancing down at my sleeve, I brush away imaginary lint and only then do I allow myself to speak.
"Umm, well, only to say that, if he had any sense at all, other than that of misplaced self-importance, he'd be trying to secure a general surgery position somewhere which might extend his career. But I suspect, from my experience of his character, he would find that scenario completely beneath him."
"Thank you Martin…most interesting…" Zalman replies, nodding thoughtfully
"And what have you seen of him outside theatre?" Sholto demands suddenly, his voice insistent and almost shrill. "What's his behaviour like around other staff? How is he with subordinates? Students? Nurses and the like?"
I'd felt a flash of irritation, raising my chin and staring at him speculatively. As much as he attempts to fudge his way around this interrogation, I realise we are finally at the crux of the matter.
"Oh, I see." I reply, folding my arms slowly and deliberately as we eyeball one another. "This has absolutely nothing at all to do with his technical abilities, has it? So, why beat about the bush? Why not just ask me if he was known to behave inappropriately with women?"
"Perhaps you could just answer the question, Martin?" Sholto chimes in, his temper apparently not improved. "We have a lot to get through."
"As I'm sure every administrator in Imperial Healthcare is well aware, his reputation is that of yet another surgeon female staff feel uncomfortable being in close proximity to." I growl, equally as tersely, fixing him with an accusatory stare that drips with disapprobation.
"But no one has confided anything in you?"
I raise an eyebrow at him in disbelief, wondering why on earth he thought anyone might want to confide in me. Isn't that what the chaplains are for, or the slope-shouldered volunteers with their shapeless uniforms and their earnest expressions? My job is to fix people's bodies not listen to their problems and I'm sorely tempted to point that fact out to him, since it seems he's forgotten. Our ID badges are the clue, Sholto, I think to myself archly; first names only and smiley face stickers are a sure sign of virtuosity, a masochistic inclination and an endless amount of free time.
"And, personally, you haven't witnessed anything untoward?" Zalman adds, and I shake my head slowly from side to side.
"If I had witnessed anything untoward, believe me I most certainly would have reported it." I point out, not even attempting to hide the disgust I feel that this sort of behaviour has been allowed to occur, unpunished, under the noses of an organisation dedicated to improving and extending people's lives.
Rumours have swirled about the man since he first crawled into his medium scrubs and yet all this time, nothing has been done, no action taken, and the age-old closing of ranks has been as efficient as ever. Men in positions of responsibility, positions of honour, simply prepared to turn a blind eye, to sweep harassment and, sometimes worse, blithely and without conscience, under the table. My fists clench involuntarily at my sides, and I think of my father, and his disgraceful circle of friends. Anecdotes of their behaviour has left me nauseated and ashamed, from the first time I heard them, as an adolescent, listening to them reminisce about their seemingly endless halcyon days.
My mentors, the consultants I trained under at St Mary's, none of them seemed inclined toward such ignominious behaviour, yet we are all complicit, we are all tainted while such behaviour goes unchallenged. We need proof was always the excuse, trotted out by my old chief, we need witnesses, we need someone to lay a formal complaint or our hands are tied. Which causes me to ponder suddenly, as department managers within a distinctly separate hospital, why Sholto and Zalman are taking such an interest in a consultant who is clearly not their own. My eyes narrow, and I gaze at Sholto skeptically.
"If he has been accused of something inappropriate, surely that's Robert's concern…" I ask, my tone suspicious. "So, I'm actually rather curious, how on earth is this relevant to Imperial?"
I notice the glance that passes between them then, a nervous, furtive sort of expression that makes me only too aware that there is a lot more to this situation than they are letting on. I fold my arms again, glowering at them in a way I hope indicates that I will not be fobbed off like some annoying and disruptive child. The result is an odd constrained silence which seems to linger until Zalman clears his throat and begins, tentatively, to speak.
"Alright, Martin, fair play. Some time before we spoke to you about the role, Dixon had heard from a third party that the senior vascular position might be coming vacant. He indicated that he was very keen to speak with us and…so, ah, assembling a short list as we were, we invited him in for a chat, unofficially of course." He explains carefully. "However, it was quickly apparent that he was neither the right fit for Imperial, nor for the role, so…."
"Despite assuring us of his interest in teaching and training, he seemed to lack any sort of skill or resources to back up his claim." Sholto interrupts, his tone sharp with irritation. "Amongst other things, the man is clearly a fantasist…"
"Yes." Zalman agrees quickly and I sense his discomfort. "Anyway, subsequently, after your appointment became official, he returned, uninvited, one afternoon, apparently intent on convincing us we'd committed a dreadful oversight. I went down to reception and spoke to him, calmed him down and sent him on his way, or so I thought…"
I heard myself sigh impatiently, wishing they'd get to the point. When you are aware that a man is an infernal arse, having to listen to someone else take ten convoluted minutes to tell you what you already know is simply another aggravating waste of my time. Somewhere amongst dredging up the misdeeds of a seemingly untouchable, has-been surgeon, my career teeters on the line and I feel a fierce, fiery resentment fomenting within me. My career, my reputation, imperilled and under threat, jeopardised when I have done nothing wrong, yet it seems Dixon is the one assumed innocent until proven guilty, a protected species, he who must be handled with softest of kid gloves.
