Major Surgery

by Lola Keeley

  “You definitely don’t want that one. There’s a starting hint for you.”

  “I’m pretty sure it’s in there already,” Cassie argues.

  “Well, I hope you haven’t been paying your supply runs in cash, because that’s for advances. Same in every department.”

  “Oh, then I’ve remembered it wrong,” Cassie says, annoyed that her usually flawless memory would choose now to go AWOL on her. “Anyway, back to it. Thanks for the assist.”

  “See you around, Cassie,” Veronica says, watching a little too intently as Cassie fusses with her key on its chain. “Just let me know if you need me to scrub in again.”

  “Will do.” Cassie is the first out of the door, turning towards the safety of her Trauma ward. They should be getting ready for Baros. There’s no way they’ll be able to move him to a lighter-staffed ward, not for weeks, probably.

  She forces herself not to turn around at any point, just to catch Veronica walking away. No matter how good an assist, or how thoughtful Veronica had been to check on her, Cassie is not going to be anything other than professional. Who knows what she’ll do next to piss off Veronica? There’s no point in getting invested.

  Her resolve holds until the corner, and she turns in time to see those shapely legs lead the other surgeon right back into the AMU.

  Chapter 9

  It’s been a week since they operated on that squaddie together, and Veronica still finds herself daydreaming about the near-perfect surgical experience.

  It’s taken a frighteningly long time to reach the top of her game as a surgeon, and indeed for many years of the training she had that seemingly universal experience of being trusted to do very little. In the rare time she catches one of those American medical dramas, it always makes her laugh to see everyone looking like a model, with more lovers than they have hairstyles—always a lot of both. They show people barely old enough to complete her foundation programme jumping in to perform complex surgeries single-handed. Even now, when completely in control of an operation and responsible for the patient, a small part of Veronica still expects a more senior surgeon to come in and take over the fun parts.

  She finds herself replaying that surgery far more than any of her recent ones. Usually it’s her own nitpicking that does it—fixating on the one thing she didn’t do quite perfectly, moments where she lost control of a bleed, or some unexpected complication.

  It was different this time. Working with another surgeon is almost never that smooth right off the bat. There’s usually a clash of egos or too much politeness. Being in each other’s way or arguing over the best approach. Yet she and Cassie had worked as though they had agreed every move in advance. That compliment about her quick hands was the minimum appreciation Veronica could let herself express; Cassie was exceptional from start to finish.

  It’s a quality that has done very little to diminish something Veronica is having increasing trouble denying: Cassie Taylor is damned attractive. And, unless Veronica is mistaken, she’s batting for the same team as herself. Veronica knows better than to read every short hairstyle and sportiness as queer, but there’s something undeniable about Cassie that Veronica just recognises.

  This strapping young sergeant is hanging in there at least, though he’s had spells under with the spinal experts and a brief panic with his heart that’s taken the self-professed ‘cardio gods’ two attempts to stabilise.

  “You okay?” Lea cuts through the fog of distraction, handing over a bottled water that matches her own. Grateful, Veronica twists the cap and takes a long swig. “I think Peter’s looking for you.”

  “Isn’t he in surgery?”

  “No, the locum took it—she’s vascular too. He’s been out somewhere, maybe it’s about that.”

  “Well, tell him to wait in my office, I just need to check on a patient in—”

  “The sergeant is stable so far today,” Lea fills in. “Trust me, there’s a line of nurses and orderlies checking on him. Not to mention Ms Taylor. She actually let someone else take a surgery yesterday and stayed at his bedside doing paperwork.”

  “Will wonders never cease.” Veronica knew that already, but she’d rather get caught up in the narrative of the stricken Action Man than have her staff and friends notice that she’s particularly interested in the actions of Cassie Taylor. “I’ll get back to my office, then. Let Peter know where to find me.”

