The Party Crasher(26)

  Maybe you have to have a streak of cruelty to be a good surgeon? Maybe that’s why he was able to treat me so badly and just walk off? I don’t know. For all that I loved him, I never got to the core of Joe. I never reached his innermost Russian doll. He always kept a part of himself locked well away.

  When he got into King’s College London to read medicine, for example, it took everyone by surprise. I don’t know what I’d thought he was aiming for in life. I knew he had good, strong, sensitive hands—but I saw them as pianist’s hands, not surgeon’s hands. He played jazz piano in the school band and used to joke about making his living in bars. I took him at his word.

  I didn’t even know he was applying for medicine. He’d kept it completely quiet. He’d talked vaguely about physics at Birmingham, or maybe taking a year out to study piano, maybe teaching, like his mum…. But it was all a smokescreen, hiding the truth, hiding his fierce ambition.

  After he announced that he’d won his place, he admitted it to me: He hadn’t wanted to reveal what his goal was, in case he failed. He’d secretly volunteered at a local hospital, worked into the small hours, done what he needed to do to apply for medicine, without sharing a word except with his mother. Not even with me. There’s something tungsten protecting the core of him.

      I’m not surprised he’s doing well. His brain is like a machine. And he has a streak of arrogance. I can see him in an operating theater, talking firmly, never wasting words, everyone else obeying his orders.

  And now, on top of it all, he’s famous. It happened about three months ago. Joe had been shadowed in a fly-on-the-wall documentary about his hospital. It was quite a serious documentary, which might have had a small niche audience, but it was somehow featured on breakfast TV, which is where he became a viral hit.

  It was a bit of a comedy interview, to begin with. Joe was being interviewed by a rather inane presenter called Sarah Wheatley, who couldn’t pronounce cardiovascular and kept attempting different versions. Every time she got it wrong, she giggled, and although Joe stayed polite, it was obvious he was unimpressed.

  He looked spectacular. That’s just stating a fact. He was in blue scrubs, his dark eyes at their most intent, his hands moving expressively to make his points. You could see that Sarah Wheatley was falling for him even as she interviewed him. And then the famous quote came. “Think of it like this,” he said, staring gravely at the screen. “We need to love our hearts.”

  Well, Twitter went wild. I’ll love your heart!!!! You can have my heart, Dr. Joe!! That guy can look after my heart any day he likes!!!

      Memes of him went around. The quote popped up everywhere on Instagram. It was used by the prime minister in a speech. Joe was christened the Doctor of Hearts by the tabloids, which ran a series of splashy pieces about his love life. Apparently he was offered his own TV show.

  But if Mimi is correct, he left Twitter instead. Which doesn’t surprise me. Joe’s uncompromising. I guess you have to be if you want to be a surgeon. He wouldn’t be interested in some short-lived fame. He’s always played a longer game. His own game.

  He’s typing something now, his brow creased with concentration. I watch him through the thorny branches, imagining him in an operating theater. Surveying another human’s life before him on the operating table. Deciding where he must deploy his scalpel to save them. He wouldn’t do it lightly. I’m not sure he does anything lightly.

  He pauses to stretch out his fingers and I’m suddenly transfixed by his hands. Hands which used to roam over me, caress me, make love to me. I know how much emotional intelligence is in those hands. I know how he balances thoughtful, cerebral caution with audacious risk-taking, all without a flicker.

  He hurt me so much, I can hardly bear to look at him. But if I ever needed someone to use a scalpel to save my life, he’s the one I’d turn to. Like a shot.

  A breeze brushes across my face and I shiver, not with cold but with muscle fatigue. Or maybe with bitter thoughts. I’m getting a bit desperate here, still crouching on the peaty ground with no plan. I need help. I asked the gods for a hand grenade and they sent me Bean, which was clearly their idea of a joke. But now…

      My eyes rest again on Joe, who is oblivious, ten yards away, still typing on his phone.

  Is he my hand grenade?

  The idea of asking Joe for help makes me wince. It’s humiliating. It’s opening old wounds. It’s my worst option. But it’s my only option.

  Slowly, I draw my phone out of my pocket. I scroll down to Joe’s number. And I send him a text. It’s very short and to the point. In fact, it just reads:

       Hi.





  He jolts as he sees my text. He actually jolts. Which is…

  Nothing, I tell myself quickly, chiding myself for even noticing. Joe’s reaction to my text is irrelevant. I simply need to know if he’s going to help me. Although—I must be honest—I’m feeling quite a frisson, secretly watching him like this. I feel as if I’m spying.

  Well, let’s face it. I am spying.

  He’s still staring at his phone screen, his brow furrowed as though he’s processing a load of complex, not necessarily positive thoughts. As I watch, he rubs his face. He winces. He looks as if he wants to say something to himself. Now he’s shaking himself down, almost as though getting rid of a bad dream.