by Talli Roland
Peter turns to face me, eyebrows raised in surprise. “Yes, he is. He’s scheduled for two in the afternoon. How did you hear that?”
Aw, shit! With everything running through my mind, I completely forgot I wasn’t supposed to know Jeremy outside the clinic. I’ve been playing the life advisor role so often, I almost feel like I actually am one.
“Um, um . . .” My mind works frantically to come up with something plausible. “He left a message on the clinic’s answering machine about it.” Peter should be happy I’ve actually checked the messages (not that I did, of course) – he’s always reminding me to do it on Saturdays and Sundays in case, heaven forbid, we miss scheduling an all-important Botox shot to the earlobe or something.
“That’s strange,” Peter muses. “I gave Jeremy the hospital number to ring, just in case. Maybe I should call him to make sure everything is okay.” He gets out his mobile.
“No, no!” I practically leap onto Peter’s lap. “That’s not necessary, I’m sure. Jeremy only wanted to know if . . . if the hospital had a twenty-four-hour room service facility. You know what these people are like.” I feel disloyal to Jeremy, lumping him in with the rest of the rude rich, but needs must. If Peter calls Jeremy, the jig’s up.
I hold my breath as Peter jams the phone back in his pocket. “Okay. You rang him and told him yes, right?”
My mouth drops open. What? The hospital has twenty-four-hour room service? I was just making that up. “Of course.” I squish even closer to Peter, the smell of his lemony cologne – so different from Jeremy’s spicy scent – filling my nostrils. “Um, Peter? I’d really like to learn more about actual surgical procedures, from a clinical perspective. And, you know, to see you in action and witness your expertise. Could I come to the hospital tomorrow and observe you with Jeremy, maybe?” After the recent episode with Kirsty, I’m not keen on pandering to Peter’s ego. But if I don’t get in that operating room, Leza will kill me. I hold my breath, thinking my words are slightly over the top. But a beatific grin is spreading on Peter’s face. He’s bought it!
“I think that could be arranged. Jeremy’s probably a good one to watch, since you’ve interacted with him from the beginning. You’ll need to stay in the corner, out of the way. And you’ll have to get Jeremy’s consent, too, before the surgery. Otherwise, there’s no way I can let you in there.”
“No problem.” I need to see Jeremy before the surgery, anyway, to ask him a few interview questions.
“But I have to warn you, the procedures aren’t pretty. There’s a lot of blood, so prepare yourself. I can’t have you fainting or causing any disruption in the room.”
“I can handle blood. Don’t worry.” I cross my fingers, hoping that’s true. I’ve never been in the presence of a lot of blood to find out, thank God. But I’ll just focus on my work and I’m sure I’ll be fine.
“Come to the hospital around noon, then you can pop into Jeremy’s room to get the consent form signed. I’ll leave you a copy at the front desk. Patients usually don’t have a problem being observed, in my experience. But if he does express any discomfort, please don’t badger.”
Badger? Me? “No, of course not. Thanks, Peter.”
Peter reaches out and pulls me toward him. “I don’t have to be at the hospital until ten tomorrow. Late start for once.” He tidies my hair back from my face, and just as I think he’s about to kiss me, he tilts my head up, touching the small furrow between my eyes. “Hmm. You might want to consider some Botox in the next few months.”
Gee, thanks. I bite back my snarky response and smile tightly. He has just done me a huge favour by letting me in the OR tomorrow.
“Do you feel like . . .?” Motioning toward the bedroom, Peter raises his eyebrows.
I follow his gaze, trying to remember the last time we actually made love. It’s been a couple weeks, but with everything that’s happened, I’ve barely even noticed. And right now, getting busy with Peter is the last thing on my mind.
“Sorry. I’m a bit tired.” Not to mention I’ve got to finish my article for Leza.
Peter shrugs. “Okay, no problem. I must admit I’m knackered, too.”
Suddenly I remember my earlier conversation with Kirsty. “Peter, this operation tomorrow . . . it’s not dangerous, is it?”
Peter shrugs. “It’s as dangerous as any other operation. Whenever patients go under general anaesthesia, there is always a risk of complications.”
My heart jumps. “Complications? Like what?” I hold my breath as I await his response.
Peter turns up the TV. “Oh, don’t tell me you’re turning into one of my hyper-anxious patients. I don’t have the energy right now to deal with this, Serenity. Jeremy will be fine.”
I shake my head at his abrupt dismissal, then grab the notepad and head to the bedroom to refocus on my story. Peter’s a good doctor and a fantastic surgeon. I’m sure everything will go to plan.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Yawning, I force myself from the cocoon of blankets and into the cold air of the bedroom. God, I had the worst sleep ever last night. I jerked awake at three, after a horrible nightmare where Jeremy’s crimson blood was splattered across the operating room and my pristine white clothes. Then, every time I closed my eyes, all I could envision was the pattern his blood spots made against the stark white.
The flat is silent; Peter must have left for work already. What time is it? I rub my eyes and squint at the digital clock. Only ten-thirty. Phew. Still plenty of time to get ready and head to the hospital.
Thank God for coffee – and hot water, I think, turning up the temperature on our shower and directing the puny flow of water over my head. Why the Brits are so advanced in other aspects but can’t seem to fashion a proper shower is beyond me. An image of the Rainshower in Jeremy’s house flashes through my mind. I’d give anything to have one of those.
I pull on a pair of black trousers and a matching blazer to resemble an official life advisor, whatever they’re supposed to look like. Catching sight of myself in the mirror, I grimace. I’m more Darth Vader than the female equivalent of Dr Phil.
