by Cody Young
He made a desperate effort to control the wild images flooding his mind and affecting his body. He had to get back into the appropriate frame of mind for driving through the London traffic. He gripped the steering wheel and tried to think about…other stuff. Medical conferences. Bandages. Bottles of antiseptic.
She looked at him, and that didn’t help. “Are you alright?”
“Yes.” He made no mention of the fact that she had tortured him by being twenty minutes late.
He drove away rather fast, and almost ran the first red light they came to.
“Slow down, Ben. We don’t want to end up at the hospital tonight, do we?”
He swallowed. “No.”
Restaurant
They went in to the restaurant. He escorted her across the room towards the ‘please wait’ sign, placing his hand for a second on her back as he moved her through the crowd that had gathered near the bar.
He was relieved they’d kept his table for him. They were nearly thirty minutes late. He would leave the maître D a tip, he decided.
The lighting was low and atmospheric. The music too, but with a steady beat. For a Tuesday night the place was busy, which boded well for the food. They got a secluded table. As requested.
He watched her studying the menu. If she was nervous she was hiding it very effectively. When he’d run through this in his head earlier today he’d imagined she be overawed, a lost little girl out of her comfort zone, a fish out of water. The reality was quite different. He truly believed she was the most glamorous woman here tonight. Her earrings danced in the candlelight when she moved her head. The waiter asked them about wine and Ben ordered a bottle, without hesitation. She’d pass for twenty-five in that dress.
They ordered food. Safe, conservative choices. Bread and olive oil. Chicken. Beds of seasonal salad. And the waiter took the menus away, leaving them with nowhere to hide.
Ben offered to pour the water and managed to spill some on the table cloth. Something he had never done before in his life. Not since he was six, anyway.
She smiled and dabbed at the damp patch with a spare napkin.
“Sorry,” he said.
“How old are you, Ben?” she asked. No messing about. Straight question.
“Twenty-eight.”
She nodded and didn’t say anything.
No need to. He already knew her age. He’d read her case notes. Thoroughly.
“What else would you like to know?” he asked.
She gazed right back at him, unfazed. “All the usual things.”
“Alright," he took a breath. "I grew up in North Fenland, of all places. My parents still live there. But I was educated at a school in Kent. Then the London School of Medicine. Then the Royal London Teaching Hospital. Then back to the Midlands. I wanted a training post at a hospital in my home town.”
“Why?”
“What?”
“Why did you want to go back to your home town? You said ‘North Fenland of all places’. It doesn’t sound like you liked it that much.”
She didn’t miss a trick.
He swallowed. “There was a girl…”
“I see.” She looked questioningly at him.
“She married someone else.”
“Good.”
Her directness was refreshing, and it made him smile. He realized it was probably the first time he’d smiled that evening. He took a risk. He reached out and took her hand across the table. Her fingers were warm, warmer than his. She did that thing with her amazing eyelashes again.
Oh, Layla.
“What about you?” he said. “I want to know about you.”
“I haven’t always lived at the Rookeries. We lived in Ilford when I was little.”
“I know Ilford.” His parents had friends that went to the synagogue there.
“Yeah. It’s nicer than the Rookeries. A lot nicer, I'd have to say.”
“So, what happened?”
“My dad left. Well. Had to leave. At Her Majesty’s pleasure.”
“Your father was sent to prison?” Ben wasn’t sure why he sounded so surprised.
“Yes. That’s correct.” She looked up for his reaction. “My real dad.”
He thought about this for a second. She was being very upfront. She was an upfront kind of a girl, when she wasn’t with Ray Leach. His glance wavered down to her breasts for a moment. They were pale and perfect like the rest of her, begging to be touched. He granted himself about one second there, and then looked down at the table, at the shiny cutlery lying on the white starchy cloth, waiting demurely for the food.
“I see,” he said, remaining calm. “And where did you go to school?”
“Ilford primary. Then Dagenham secondary. Then the one near the Rookeries.”
“Is that the school where that incident happened?”
“Where that girl got stabbed? Yes.”
He wished he hadn’t asked. “Places aren’t always as good or bad as their reputations, are they?”
“No," she said, softly.
"I hated the Royal London Hospital. And people kill to get in there."
He had to let go of her hand when the food arrived. Which he resented. But she seemed pleased with her steaming, aromatic piece of chicken in a pool of creamy sauce. And he wanted her to enjoy tonight. At least the wine waiter was back with the bottle – it was wrapped in a white cloth and glistening with condensation. Oh, at last. Ben watched him open it. He really needed the wine. He didn’t bother with the pantomime of tasting it. He just waved his hand to get the man to pour it and go away. Leaving them with two large goblets of golden wine. Wonderful colour. Ben lifted his glass and made a move to chink it against hers. She responded, like he knew she would. She smiled and lifted her glass, and her eyes glittered.
“Cheers.”
* * *
Layla was nervous, but Tracey’s mum had coached her, told her how to act.
“Don’t dither over what to order,” she’d said, “ and don’t keep looking at the prices. He knew exactly what it would cost when he booked it, cupcake. You don’t have to stick to crackers and water.”