  Peter strides through the open door a matter of minutes after Veronica situates herself, preventing her from getting lost in a journal article from the list creating angry red unread notifications in her app. The trouble with reading them on her tablet is that she still sees all the alerts for everything else, and rarely gets more than a page without interruption.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve been off checking on our fallen soldier too?” He collapses into the visitor chair with the muscle relaxation of a man who’s just run a half-marathon. “I’m all for a bit of heroism, but you’d think you people had never seen multiple ruptured organs before.”

  “I believe it’s more the nature of the cause,” Veronica points out. “Saving an old lady from a mugging, only to be tossed off a concrete staircase?”

  “Yes, bad enough the little bastard traumatised the old woman, but he couldn’t have just run instead of hurting the only one who stood up to him? You really think you’ve seen the worst of people, and then…”

  “Yes. And then,” Veronica says in agreement. “Despite all that, you seem to be in a suspiciously good mood?

  “I am, in fact.” Peter clasps his hands and leans in a little. “I’ve found a way to get over my little disappointment about the Trauma job.”

  Oh goody, he has something to confess. Veronica has been here before, from him not studying for his Primary exam to become a Fellow of the Royal College of Surgeons, through to him proposing to Edie without a ring.

  “Turns out I’m leaving you after all, darling,” he continues.

  “Won’t you think of the children?” She gestures vaguely to the ward, where harassed juniors are scurrying from bed to bed, each looking more sleep-deprived than the last. “You’re not serious? I’m sure Ms Taylor is pleasingly dramatic, but there’s no way she’ll last here under this kind of scrutiny. She thinks paperwork is an optional extra in the NHS. I mean, come on…”

  “She’s good, Vee. I know it, you know it. Any chimp with a typewriter can get to grips with the admin sooner or later. Or find a willing subordinate to palm it off on. She keeps up the action teaching, and reviving people that A&E have written off, and there’s no one who’s going to dislodge her.”

  He wags a finger in her direction, putting her back up for once. “Not even you, so you can stop plotting against her if that’s what you’re doing. I hope it goes without saying that I appreciate everything you’ve done for me over the years. And, uh, well, if that continued just long enough for a top-notch reference, my new bosses over at the Kensington would appreciate it.

  Oh. Well, that stings. Some hospitals are especially equipped for certain types of surgery or have additional splashy facilities the others don’t. It’s another twist of the knife in Peter not getting the Trauma role like he was supposed to.

  Bitter? Veronica doesn’t know the meaning of the word.

  “I see.” She tries to keep the bite from her words, but it’s futile. “Well, I’m sure you’ll have fun there. Edie will be glad you’re not fleeing to the countryside at least. So what will you be running there? The One Direction in-grown-toenail ward? Getting into the Richard Branson cafeteria line?”

  “Don’t be like that, please?” Peter is instantly wounded, and it honestly seems as though his pale grey shirt might start seeping blood, so convincing is he in his complaint. “They’re still fighting the fight like the rest of us. It just…wouldn’t be horrible to look at something other than chipped lino floors and badly painted patient rooms?”

  �
�If interior design is your deciding factor—”

  “Veronica, they’ve got the senior spot and St Sophia’s doesn’t!” Peter raises his voice, which is almost unheard of. “That’s what it comes down to. Please, try to understand. You’d move on if it helped your career. Cassie has the job, and I don’t.”

  “Cassie now, is it?” Veronica asks. Surely Cassie hasn’t been on a charm offensive to win over even her competitors? Veronica can see where they’d get along, though. Peter fancies himself a bit of an action hero in the way too many men do.

  “Oh, come on, she’s hardly my type,” Peter says, in that slightly bored way he has. “Speaking of my type, though, Edie is thrilled I’m not dragging her to the countryside, and she wants you to have dinner with her tonight. I do too, since it means she can then take you to whatever museum it is tonight, instead of me.”

  “A little culture really won’t kill you, Peter. If you’d ever set foot in it, you’d know that the V&A is—”

  “I’m sure that both Victoria and Albert would be proud of it, but it’s still a museum full of dresses and who knows what. So, can I tell her you’re game? I know it’s short notice, but I have a pile of forms to get through, as you’d expect.”

