Page 56 of The Elements
He shakes his head, orders more drinks. I ask for a large this time.
“No,” he says. “It sounds like something to do with gardening.”
“That’s a spade, you moron,” I reply, teasing him and touching him on the upper arm. “A SPAD is a special adviser. He reports to the chancellor of the exchequer, in fact.”
“That’s pretty cool,” says Aaron, impressed.
“Cooler than being a surgeon?”
“No, nothing is that cool. Not even being a pilot.”
“Good boy,” I say, patting him on the hand now, and, instead of laughing along with me, he appears annoyed by the phrase, which I only meant as a joke, and pulls his hand away.
“So have you met the prime minister?” he asks.
I tell him that I have. That we’re quite friendly, in fact.
That I gave him a book for Christmas and he gave me a scented candle.
I enjoy building this fantasy life, just as I enjoyed creating Jesse, the imaginary boyfriend of my twenties.
The more alcohol that enters my bloodstream, the better I get at lying, or at least I think I do.
Perhaps I should have been a novelist. I could have spent every day inventing lives much more interesting than my own.
“I’m sorry if I’ve been hard on you, Aaron,” I say at last, because the evening has gone much better than I expected and, to my surprise, I find that I’ve rather enjoyed it.
“But you must recognize the importance of our work. A hospital isn’t a social club, you know?
We’re not there to make friends. Our sole responsibility is toward our patients.
So, if I’ve been short with you from time to time, please don’t take it personally.
It just means that I have to put all my attention where it’s most needed. It will toughen you up.”
“I’m tougher than you think,” he tells me. “But can I ask, why did you choose burns?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Of all the disciplines. Why burns?”
No one has ever asked me this before. I have no parents. I have no siblings. I have no friends. I’m entirely alone in the world, so my choices have always been my own and unquestioned. I consider the question carefully, wanting to give him an honest answer.
“Because people turn away,” I say at last.
He frowns. It’s obvious he doesn’t understand what I mean.
“If you have cancer,” I explain, “everyone is on your side. They’ll wear ribbons and run marathons to raise money for your treatment.
You’re sanctified for developing a disease over which you have no control.
If you have Alzheimer’s, your family has to figure out how to look after you while secretly hoping you’ll have made plans for a one-way trip to Switzerland.
As humans, from the moment we reach puberty, we search for beauty.
We do it in our daily lives, whether we’re looking at someone we want to fuck or someone we want to fuck us.
But beauty is meaningless. It’s nothing more than the manner in which the skin is formed over the skull.
And the skull is nothing more than the way the bones have been formed in the womb.
None of it means anything. Beautiful people have so many advantages.
You’re a good-looking guy. I know I’m an attractive woman.
But have you ever wondered what it would be like to be blessed with such extraordinary beauty that, when you walk into a bar, every head turns in your direction? ”
“I’m sure that happens with you,” he says. “I’m not trying to be creepy, but—”
“No, I get it. And yes, it does. Sometimes. But that will come to an end soon. The elements destroy everything. Think of water. When someone drowns, and their body floats back to shore, their features are so bloated it can be difficult to identify them. Think of earth. When a body is buried, it starts to decompose immediately. Think of air. If we’re deprived of it for even a few minutes, we die.
Then think of fire. When someone’s physical appearance is damaged by burns, we turn away, repulsed. We don’t want to know.”
An old Hot Chocolate song sounds over the speakers, one I haven’t heard in many, many years.
“It Started with A Kiss.” I glance at Aaron.
For some inexplicable reason, he’s laughing a little.
Do I want to kiss him? I should want to kiss him.
So why don’t I? He’s not exactly age appropriate, but he’s not entirely age inappropriate either. No one would bat an eyelid.
My mind drifts back to Cornwall, to Arthur and Pascoe, and to the night they buried me alive.
I could tell him this story. I could tell him the real reason that I chose burns as my speciality.
I could tell him everything about my life, about who I am, about what I do, and see how he reacts.
But I’m not stupid. Nor am I drunk enough to reveal the worst of myself to this relative stranger.
I’ve sat through a trial once and have no desire to do so again.
“Twelve thousand,” says Aaron after a lengthy silence, apparently apropos of nothing.
“I’m sorry?” I say.
“Twelve thousand,” he repeats. “That’s how many men report being sexually assaulted in the UK every year. We forgot to mention them when we were talking about rape figures earlier.”
He’s right too. In some ways, it doesn’t surprise me that he knows the exact statistics for men but underestimates the number for women by almost 50 percent. But it disappoints me.
And just when I was beginning to think well of him too.