So, she ordered what she felt like. And it was wonderful. It was food that tasted like it had been cooked in paradise and sprinkled with magic herbs to convince her she’d never tasted anything this good and she never would again. And then there was this amazing bottle of wine that was as easy to drink as lemonade, but left her feeling light-headed and light-hearted. She’d better go easy. She looked at Ben, all dark and moody and beautiful, and knew he was feeling the effects of the chardonnay, too. He’d got a lot more confident all of a sudden and was waving his arms expansively when he talked. She wished she could tell him to slow down, but she hardly knew him and he’d brought her to this lovely place, it didn’t seem right to speak up. And that wretched waiter kept appearing like the genie out of the lamp, bottle in hand, to refill their glasses.
She put her hand over the top of her glass and shook her head. Very firmly.
When the waiter left them she asked Ben a question she’d been meaning to ask. “I know you got me to fill out that form and everything, but isn’t it against the Hippocratic Oath to do this?”
“To take you out to dinner? Probably.” He gave a wry smile. “Most doctors don’t even swear the Oath any more. It’s not Hippocrates we’re scared of. It’s the General Medical Council.”
“Oh,” she said, glancing down to think about this. She’d always believed that there was this rock solid code of behaviour that no doctor would ever dare to ignore. He was dismantling her illusions.
“I swore it, though. A modified version of it.”
She looked up again, interested. “Does it cover this situation?”
“Not exactly. There is one part of it that relates to us, yes.”
Us, she thought. He definitely said ‘us’.
“But for me, it’s not the bit about keeping sex out of it.” His dark eyes glittered, dangerously.
He was much more open now ab
out his attraction to her, and it scared her. “Oh?”
“I made a promise to use my ability and judgment to help keep people safe,” he said, gazing at her. “From what is to their harm and injustice I will keep them. Those were the words I swore.”
She liked that. It sounded so protective. Here was someone who had sworn to protect people from harm and injustice. She liked that idea.
“The day you walked into my office,” he continued. “It seemed like you needed me to do that for you.”
She felt like he’d looked into her soul, and it made her feel vulnerable. Shy. She couldn’t speak.
“We need to talk about Ray,” he said.
She’d been dreading this. “I suppose so.”
It seemed to make him nervous too. He raised his glass to his lips, and again she wished he’d go a bit easier on the award-winning chardonnay. He drained his wineglass, and the ever attentive waiter came and refilled it for him. “Might I suggest another bottle, sir?”
Layla shook her head at Ben, hoping to persuade him. But he nodded at the waiter. “Another? Yes. Very good idea.”
Layla trembled inside – looking at Ben. He was gorgeous. He was clever and sexy and a lot older than her. And it looked like he was planning to get well and truly drunk. It was a situation she had no idea how to handle. Tracey’s mum hadn’t covered this. She was supposed to get drunk too, most likely. That was probably what he was hoping for. To get her off her face. Or off her feet, more like. He was a man, after all, and if he bought her dinner, he'd expect dessert.
But he had another thing coming if he thought he could get to her as easily as that. She hadn’t spent the last ten years in the Rookeries ‘just saying no’ for nothing.
She resolved that she wasn’t drinking another sip. If there was more than half a glass in there, the waiter couldn’t keep filling it up – that seemed to be the way it worked. Or even if he insisted on filling it, she didn’t have to drink it, did she? And he couldn’t put any more in if it was already full.
“Yes, well. About Ray. What do you want to know?”
“I know some things already. That you’re afraid of him. That he wants to exploit you. That he’s got some strange friends down at the Fizz club.”
She looked up sharply when he mentioned the Fizz club. “How did you know about that?”
“I asked a few questions. Went down there and had a look.”
“You went to the Fizz Club?”
“I was looking for you. It would have been easier for me if I’d run into you at a local bar rather than having to take the plunge and go to your flat.”
“Yes. I suppose,” she hesitated. “But I’ve never been to the Fizz Club and I don’t ever want to go there, either.”
“I hope you never have to. It’s a brothel, by the look of it.”
She glanced down. “If Ray gets his way, I could be working there any day now.”
Ben looked like this made him angry inside. “That must be avoided. At all costs.”
“I was hoping I could just hold him off until my mum gets back. She’s tough and she’ll know what to do. When she’s back and I haven’t got the children to think of, I might be able to get away. I think that’s the only real solution. To leave the Rookeries. It’s hard though, when all your family’s there.”
“What about your father?”
“Oh. Long gone.”
“Has he …passed away?” Ben said, politely using the expression that doctors often chose instead of the plain simple word he preferred. Dead.
There was a slight hesitation. “Yeah. Long gone.”
He looked at her like he didn’t quite believe her. Then he changed the subject. “Tell Ray there’s been a change of policy at the clinic. You’d need your mother’s consent to get the tests. Tell him I was adamant about this. He doesn’t know you changed doctor. If he finds out, tell him you were trying to find a doctor who would agree to do the tests. Tell him anything, but play for time. We need a bit more time, Layla, to get this sorted out.”
