‘I got your text. I made you tea. Are you OK, love?’ Maddie says, following me into my office. ‘I got you snacks too. I know you won’t have eaten. Clinic’s in twenty. What is that sod up to now?’
Maddie does this, the words and tea flow fast. I put my hands up in the air so she can give me a minute, mainly because I also ran from Waterloo to make sure I was in time for clinic. I try to remember how to breathe. True enough, she’s bought me some hummus and a set of mini cheeses from the supermarket, as well as some crackers and grapes. Little wedges of gouda and chickpea dip will fill in the cracks and soothe my soul. My snacks are propped up against the inspirational calendar she got me for Christmas. It’s opened up on the right day and I’m being reminded, ‘If you can dream it, you can do it.’ I often dream about killing Simon but I am sure that’s deemed morally reprehensible.
I take off my coat and bag and try to wipe down the mist of sweat on my face. She squirrels around after me and takes a seat on my sofa. It was one of the things she first did when the divorce was going through: she got me this sofa. She had found me napping on the floor once between surgeries so she sweet-talked some porters into looking for any old sofas on the go and paid to have this one re-upholstered. She even bought me a fleece throw for it too. And because I needed all the inspirational words I could get, she also gifted me a mug that said, ‘YOU GO GIRL!’ in pink cursive writing with a hint of glitter and a raving comedy unicorn.
‘I’m fine,’ I finally reply. ‘Simon just wanted us to switch some of our days with the girls. I love cheese and I love you.’
She smiles. She’s always been an ally; she felt my pain so empathically and tried to do everything she could to take it away. She’s married to Mark, an extremely tall builder who was divorced himself so she also had some insight into how my world worked.
‘Drink your tea, your first clinic appointment is soon. Lewis is back I’m afraid.’
I peruse some notes as she chats to me, nodding.
‘Are you really OK?’
‘Seriously, I’m OK. Not how you want to start any day really, having to spend time with that bellend, but I’m fine, really.’
She scans my face like she doesn’t quite believe me. I used the word ‘fine’ a lot to define how I was feeling at the best of times. Throughout all of this, I was never outstanding, ten out of ten, fantastic, but I teetered at OK, fine, average where it could all have the potential to just nosedive off a cliff.
‘That’s a nice jumpsuit,’ I gesture. She senses my need to change the subject.
‘I’ve been experimenting. Bugger to go to the loo in though.’ She sits on the sofa, large hooped earrings like curtain rings. Her round blue eyes that have always reminded me of a handsome cat still examine my face.
‘Lucy told you to check in on me, didn’t she?’
‘She didn’t, actually…’
People ask me a lot about my wellbeing these days. I appreciate the kindness but I know they conspire on occasion, forming a protective huddle around me. There was a time I needed it. Now sometimes I just need to feel the benefit of the doubt that I am healing and coping, just a bit.
‘I’m sorry, you bought me little baby cheeses. I’m just annoyed I’ve missed a morning’s paperwork.’
‘You’ve been Simoned. It’s fine. And you don’t have stuff to do because I’m a really good secretary and I transcribed all those notes for you.’
‘I don’t deserve you.’
‘Well, I prefaced everything with that because I also have something else for you…’
I hope it’s salami to go with this cheese. She seems a bit more cautious now, like she may have done something she wasn’t supposed to. She did this when I turned thirty, throwing a surprise party for me on one of the wards. She got a mariachi band in who wore tangerine ponchos, smelt of baked meat and had sinister facial hair. They got chased out by the nurses after they made the children cry.
‘Don’t be angry… so there was a gathering last night. Do you know Marshall in X-ray? The one who wears all white and then you can see his pants through his trousers?’
I will confess to have never studied any man’s pants in that much detail but I nod and she continues.
‘Well, it was his birthday and we all went out and it was a nice mix and there was a fab fab bloke there who I’ve known for a while.’
‘Fab?’
‘Like, so fab. He’s very funny and you know how the other day you were talking about doctors in sports socks and moccasins and then you said the ideal shoe that a doctor should be wearing is—’
‘Nike Air Max?’