  “Fine, but dinner’s on her.”

  “Fair. She’ll text, I’m sure.”

  Veronica stands when he does, ready to see him out. Despite her hurt at him leaving, she does the friendly thing and walks around the desk. Where others might make the mistake of going in for a hug with her, he gives her a strong, enthusiastic handshake instead.

  “I knew you’d see it my way eventually.” His smile is pretty relieved for someone who claimed to be so certain. “Have fun with my missus.”

  “How could I not?”

  They eat at a middling Scandinavian restaurant where the chef’s idea of authentic Swedish food begins and ends with herring. The wine goes down well, and Edie links her arm in Veronica’s once they step out into the late summer evening, heading down for the extended hours at the V&A’s newest design exhibit.

  Truthfully Veronica has never been one for museums and galleries, although it’s always been the done thing on every city break. Even then, she steered Angela and groups of friends on those weeks and fortnights towards ruins and crumbling temples, finding more interest in castles that contained a thousand years of living history with real people, rather than the canvases and marble of a few rich people who would otherwise have been lost to the sands of time.

  The trips to the British museum with her father hadn’t helped. His favourite habit, as an amateur historian, had been to tour the endless halls and corridors with conspiratorial whispers about what had been stolen from which part of the old Empire, and how much blood had been shed.

  Maybe that’s why the only museums she can tolerate, often for half a day at a time, are the surgical and medical ones that others find macabre. Edie certainly keeps teasing her about how many disorders that might be a symptom of.

  So tonight: impossibly gorgeous dresses once worn by minor royals. The craftmanship can be admired, if nothing else. Plus, Edie is a member or a patron of just about everywhere interesting, so that means plentiful wine and lots of semi-scandalous gossip.

  They’re walking down the wide expanse of Exhibition Road, still rehashing Peter’s decision, when Edie suddenly stops.

  “Isn’t that her?”

  Veronica cranes her neck, trying to look in the same direction as Edie seems to be. She doesn’t recognise anyone, hardly unusual in the sheer scale of London crowds.

  “Your GI Jane,” Edie adds for clarification.

  “How do you know what she looks like?” Veronica demands.

  “Didn’t correct me on the ‘your’ this time,” Edie announces, suddenly triumphant. “And because I looked her up, once I found out she was the competition. No social media—another one of you Luddites. But she’s certainly made the papers a few times. No wonder the panel were all over her.”

  Veronica feels a little trapped. She’s barely spoken with Cassie since they operated together, other than a splash of small talk between meetings or nods in the corridor. It would be the easiest thing in the world to carry on blithely down the road, with the bustling London footpaths there’s no reason to see a familiar face in the crowd.

  And yet she veers across three lanes of determined commuters and evening diners alike, just to put herself in sight range.

  “Ms Taylor.” Well, shit. What’s with the formal greeting now? “How nice to bump into you.” Nope, abort conversation. Retire to far-off land, relearn social conventions and art of small talk. Now.

  “Veronica?”

  Oh God, is that actual concern? I must look like I’m losing my mind. Time to use Edie as a human shield. “Edie, this is the famous Cassie Taylor. Cassie, this is Peter’s wife—”

  “Dr Hyatt-Wickham,” Cassie finishes, practically diving in to shake Edie’s hand. “I saw your talk on post-traumatic therapies a few years back. Absolute game-changer.”

  “Oh, well aren’t you a charmer?” Edie holds the handshake longer than is strictly necessary. “How’s life in Trauma? Had any limbs thrown at your head yet?”

  “… No?” Cassie looks downright disturbed.

  “I had a traumatic rotation, you might say,” Edie half-explains. “It’s why I stuck to the more bloodless kind of medicine, in the end. Having fun working with Veronica? Don’t let her ride you the way she does all the other department heads, now.”

