Page 55 of The Elements

It’s not often that I find myself completely surprised, but when Aaron knocks on my office door and asks whether we might go for a drink together some evening, I’m so astonished that it takes me a moment to respond.

“A drink?” I ask, turning away from my computer screen to give him my full attention. I don’t for a moment think he’s asking me on a date—that would be utterly bizarre—but I’m puzzled why he’d think I’d want to socialize with him, considering how abruptly I’ve treated him since his rotation began.

“Yes,” he says. “If you’re busy, I totally understand. It’s just that we only ever speak here, and I’d be grateful for an opportunity to talk in a less formal atmosphere. About my career.”

I’d like to say no, to tell him that the moment I walk out the front doors in the evening, that’s it, my duties have come to an end, but I need to be seen to be helpful to junior doctors; after all, they submit evaluations on us, just as we do on them.

And so, fine, I tell him, somewhat grudgingly, suggesting Saturday, which will at least break up an otherwise empty weekend for me and disrupt a busy one for him.

On Friday, he emails the name of a bar in town, and when I arrive, deliberately late, I’m rather impressed to see the effort he’s made.

He’s wearing a pair of gray jeans, paired with a crisp white shirt, and a sturdy pair of boots that matches his belt, and a brown leather jacket rests on the banquette beside him.

He smells good too; colognes and perfumes are banned in the hospital, but whatever he’s sprayed himself with this evening offers a pleasant scent of wood and vanilla.

Has he got dressed up just for me? I wonder.

“Dr. Petrus,” he says, leaning forward, as if to kiss my cheek, but quickly realizing that this would be an unwise move. “Thank you for coming.”

“You can call me Freya,” I tell him. “We’re not in work now.”

“Freya,” he repeats, bowing his head briefly, like I’m a member of the royal family and he’s greeting me on one of my engagements. “What can I get you to drink?”

I ask for a vodka and cranberry and, while he’s gone, I glance around the bar.

It’s almost full, with most tables populated by couples or foursomes, friends on a night out.

It feels strange to be in their company.

Any one of them might look toward Aaron and me and assume that we’re in a relationship too, and while I have no ambitions in that regard, and would shut down any advances on his part, it’s not unpleasant to feel like a normal member of society for a change.

This is how my life might have been, I think, had it not been for the Teagues.

When he returns with my drink and a fresh beer for him, we move seamlessly into small talk.

A famous rock star has died earlier in the day, and we discuss her life and career.

A scandal involving a prominent banker is growing, and he confides in me that the disgraced woman is his mother’s first cousin.

There’s some mention of a trip to Amsterdam that he’s looking forward to.

And then, rather unexpectedly, he tells me this:

“You know, I applied to the hospital specifically because I wanted to work with you.”

“Really?” I say, raising an eyebrow. In our profession, there are plenty of famous doctors, but I’m not one of them.

Burns, the whole field of plastics in general, doesn’t usually attract much attention, unlike the more glamorous arenas of brain and heart, which tend to draw physicians blessed in the former but lacking in the latter. “Why?”

“Because you’re the person who made me want to be a doctor.”

I reach for my glass and wonder whether he’s just flattering me with an eye to advancement. For a moment, my eyes focus on his hands. He has the fingers of a surgeon, I think. Bony. Steady. Repulsive.

“I don’t understand,” I say.

“The Rozelli Programme,” he says, and I groan, as there are few phrases that I dread as much as this.

The initiative is one that the hospital introduced more than a decade earlier and involves medical professionals visiting local schools and universities with the hope of encouraging students to pursue careers in the NHS.

I’ve been forced to take part on numerous occasions and, while I do what I can to get the pupils enthused, it’s not something I enjoy.

“You gave a talk to our year when we were doing our GCSEs,” he continues.

“You told us about patients you’d helped and showed slides of people who’d been trapped in fires.

How you’d helped them get back to some meaningful form of life.

Most of my friends found it a bit upsetting, but not me.

I found it inspiring. I found you inspiring. ”

“Well, that’s good to hear,” I tell him, pleased that whatever I said encouraged him in some way.

“To be honest, I’ve never felt very confident when it comes to public speaking.

But it’s become something of a requirement for surgeons and senior consultants.

The Rozelli Foundation pumps a lot of money into the hospital, but they do make us dance for it. ”

“You spoke so passionately about what you do,” he continues. “I don’t want to sound melodramatic, but that day changed my life.”