‘Yup, he had on these really cool Nikes in a vintage print and nice chinos rolled up. The man had some style about him. Oxford shirt, liked a glass of rosé.’ Her face is animated as she describes him, like a tasty meal she ate once. ‘And beautiful skin. I may have got drunk and stroked his face towards the end of the night.’
I turn away from my notes as she says this. ‘Maddie, did you snog someone from X-ray? Because you liked his shoes?’
She laughs. ‘No, silly. And he’s not from X-ray, he’s an anaesthetist. His name is Jag.’
‘And?’
‘I’ve set you two up on a date.’
I don’t even register shock, more confusion.
‘Maddie…?’
‘Trust me on this. He won’t be like that Tinder man who started crying. He’s never been married. He has no baggage…’ Her ocean-blue eyes are hopeful. That I won’t fire her. This is why she bought me those mini cheeses.
‘Then what’s wrong with him if he’s been single for so long? How old is he?’
‘He’s thirty. He had a long-term girlfriend who baked cakes for a living but it turns out she wasn’t so great and dumped him on his actual birthday.’
‘Who does that sort of thing?’ I reply mockingly.
She throws a cushion at me. ‘He drives a Kia.’
‘Dull?’
‘Economical.’
‘He’s five years younger than me.’
‘Which means he has the advantage of youth and energy on his side.’
I love how she’s trying to sell him to me based on the car he drives, his super-soft skin and his choice of footwear. I haven’t been on a date since Phil the Crier over a year ago. Not that he had left me broken and scarred but because the experience was so incredibly petrifying. And tiring. I had taken a step in the right direction, out of the shadows of my former, broken self. But I’d been in a relationship for so long that it was all a bit much. It’d taken me two hours alone to get ready, flossing, rolling a lint roller over my tights and Lucy trying to teach me how to contour my face via FaceTime.
I was stepping out into a dating world that had changed beyond belief. Where people spoke in emojis and gin had become fashionable. The last time I had been single it was a different landscape. People were young, carefree and relationships were built on a pre-conceived notion of love. But these people were older now. Life had ground them down and changed (translate: destroyed) what they thought about love, fidelity and sex. I was one of those people.
‘How did you sell me then to this Jag fella?’ I ask.
‘I said your name and he immediately knew who you were.’
I grimace. ‘Because of the Simon thing?’ I knew it was oft mentioned in these corridors and I hated that it was how people defined me.
‘No, silly. You are also known for being a kick-ass doctor and get this, he said he was a “fan” and that he “liked your work”.’
My brow reads furrowed and confused. Has he inspected my surgical skills?
‘He’s been in your theatre more than once. He said you have a lovely demeanour and everyone likes working under you. A lot of surgeons are wazzocks with egos and you’re not one of them.’
‘Oh OK, I’m glad.’ But I’m still tentative. Maddie’s the sort of person who’d already have booked a table and scheduled in a date for our engagement party.
‘So, what do you say? I’l
l co-ordinate your schedules. You have some gaps in your diary over the next few weeks.’
‘I was going to use that gap to sort out my garden.’
I wasn’t lying. It was time to get my bulbs in and hose down the garden furniture. Maddie gives me a look. You are swimming in your singledom, bobbing away in the ocean and I’m throwing you a life raft. Come on the boat. It’s fun. If you don’t like it, you can jump off again.
‘I guess I’ll need to eat in between my weeding,’ I mumble, hesitantly.
Maddie claps her hands together excitedly. ‘I’ll get it sorted. I feel positive about this one. He’s a nice guy. He’s so fab.’
I don’t react. They all are fab on the outside. He could be someone who smacks his gums when he eats and leaves wet bath towels on the floor. I guess I’ll be the judge of that when we meet and I can inspect him for myself.
‘So back to today,’ she carries on, ‘clinic until 3 p.m. Scheduled PDA ligation in the laboratory for 4 p.m. and then evening rounds on the wards. Tomorrow is busier but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.’
