Major Surgery

by Lola Keeley

  “Hey.” Cassie speaks from the threshold, always alert and looking just slightly wary that there’s an intruder.

  Speak of the devil—and in magnificent dark teal scrubs she will appear. TRAUMA is stitched in white above the breast pocket, a veritable badge of honour for the woman who looks knackered and exhilarated all in one.

  “Hey, yourself. Coping okay on this end of the corridor?”

  Cassie shrugs. “It wasn’t as bad as they thought. Helps that it was more panic than explosion. Mostly walking wounded. Saw a compound fracture worth a journal article, though.” She’s lit up like Danny talking about his football sticker album and who he needs to complete it. “Seriously, the first break was—”

  Veronica holds a hand up. The one with a bottle of red in it. “Much as a first date with emergency orthopaedics is damned sexy, I think it’s a precedent we don’t want to set. Do you?”

  “You’d prefer it on the floor of my office, swigging from the bottle?” Cassie comes over to join her with a smile, but not before closing the office door.

  They sit side-by-side on the bare floor, and Veronica reveals her two paper cups snagged from the vending machine with a flourish. “A Girl Guide is always prepared,” she says, trying not to crack up laughing.

  “I was in the Guides, you know. Brownies too,” Cassie replies, hopefully not too offended. “I bet you were thrown out for being too bossy.”

  “Rude.” Veronica decants the first cups of wine. Thank God for screw-tops on decent merlots now and then. “And actually it was for not respecting Brown Owl’s authority.”

  “Always had a thing for bad girls, me,” Cassie says around a laugh of her own. “Are you planning to lead me astray, Ms Mallick?” She turns to Veronica then, and the wine seems completely irrelevant.

  Barely setting the cups down, Veronica turns to meet her, hand extended until she’s caressing Cassie’s thumb with her cheek. “You know, I once told my entire department in a seminar that inter-workplace relationships are the bane of my entire existence. They’d have an absolute field day, if they could see me now.”

  “Well, they can’t,” Cassie, ever helpful, points out. “Because I closed the door, and we’re well under window height. I really have thought of everything, haven’t I?”

  “Have you thought about what happens if we—”

  Cassie shuts her up with a kiss. This time it’s a little slower, almost tentative. A kiss that says we have time and that Cassie has no intention of rushing.

  Veronica feels the ripple of pleasure roll through her, a miniature tidal wave of promise and expectation. “Good point,” she says when their mouths finally part again. Somehow she’s gotten up on her knees, the better to lean into Cassie. “Now that it’s a more decent hour, we could probably manage a proper date.”

  “So you’re saying no to a quickie in the supply cupboard?” Cassie asks with a lopsided grin, taking Veronica’s hands in each of hers. “Tempting though it is, I think I’d prefer doing this properly too.”

  Then comes the thump on the door. Cassie is on her feet in depressingly little time, smoothing out her unwrinkled scrubs. Since chivalry isn’t dead, she extends a hand and helps Veronica the rest of the way up. By the time Cassie goes to open the door, Veronica is aiming for nonchalance in the corner, having stashed the wine in the bottom of the room’s only bookcase. She has her hands on her hips and hopes she looks more annoyed than interrupted.

  It’s Alan, Cassie’s paramedic friend. He’s never been anything more than civil in passing with Veronica, despite the years they’ve both worked here. “I was just heading out from a drop and there’s some kind of standoff on your ward. I think Cardio are trying to steal one of your patients, and the nurses are not having it.”

  “Damn right,” Cassie says with a snort. “Sounds like the boss is needed. Ms Mallick, if you’ll excuse me.”

  “You’re excused,” Veronica replies. “I’ll message you that information you wanted.”

  “Good.”

  God, they’re ridiculous. Veronica is still a little giddy. She watches Cassie stride off to deal with the next nascent crisis, wheels turning all the while. How long has it been since she went on a real date? Not since the last time she’d been talked into installing one of those godawful apps that seem to be populated exclusively by nineteen-year-old girls and men who don’t understand the word lesbian.