"Over the weekend, it came to our attention that, after the first time he spoke to us, allegedly, he…assaulted… a female technician setting up in a lab, and, subsequently, on the day he seemed particularly agitated, last Thursday I believe it was, he cornered a female student studying in one of the small meeting rooms downstairs." Zalman tells me, clutching his hands together in front of him, his voice hesitant and uncomfortable, appearing for the world as if he'd rather be anywhere else. "This is what we were attempting to manage on Monday, this is what has hit us all for an absolute six."
"It was only when the student went to the campus nurse on Friday that the complaint came to light. And, subsequently, the technician has now also come forward with her allegations…so that was my weekend in ruins." Sholto adds, and suddenly he seems bewildered. "She wants to go to the police. Can you imagine? I've warned her that it will be her word against his, a slip of a girl versus a well-respected vascular surgeon. I've virtually begged her to keep it in house, to let us deal with it but I can't seem to convince her…"
His voice trails off and I look from one to the other, speechless with disbelief.
"Martin, not to put too fine a point on it, if Dixon is known to be a serial offender, and the media get hold of it, or even if the police take the complaints of these girls seriously, it will be disastrous." Zalman says, insistently, but he too sounds exhausted. "I can't see how we can kill it, how on earth we can make it all go away. The board won't want a bar of us, you wait and see how quickly the funding tap gets turned off when the vascular department is no longer the jewel in the new Imperial crown…"
"No need to tell you what the outcome will be when news of the Martin Christopher Ellingham Trust Number 2 debacle reaches their ears…." Sholto barks, glaring at me accusingly, the creases in the skin of his face turning white, a sharp contrast to the glowing red hue that seems to envelop him. "We'll be lucky to have any surgical departments left at the rate we're going…"
His words sting me and, it is all I can do to muster the dignity to rise to my feet. I know what it is to feel resentful, but this current manifestation has a severity I've never experienced. As I speak, I am cognisant only of bitterness, of a sour, foetid taste that fills my mouth and sets my teeth on edge. Yet to complain of unfairness is the lament of child, to argue is pointless, and to defend myself, a waste of breath. I reach over and drop my report in front of Sholto, holding his gaze as I do so, my lip flickering as I fight its determination to become an angry, acrimonious sneer. That I find myself lumped in with a serial predator is too insulting for words, but that they actively seek to cover up his crimes while running a kangaroo court to execute me, an innocent man, frankly, it's intolerable and I want no further part of it.
"If you wish to release me from my contract, so be it." I tell him, modulating my voice, listening as I sound oddly assertive and calm. "It would seem the least acrimonious solution."
My suggestion is met with silence, something I find strangely invigorating.
"I'm sure she can draw up the paperwork and we can terminate this farcical situation before the end of the day." I add, gesturing at the woman at the end of the table as they all gape at me in disbelief, like bullies when they learn you can outrun them, or their vicious insults no longer pierce your skin.
"Martin, it doesn't need to come to this. Everyone is under pressure, please don't act in haste." Zalman says, scrambling to his feet. "Sholto has had an avalanche to deal with, we have all inherited a nightmare, none of us are at our best. But I still believe we can turn this around, do what we set out to do, remember? Build the best vascular unit in Europe, from the ground up, that's what we agreed on, don't run out on us now."
Unmoved, I begin to assemble my papers, stacking them neatly and slipping them inside he cover of my diary. My face is expressionless as I slide my pen into my inside pocket, and tug at my coat sleeves, gently adjusting the cufflinks of my shirt, noticing with satisfaction Henry's initials glinting at me in all their antique enamel splendour. Stepping to one side, I drink the water that remains in my glass and push my chair back safely beneath the table. Then, and only then, I draw myself up to my full height and I stare at them coldly across the table.
The haven that is my private world has never been more alluring and all I can think of is how fervidly I want to go home. Safety and comfort can be found where there is peace and there is quiet; a few brief moments of reassurance that start with my head in her lap, her fingers drawing the tension magically from my temples, as I stretch wearily out on the sofa beside her. And, inevitably, it ends with the most delicate of kisses, her mouth so soft it is like the touch of a snowflake, the brush of an eyelash, a tiny drop of nectar on my tongue. If a man can be rendered helpless by the beating of a butterfly's wing, or brought to tears by the chill of a single raindrop, in those moments, I know that man is me.
But here and now, I will show no weakness, I will not give an inch, I will not take a backward step. Lifting my chin, I glance down at them dismissively, not caring how arrogant and imperious I might appear, how callous, how ungrateful, how rude. For just a few seconds, there is a gap in the clouds, and I feel illuminated by a thin shaft of light. I see now that I am not my career, I am more than my job, and the world suddenly has possibilities beyond the tip of a scalpel blade. But the realisation that pours steel into my backbone is the same one that nauseates me to my core. The unfortunate girl studying alone could have been Louisa and I want no part of an organisation that would simply turn a blind eye to her violation.
"No. I don't think so." I growl, allowing my disgust to become evident in the last, lingering look I give them, before turning my back and striding purposefully out into an unknown world.