I nod and take it all in. ‘One last thing…’
‘Yes?’
‘Did you know what “See you next Thursday” means?’
‘You mean Tuesday? Are you calling me a “See You Next Tuesday”?’
I backtrack. ‘No! Just a term I heard today…’
‘You’ve got to get down with the kids, Doctor Callaghan.’
‘Ain’t it?’
‘You mean, innit?’ She smiles. ‘Get to clinic, I’ll put the cheese in the fridge for later.’
The Evelina is a second home of sorts to me. After my divorce, my career became my refuge, the one thing I knew I was getting right. Up to that point, Simon and I had been on the same paths. From medical school to choosing specialisms, we supported each other through stress, exams, long shifts and then into marriage. But then Simon veered off the path, into the bushes, as it were, so work saved me, kept me focussed. I specialise in paediatric cardiology. Yes, I fix hearts for a living. The irony is not lost on me. Neither is the fact that Simon fixes bones. When he’s not being an arrogant prick then he’s decent at what he does but I wouldn’t let him near my bones now. That said, I don’t think he’d let me hold a scalpel over his open heart either.
Of course, because we want kids not to freak out at being ill, children’s hospitals are bright and primary coloured. The Evelina is no exception – it feels like it’s been built out of Lego, we have slides, juice in small boxes, bins like red London buses and we like an under-the-sea motif so I spend a lot of time looking at comedy jellyfish. Paediatrics and poorly kids are sobering. It probably helped me a lot through my divorce as some sort of comparative exercise in who had it worse. The woman whose husband had multiple affairs or the six-year-old with heart disease who can’t walk fifty yards without needing oxygen. The six-year-olds and their awe-inspiring resilience and faces like kittens always won. Knowing I could help fix them gave me purpose when it was all going to pot.
‘Chadwick. How’s life?’
Approaching the outpatient ward now, a voice booms from behind me. I won’t lie. In medicine, you do meet a lot of self-important wankers. This is the worst sort, Dr Gargan, affectionately known as the Gargoyle. He’s some antiquated dinosaur of medicine who has a non-PC anecdote for every situation and is fond of a double-pleated slack.
‘Walter. Good, thanks. Yourself?’
‘How’s divorce treating you? Such a shame you let that fall apart. I thought you and Simon made a fantastic couple.’
I smile awkwardly at his brusqueness. I let it fall apart? What account of my divorce has he heard? The one where I was the career-driven bitch who threw Simon out on the street or the one where I had a breakdown? Small quarters like these means gossip can spread through here like a measles outbreak.
He gives me a look. ‘I’m sure a lovely filly like you won’t be on the market for long though.’ And there’s the non-PC part out of the way. ‘Give Simon my regards when you see him next.’
‘I think that’s the point of divorce, I don’t have to give him any of my regards, ever again.’
He replies with a look of confusion. There are just some men who’ll never get it. I am lucky, therefore, to be saved by Rhonda.
‘Dr Gargan. You are twenty minutes late. Your files are in your office and I suggest you make apologies to all your patients today. Miss Callaghan. Always a pleasure.’ Rhonda is a sister on the outpatient ward, a stern looking woman who wears the old-style uniforms with thick woollen tights from the Florence Nightingale School of Nursing. She has the type of hard face that you know enjoys a strong cup of tea and has most likely never cried at someone’s sob story on reality TV. With such severity, she runs a tight ship but you hope she has some affection in her life. Even if it’s in the form of a beloved houseplant. I love that she calls me by my maiden name and gives cretins like Gargan what for. He skulks away, eyeballing her for daring to call him out. I mean, he is a doctor and has a penis, don’t you know?
‘Rhonda. Busy today?’ I ask her, cheerily.
‘Always. We had Mr Carver in this morning. He likes to talk. About half an hour behind.’ Dan Carver. Nice bloke, likes a comedy tie, terrible name for a surgeon though.
‘He always runs over. Don’t mind me, I’ll skip lunch and get us back up to speed.’