  She’s halfway to calling Edie and begging for a restaurant recommendation, for anywhere that might still have a table for a Saturday evening, when Alan comes back to knock sheepishly on the still open door.

  “Ms Taylor said to let you know it’s a pseudo. She’s going to be in there til midnight or so. You two got plans?” There’s a raise of his eyebrow that just screams ‘gossip hound’. Time to be careful, then.

  “No, I just said I’d give her a lift home.” Veronica’s lying has gotten a little smoother at least. Not a hint of fluster; she can be proud of that. “Saves me a detour, then.”

  “Doesn’t she live in Reading or something?” Bobby is far more interested than Veronica particularly wants him to be.

  “She did. Her new place isn’t far from me. I suppose you’re on the nightshift, Alan? Well, I’m not even supposed to be working today, so I’d better get off.”

  “Yeah, you better had.” Is that the hint of a suppressed snigger?

  Veronica can’t react or the game is officially over.

  He finally leaves, giving her the chance to retrieve the wine and head off. No point wasting half a bottle. She’s free now but with nothing particularly planned. Is it too much to hope Cassie might ping her when the surgery’s done? Would that be worth waiting up for?”

  No, she decides, setting out on the short journey home. There’s no need to be so utterly desperate about it. If Cassie wants to do something tomorrow, well, maybe they’ll see.

  In the meantime, there’s bad television and a serviceable takeout app on her phone. It’s going to have to do.

  Chapter 22

  Cassie tries to play it cool, but the weight of her phone in her scrubs pocket, even beneath all the layers of surgical paraphernalia, feels like she’s carting around a brick.

  The operation is thankfully less onerous than her first glance suggested, so even with cascading problems, the patient is ready to be sewn back up before eleven. Not bad going. As she changes and checks the times of the last train to Swindon on her phone, Cassie can’t help but flick straight over to her messages.

  Thank some kind of deity, because Veronica has caved and sent a text first.

  Let me know when you want to cash in that rain check.

  There’s probably some kind of rule about how long to wait, about how aloof to be, but Cassie has never been great at standing on the sidelines.

  How about tomorrow?

  What is she doing? What’s the plan? She should be getting a move on and making sure she catches her train, not staring like a love-struck idiot at a tiny screen.

  The panic abates as soon as Veronica replies.

  Yes. Your choice, just give me a time and a place.

  Okay, so that part Cassie has to work on. She’s going to have to run to make her train now. She looks up, having just reached the staff exit beside A&E, and sees the glow of the faceless corporate hotel that backs onto the hospital, separated by one of those shallow ceremonial pools that serve no purpose.

  “Off home, Doc?” Alan strolls up to her, halfway out of his paramedic uniform, down to just the fluorescent-trimmed trousers and the dark green T-shirt. Both arms are sleeved with elaborate, artistic tattoos that Cassie is quite taken with. “I didn’t even make it to midnight without getting puked on.”

  “I really don’t envy you on the front line on a Saturday night.” Cassie knows she’s all but missed her train now. The hotel seems to beckon to her from across the concourse.

  “I bet
plenty of people said that to you about Basra.”

  “Oh yes,” Cassie agrees. “And Kandahar, and Beirut, and a couple of warzones in Africa while we’re at it. You get used to it, right?”

  He nods, and makes to move off, apparently in search of another jacket.

  “Alan, if you’re not entirely wrecked tomorrow—”

  “Yes?” He practically lights up. Is this what it’s like to have normal friends? Now she just has to see if he’s the kind of gay guy who’ll be up for a particular challenge.

  “Well, I sort of have a date, or I’m going to have one. And since I have approximately three items of clothing that aren’t scrubs or army issue, most of which I’m wearing right now, I wanted to brave the, uh, shops.”

  “Shops, like bargain basement in some shopping centre, or like, doctor-level nice?”

  Cassie blushes, glad he probably can’t really see it in the semi-dark recess of the doorway. “The second one, I suppose.”