  Veronica’s choking sound sounds mercifully like a regular cough, but it still leaves her wanting to strangle Edie for each Irish-lilted word. Time to redirect. “I heard you’ve been babysitting the sergeant. Any news?”

  Cassie beams. “He’s awake! In considerable pain, of course, but we’re managing it. Not sure he grasps the extent of his injuries, but we’ll have time. I was just heading out to meet a friend from the same unit. Put all their minds at ease, since we can’t have much in the way of visitors yet. Infection is still the biggest threat.”

  “Well, that is good news.”

  “Yes, isn’t it?” Edie interjects. “In fact, if you want to really get up to speed, we’re heading to an event just down the road. Plenty of free wine before you have to go and face that tough conversation.”

  “Cassie clearly already made plans to visit the soldiers,” Veronica points out, starting to steer Edie away as she addresses Cassie. “See you tomorrow? You’re on shift?”

  “Yeah, yes,” Cassie says, moving off herself. “See you then.”

  Veronica lengthens her strides, practically dragging Edie along with her. It’s only a matter of time before the inappropriate comments come, and she intends to be well out of earshot.

  “Well, well, well,” Edie says, as they approach the traffic lights to cross. “Looks like someone’s finally back in the game.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” Veronica knocks it back just a fraction too quickly, cringing as she does. “One, no confirmation on the queer front.”

  Edie is incredulous. “Yeah, right. I got the once over and you certainly got more than that. That woman likes women.”

  “Two. Unprofessional. I don’t…you know, where I eat. And yes, I’m anticipating any joke you want to make right now about eating. Three? I’m fine, just as I am. I have work, I have Danny, and I have a bunch of certifiable friends. No further complications required.”

  “Fine.” Edie holds up her hands. “There’s nothing there. Consider it dropped. Only… Actually, it doesn’t matter.”

  “Only what?” Veronica asks.

  “You do realise that you’ve looked back in her direction about ten times while telling me all that, don’t you?”

  “I didn’t…” Veronica catches herself doing it, even in the midst of her denial. “Fine. She’s not entirely unattractive. Satisfied?”

  “Oh, darling,” Edie says
, words wrapped around a tinkling little laugh. “There might just be hope for you yet.”

  Chapter 10

  “Come on, Sergeant.” Cassie says it gently, a coaxing more than a command. “Up and at ’em.”

  A grunt in response. Not quite the chats they’ve been having over the past few days, but it all counts at this stage. The last of his surgeries is booked for tomorrow, vital signs permitting. Most patients would be transferred to ICU by now, but Cassie has fought to keep her soldier, at least until the last of his traumatic injuries are treated.

  He’s given them more scares than a horror movie in recent days. For every repair made or wound stitched, Steven has managed to develop a new complication. The pulmonary embolism had been the nastiest surprise, but at the moment there’s no immediate concern beyond the low-grade fever.

  As has become her routine over the past week, Cassie takes a chair at his bedside, along with a stack of charts to sign off, and a steaming cup of coffee. She’s grateful to Veronica for sharing the secret of her caffeine fix. It’s truly the only real coffee within walking distance.

  “Don’t you have other patients, Major?” Steven asks, his voice rasping after the last few hours of sleep.

  “I’m right here if they need me. But not everyone in here got hurt defending someone else from a mugging.”

  “Sure it’s not just that you fancy me, Doc?” He grins weakly, the bruising on his face spoiling the effect a bit.

  “Down, boy,” she warns. “Now, I went to see your old CO and we had a chat about your time in Afghan.”

  “You can’t have been in Lash Vegas,” he says, referencing the British Army base at Lashkar Gar. “I would have remembered you, that’s for sure.”

  “No, I was stationed at Butlins most of the time,” Cassie corrects him, knowing his lack of deference is more about the large doses of morphine lodged in his system than anything else.

  “Talking in code again?” Alan says, tutting as he passes. The paramedic’s in his usual green jumpsuit, the waterproof green and fluorescent jacket clutched in his hands like a bullfighter’s cape. “Only you lot could name an army base after a holiday camp.”