I can’t help but smile. I’m not usually susceptible to flattery, but he seems sincere. Whatever my allergy is to him, I let it go for now.

“Thank you, Aaron,” I say. “That’s kind of you to say.” I pause and offer a small concession. “I know I’m not always the easiest person to work with, but—”

“Your focus is on your patients,” he says, cutting me off. “I know that. And I’m just some know-nothing intern getting in your way. I’d be a cunt too if I was you.”

I blink, uncertain I’ve heard him right over the noise of the bar.

“I’m sorry?” I ask. “What did you just say?”

“I said I’d be curt too if I was you.”

I remain silent for a moment, examining his face for any sign of disrespect, but he seems sincere enough.

“You’re a good doctor,” I tell him eventually, even though I don’t have any strong feelings on the subject one way or the other. “You have a good career in front of you.”

We move on to other subjects. We talk about Louise and how she’ll be missed when she retires in a few weeks’ time.

He tells me about a thriller he’s reading that he thinks I might enjoy, featuring a murderous pediatrician as its central character.

I mention a film I’ve heard good things about, and he says that he hasn’t been to the cinema in more than a year.

The last time he went, he witnessed a road traffic accident on the way home and ended up testifying in court as a witness, an experience he found strangely exhilarating.

“Actually, I know that feeling,” I tell him, ordering fresh drinks from a passing lounge girl.

She glances at Aaron appreciatively, offering him a flirtatious smile, and to my surprise I feel like scratching her eyes out.

“I served on a jury once. I would have preferred to get out of it, but in the end it turned out to be quite interesting.”

“Really?” he asks. “What kind of a case was it?”

“Rape.”

He pulls a face.

“That must have been difficult,” he says.

“Why?”

“Well, as a woman…” He drifts off, perhaps sensing that, considering the times we live in, he’s veering into dangerous territory.

“You’re assuming it was a woman who was raped,” I say.

“That’s true. Am I wrong?”

“No, but you shouldn’t assume.”

“You’re right.”

“Are you a football fan?” I ask.

He nods.

“Then you might remember Evan Keogh and Robbie Wolverton.”

“I do,” he says. “One of them raped a girl and the other filmed it. They played for my team. My old team, I mean. I walked away after that.”

“They both swore that the encounter had been consensual, and we believed them. We found them not guilty. It’s not something I’m particularly proud of. We didn’t feel that the prosecution had proved their case beyond a reasonable doubt, so we found for the defense.”

“I read somewhere that forty thousand women report a rape to the police every year.”

“Actually, it’s closer to seventy thousand.”

“And you didn’t feel like… I don’t know… making an example of them?”

“No. The truth and the facts don’t always tally. But, of course, it didn’t end there. A couple of years later, Keogh confessed. Went to the police and admitted everything. He even handed over the video evidence. In a way, you have to admire him for finally coming clean.”

“Maybe his conscience got to him,” suggests Aaron.

“Maybe,” I agree. “It would be so much easier to go through life if you didn’t have one, don’t you think?”

“No,” he says, his immediate and emphatic reply surprising me, even though this was just a throwaway comment on my part. “I think it would be horrific.”

“Anyway, they were rearrested, retried, and they had no choice but to plead guilty. Wolverton’s still in jail. He’ll be there for another five years.”

“And Keogh killed himself,” says Aaron.

“Well, he was found dead in his cell. It was all a bit Jeffrey Epstein, if you ask me. It’s hard to know what to believe.”

We talk about this a little more, then change the subject again. I want to know more about him. I ask whether he has a girlfriend and he tells me that he does.

“What’s her name?”

“Rebecca,” he replies.

“Is she studying medicine too?”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “She’s training to be a pilot.”

I know I shouldn’t be surprised by this, but I am. It’s still a relatively unusual career path for a woman.

“And how long have you been together?”

“Almost two years now.”

For some inexplicable reason, I feel jealous.

“How about you?” he asks. “Do you have a partner?”

His use of the word partner makes me think that he’s hedging his bets so as not to offend me.

“I do,” I lie.

“And their name?”

Their . He’s still covering himself.

“Eli,” I say.

“And what does he do?”

“He’s a SPAD.”

“A what?”

“A SPAD,” I say. “You don’t know what a SPAD is?”