  “If you’re asking me to Pretty Woman you, the answer is absolutely yes. I should have surfaced by lunchtime.” Cassie is pretty pleased with herself that she’s picked the right man for the job. Her instincts are finally realigning for the civilian world.

  “Perfect. I’m thinking late afternoon cinema and dinner after. Bit of a Sunday date. Do people still do that?”

  “Oh, that’s adorable. My last date was a twenty-four-hour rave in an abandoned warehouse, so you’ve got me beat at least.”

  “So where should I meet you, for fancy-lady shopping, then?”

  “You know Selfridges?”

  “I’m going to Selfridges?” Cassie isn’t expecting that.

  “It’s not all designer ball gowns. And there are plenty of other places nearby. Meet me outside there at noon, okay? You’ve got my number.” He pulls her into a quick hug, as though they do it all the time. Cassie could almost get used to this.

  “Thank you. And if you don’t show, I’ll assume you’re sleeping off a rougher than usual Saturday on the rig?”

  “Oh, I’m not missing my chance to pull a Princess Diaries on GI Jane, so I will see you there. Even if I have to drive the ambulance directly to you.”

  She waves him off as he heads towards A&E where the paramedics have some supplies and clean clothes stashed. All that leaves is for her to decide between the terribly convenient hotel or the gouging price of a taxi so far out of London. The decision rather makes itself.

  Cassie secures herself a double room with no view of the hospital, shrugs off the offer of a bellboy for her non-existent baggage, and slinks towards the elevators.

  For a moment, just a moment, she considers tapping out a so I’m staying at the Hilton by the hospital tonight text to Veronica, but the urge to speed that eventuality along is tempered by the urge not to rush something so potentially amazing.

  Not to mention there’s every chance Veronica has seen sense by now. She might be safely tucked up at home working on a way to get out of this whole thing. Only she answered quickly enough about the rain check. Cassie can’t screw this up by doubting every word and sign like always.

  The room is perfectly generic, clean and spacious. The mini bar doesn’t have a great selection, but the single malt will make for a decent nightcap.

  She strips down to her skivvies and throws herself down on the bed. This will do very nicely indeed.

  Oxford Street on a weekend is a specific kind of hell, though not as bad as previous times when she’s risked a Saturday close to Christmas while passing through. This part of the famous street is dominated by massive department stores and the supersized versions of various brands she just about recognises but has probably never worn. There are signs for Bond Street, which sounds perfectly distinguished. A quick glance at it confirms mostly jewellers. Not what she needs right now.

  Alan almost matches her own promptness, arriving fully five minutes early and looking fresher than anyone after the shift from hell has any right to. He can pull off skinny jeans and a black shirt unbuttoned one button too many in a way that makes Cassie feel dowdy all over again. She’s in the same leather jacket, jeans, and shirt from yesterday’s house viewing.

  “Are we really doing Selfridges?”

  “Oh, come on, you don’t have to be royalty. Besides, as an army chick you must be all about your fine tailoring. I dated a guy in the navy, and those dress uniforms aren’t just any old tat.”

  He takes Cassie by the elbow, guiding her by the elbow through the heavy doors of burnished metal and glass. “Now, just direct me. Are we femme-ing it up? Or do we just want a sharper version of something between androgyny and soft butch? I mean, play to your strengths and all that.”

  Cassie rolls her eyes. “Just make me look like not an idiot?”

  “Well, I’m not a miracle worker.”

  They head through the perfume section, and even though no one sprays her directly, Cassie can feel the early stirrings of a headache. Perfume she has, even though she never wears it to work. It’s always in her bag along with deodorant and a brush to keep her hair from tangling completely.

  “So who’s the date? I can’t believe you haven’t spilled yet, Ms Taylor.”

  “And I can’t believe you’re reverting to titles. Behave, Alan!” She deliberately leaves her phone stashed away, not checking Veronica’s agreement to a movie and dinner for the fifth or sixth time. “It’s very new, so do you mind if I don’t fess up?”

  “Hmm, upstairs for the lady clothes, come along.” Alan leads her to the escalators. “And when we’re done, it’s cakes and tea down in Dolly’s. That’s the café in the basement, you tourist.”