It gave her some hope, and she looked up into his eyes and wondered if she could start to trust him.
His eyes were a bit glazed with all the alcohol, but he spoke intelligently, insightfully about her situation. “I think what we really need to do is go over Ray’s head. Find someone in the Rookeries more important, and get them on our side if we can. If there was someone who would agree to help us, things would be a lot better.”
They talked and talked. And it got a late. The restaurant emptied out. The second bottle of wine was almost finished, and the conversation about Ray almost done. Nothing was settled but at least there was some kind of strategy taking shape. Heck, he even said she could move into his place if they could find a solution that wouldn’t hurt the children.
“Ben,” she said, softly, “I can’t come and live with you. We only just met.”
“But it’s a situation that needs radical action, isn’t it?” he said. “And you said you needed my help.”
So Layla smiled and made excuses. She wanted to wait and see how her mum’s health was after she came out of rehab. She was doing alright, holding Ray off. When her mum got home, things would be different. But Ben had some doubts.
“With all due respect to your mother, for trying to work on her problems. But do you really think a recovering addict can help you deal with a man like Mr Birch?”
Layla felt a pang of fear go through her. That name. That hated man. “Who told you Birch was involved. I never said a word about Mr Birch.”
“Oh…I don’t know. I just assumed, that’s all. I’d heard some talk.” He looked uncomfortable, and reached for his glass again, but it was empty.
When Ben started talking about dessert wine, she knew she had to intervene. He’d already had far too much. It was a miracle he wasn’t under the table – the amount he’d put away tonight. He was tall, but he was slim. If she let him sit there and drink three bottles, he’d pass out when he went to stand up.
“Ben. It’s time we went home.”
“Yes. Home. I’d like that.”
He meant his home. That was clear.
It was obvious, when he paid the bill, that he was well and truly drunk. She watched him signing the credit card slip with a flourish that went off the edge and onto the tablecloth. He was swaying as he got to his feet. He couldn’t remember if he’d brought a jacket with him and seemed surprised when the waiter appeared with his and hers.
“Oh, thank you,” he said, and looked daunted by the idea of putting the jacket on. The waiter had to help him, and she watched with gathering embarrassment while Ben got notes out of his wallet and thrust them at the man. “You’ve been a great help. Special night. Eternally grateful…”
The waiter took the money wordlessly and turned away.
Layla had to get Ben out of the restaurant, somehow, before things got any worse. He kept trying to put his arm around her as they made their way out, though it was much harder to negotiate a path between the tables walking side by side, so she had to push him away.
“Not here, Ben,” she said, meaning to warn him off, but he took it as a huge encouragement.
“No. Not here. My place.” He leaned in close and his hand strayed to her waist. He aimed a kiss at her face, right there in the middle of the restaurant. She was sure he would have kissed her lips if she hadn’t turned her head away at the last minute.
“Ben! For goodness sake!” she pleaded. “Don’t ruin it.”
Layla was dying inside. She disengaged herself from his clutches. She steered him to the door. Holding his hand only out of necessity.
Taking Her Home
He pushed open the heavy glass door for her, hoping he was doing okay. A blast of cold air hit his face and he found it oddly refreshing. He looked at Layla and got the definite impression that she’d been happier about an hour ago. They stood in the street as the cars and taxis blared past. It was after eleven o’clock now. Reasonably busy, still quite a lot of traffic given that it wasn
't the weekend. What day was it? Oh yes, his day off. That would be Tuesday.
“My place is two streets away,” he said, trying to slide his arm around her again. “I’ll show you.”
She pushed him away, and turned to face him. “No, I don’t want to, Ben. You’re drunk.”
“I’m not drunk,” he insisted, but he knew he wasn’t sober.
“Yes, you are,” she said, with obvious disappointment in her voice. “You’re not blind drunk. Or raving drunk. But you are drunk. Which isn’t good for you or for me. I’m miles away from home, and you’re not fit to drive. What am I supposed to do?”
He blundered towards her again and tried to put his arms around her. “Come home with me, and we’ll talk. I promise I won’t try anything.”
“You’re trying things now. In the street with buses going past. What d’you think it’s going to be like at your place?”
“It’ll be fantastic at my place. Come on Layla.”
“No. I’m not easy. I told you. I tried to tell you I’m not easy and I’m not for sale.”
The statement about not being for sale almost got through. He’d been sitting there all night talking about her right to choose. Dimly he realized he was screwing things up. “I’ll take you home,” he said, trying to switch back to the way he’d handled things earlier – polite, but firmly in control. “But come and have coffee with me first, Layla, please? Coffee would help, wouldn’t it? Once I’ve had coffee, I’ll be alright. Then I’ll take you straight home. I promise.”
“Ben. A cup of coffee isn’t going to cancel out two bottles of wine. I am not getting in your car with you tonight. And I’m definitely not going back to your flat.”
“Then I’ll take you home in a taxi.”
“From here? It would cost a fortune!”
“I don’t care. I can afford it.” He immediately regretted that remark. It made him sound like a braggart – a drunken braggart. He hated himself for being like that with her.