‘I’ll make sure the girls bring you in some snacks. Your nurse today is Marie . She’s newly qualified, excellent manner, needs instruction though,’ Rhonda reports.
Marie is stood right next to her but looks too scared to be offended. I smile to try and calm her fears that I won’t shout and expect perfect hospital corners.
The waiting room look on as I stand there. It’s very open plan here, a sea of noise, snacks and colouring pages, but there’s always a look of expectation, judgement on the faces of parents and guardians when I walk in. They want to see if I’m old and qualified enough to doctor their children. A Pixar film is singing at me from the corner. There’s always one child who has the whole family with them, grandparents and all, and at least one kid running circles around the seating – today he’s a racing car. They all turn and face me. Please let it be us next.
I look down at my first chart and smile. ‘Lewis Bromwich.’
A head peers up with some hesitation but as soon as he clocks it’s me, he bounces off his chair. I’ve never owned a dog but I suspect and hope that if I did that it would hurl itself at me in the same way that Lewis would. I put an arm out hoping that he’ll apply the brakes but no such luck and he bundles himself into my arms. I get a mouthful of curls in the process.
‘Doctor C! I was worried!’
‘You were worried, why?’
His parents follow closely carrying the usual coats and devices that people do when they know they’re bound for a hospital waiting room. I go to shake their hands and see them into the examination room. I’ve known them now for seven years. Ever since Lewis’s mum gave birth to this tiny human next door and his heart was literally broken. I have several patients and parents like this on my roster who almost feel like family. Ever since my early years of training, I’ve worked closely with them all; I’ve seen all their tears, watched over their children, they send me cards and wine, and despite all attempts to keep a professional distance, their kids do feel like my own.
His mum intervenes. ‘The nurse said we were seeing a Miss Callaghan?’
‘Oh, that’s me. I’ve changed my name.’
Lewis looks at me confused. ‘Because you didn’t like Dr Chadwick?’
That’s understating it a little, Lewis. ‘I’ve gone back to my maiden name.’
‘You were a maiden? Like in Robin Hood?’
His parents smile at me and urge him to sit down. ‘We’ll explain it to you later, Lewis,’ says his dad. I notice his mother studying my face. For what, I’m not entirely sure but I am familiar with the attention. People expect you to look different in divorce. Sad, aged, the
word branded into your forehead, maybe.
‘Well, it’s good I can still call you Doctor C because a name like Doctor W wouldn’t sound as good.’
I smile broadly. ‘That is true. And so tell me, how are you Lewis?’
He bounces off his chair to remove a dinosaur rucksack. ‘I’m good. I drew you a picture. And I have half a Twix here. Do you want it?’
I always get an added bonus with Lewis in the form of a hand-drawn picture as recompense for having helped rebuild him from the inside out.
‘I’m good for now. Keep that Twix for later on the Tube.’
‘It’s an octopus.’
I study the picture. I like that he’s wearing a top hat and appears to also don a moustache and full beard. ‘Did you give it eight legs?’ I ask.
‘Of course. Did you know octopuses have three hearts?’ he tells me.
‘I didn’t know that. However, I do know that a blue whale has a heart the size of a small car.’
His eyes widen. ‘Oh my god, that’s mega!’
His parents smile and his dad strokes a hand through his curly mop of hair encouraging him to calm down.
‘Do you think you could operate on a whale heart?’ he asks me.
‘I’d need a very big ladder. And a wetsuit. I’d give it a go though.’
He smiles a big toothy grin, tiny pea-green Converse swinging off his chair.
‘So I hear we’ve had a touch of drama with you, young man. Can you tell me what happened?’ I have it all in my notes but I like the way this kid tells a story.
‘So… I was at school and we were doing PE and I wasn’t really feeling it because it was cold and really we should have been inside but Mr Gray makes us go outside because he used to be in the Army apparently and he says we should get used to the cold but that’s what they do in prisons.’
I smile. ‘Go on.’
‘And then my heart started running.’
‘You mean racing?’
Can I Give My Husband Back?: A totally laugh out loud and uplifting page turner Page 4