  “Right. Gotcha.”

  Cassie stares at the grandeur of the store around her. This is going to be an unbelievably long day.

  By the time she sinks onto a chair, mumbling out an order for strong tea and chocolate cake, Cassie is officially in one of the stages of shock. She’s a little light-headed, fairly sure her pulse is racing, and the giant yellow bags she clutches, one in each hand, won’t quite seem to leave her grip.

  “Oh, put them down. You didn’t go too mad,” Alan assures her. “Although I didn’t see you having a thing for swish exercise gear. Who knew?”

  “Well, I mean, I run.” Cassie knows it sounds feeble. “You’re sure the clothes looked good?”

  “Definitely. Now I’ve been patient, but you have to tell me who has you so giddy. If you’re not naming names, that means it’s someone from work.”

  Cassie’s stomach gets that plummeting feeling like a lift skipping floors. No, she can’t blow this already. Then again, Alan is a good sort and not a total gossip. Would it be the worst thing to actually confide in a friend? A compromise then.

  “If you can guess, I’ll confirm or deny. But I’m not just giving her up, I’m afraid. Too easy.”

  Alan claps in anticipation. “I do love a guessing game. That new night receptionist in A&E? Chloe or whatever her name is?”

  “Nope. She’s at least ten years too young for me.”

  “That cardio woman everyone’s scared of? She’s bi, so the scuttlebutt tells me.”

  “Is she?” Cassie files that one away for…well, sheer human interest.

  The waitress comes back with their order, setting down all the tea paraphernalia as though she’s setting out surgical instruments. Cassie finally lets go of her bags, making peace with her uncharacteristic spendfest.

  Alan sips at his coffee. “Okay, who else is there? I don’t get up to the wards much, but there was that nurse—”

  “Nope. Not a nurse. Not a paramedic either, before you turn on your own people.”

  “Ooh, snobby. Dating another doctor then. In fact, if you’re that emphatic about it, it has to be another surgeon. You don’t rate the other lot, do you?”

  “Now, that’s not fair, I didn’t say—”

  “
Wait, it’s not Ms Mallick, is it?”

  Cassie prays the colour isn’t draining from her face, although it sure as hell feels that way.

  “Oh my! You’ve got a thing for hot and bitchy? No, that’s not fair. She’s just…efficient. Our paths don’t cross much. Still, no wonder you wanted to up your clothes game.”

  With a weak smile, Cassie leans across the table. “I really don’t want to wreck this through the gossip mill. I’m not swearing you to secrecy, exactly, but if you could sit on it for a couple of weeks, maybe? If it takes off, I have no intention of hiding it. That’s one lesson I have learned.”

  “Now, that sounds like a sordid past. Eat up, Doc. And tell me more.”

  After a quick pit stop at the hospital to shower and change, cramming the bags of clothes into her locker and wondering if she should return at least half, Cassie is ready to meet Veronica at their agreed time. The clocks haven’t gone back yet, so the evening stretches ahead of them even when meeting early for the cinema.

  It’s so different now, organising a social life by text. Cassie knows if she got on social media like people keep nagging her to, she’d be able to chronicle her every movement today. Whereas that usually sounds dull and faintly creepy, the low buzz of excitement in the pit of her belly makes her see the point of keeping a record. If this goes well—and it has to, it just has to—she’s going to want to remember every second of it.

  Cassie has always been strangely protective of her memories, as though not remembering something good will mean she never has it again. Jan used to say it was the product of a slightly sad childhood. Nothing so terrible she wanted to block it out, but genuine happiness was so rare that it felt like an unexpected treat. These pat psychological explanations have never held much water with Cassie, who prefers to think that people simply are how they are most of the time.

  For some reason, that makes her mind drift to Edie, who so impressed her with her understanding of trauma psychological treatment. Who could have dreamed that random lecture while on leave would turn out to be the close friend of the next person Cassie dates? It’s hard not to think the universe is having a benevolent laugh at her expense sometimes.