What would Mia wear? Probably something fashioned from a cutting-edge material NASA just discovered. I can’t wait to ditch this whole undercover thing and really break out a few Serenity v2 ‘I’m-a-tabloid-reporter’ ensembles. And if I’m honest, all the subterfuge is starting to get to me. I’ve had some close calls lately and if this keeps up, I’ll be in the cardiac unit soon instead of the newsroom. Another few weeks and I’ll be home free.
I take off the blazer and throw on a fitted white shirt and a bright red cardigan to give the outfit some colour. Slipping on my red kitten heels, I yank a brush through my tousled hair then slick on lip gloss.
There. Professional, pulled together and still stylish, thanks to the splash of red. I grab my notebook and recorder, throw on my trench coat, and I’m out the door.
The streets of Marylebone are Sunday-morning quiet, and fifteen minutes later I’m inside the private hospital’s elaborate entrance, standing in front of a receptionist so perfectly beautiful she looks like she’s been airbrushed. Chandeliers hang from the mosaic ceiling, and the whole foyer is done up in Italian marble. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I was in a Venetian palace, not a London hospital.
“I’m Serenity Holland,” I announce. The receptionist lifts a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, eyeing my ensemble with something like distaste. My face flushes. It seemed stylish back at the flat, but now it feels like I’ve hijacked Primark’s discount rails. “For Jeremy Ritchie?”
“One moment, please,” the receptionist responds, voice dripping with derision as she taps away on a Mac computer. “Jeremy Ritchie is in suite three-zero-five, on the third floor. Johnson will escort you up.”
Johnson? I turn as a man clad in what looks like a bespoke three-piece suit comes forward, ushering me toward the lift. Jeez! In the Harris Regional Hospital, the most fashionable suit is worn by Ernie the Janitor – and that’s an army-gree
n one-piece jumpsuit. And if you think jumpsuits are trendy, one look at Ernie bulging out of his will change your mind faster than you can say ‘beer belly’.
“Oh, Dr Lycett left this for you.” The receptionist hands me a stapled sheaf of papers. Glancing at the document, I see it’s the patient consent form I need Jeremy to sign if I want to observe his operation.
Taking deep breaths, I follow Johnson across the marble floor toward the lift. Now that I’m actually here, it all seems so real. Jeremy will be going under the knife today – the first irreversible step on his way to becoming the man he always wanted to be. For just a second, I feel a sense of loss that he’s leaving behind who he is now. But this is his dream, and he needs to go for it. No one understands that more than I do.
The lift pings as it reaches the third floor, and Johnson ushers me down a corridor and into suite 305.
“Hey there! Ready for today?” I sweep into the room and smile at Jeremy. He’s sitting on the bed staring down at his feet, and his shoulders have that stiff set to them again.
Jeremy lets out a shaky breath and glances up at me. His cheeks are pale and his eyes look greener than ever. “Hi. Yeah, I guess so. Thanks for dropping by. I didn’t want to impose on your advisory duties too much on the weekend, but I was kind of hoping you’d come round.”
I sink onto the bed beside him, my face flaming as I remember the last time we sat side by side and he leaned toward me . . . Clearing my throat, I force my lips in an even wider smile. Jeremy’s so tense I can almost see it pouring from him.
“Of course. Helping you through these difficult moments is part of my job description. And I’ll be there during the operation, too, just for your peace of mind,” I say. “Don’t worry. Peter’s done these surgeries a thousand times – probably more. He’s very experienced.” I take my recorder from the bag and click it on. Jeremy’s so used to it now he doesn’t even comment.
“I know.” He tries to smile but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “It will all be worth it. I want to show Julia I can be a man worth being with, even if she’s not the sort of person I want any more.”
“Why were you with Julia, anyway? She doesn’t sound that nice.” It’s something I’ve been wondering about. They’re so different it’s hard to imagine the two of them laughing together, living together, doing other things together . . . Ugh. I push away the thought.
Jeremy shrugs. “She was the kind of woman I thought I wanted back then. I was happy to make her happy. Now I realise that a one-way relationship isn’t what I want at all. I want someone who wants to make me happy, too.”
“I understand.” I nod, trying to stop myself from asking why, if he really wants someone who loves him for who he is, is he having cosmetic surgery?
“So, how are you feeling?” Predictable question, I know, but it has to be posed.
“Terrified, actually.” Jeremy slides off the bed and lumbers to the window. “You know about my sister and everything . . .”
I walk over and touch his arm. “I’m so sorry, Jeremy.” I can’t begin to imagine what that must feel like, losing a loved one.
“It’s why I hate hospitals – even this one, with all its luxury. It still can’t hide what it really is.” He sighs, then collapses onto a chair. “It’s part of the reason I was considering cancelling the surgery – cold feet, as you say. I couldn’t bear to come back to a hospital again. It just reminds me of her.”
“I understand. But you’re only in here today and tomorrow. You’ll be back home and looking hot in no time. Not that you’re not hot now. Um, you know what I mean.” God damn it, my face is heating up again.
Jeremy smiles. “I know what you mean. Look, thanks for pushing me to do this. I know there’s nothing to worry about. It’s kind of like going to the dentist, right?”
“Exactly.” I smile back, ignoring the jabs in my belly – and Peter’s answer that there’s always a risk of complications. But this is what Jeremy wants. And he said it himself: his cold feet are mainly down to the earlier experiences with his sister.
A nurse wearing the classiest whites I’ve ever seen pops her head into the room. With blonde hair pulled into a chignon and chic straight-leg white denim paired with an embroidered tunic, she looks right off the runway. I tug down my own red cardigan and pat my hair back into place.
“Shall we get you into your hospital attire, Mr Ritchie?” The nurse smiles, revealing the glossiest and whitest teeth known to humankind. God, where do they recruit these people from? The Perfect Nurse Planet?
Jeremy nods. “I guess so.” He takes the neatly folded stack of hospital clothes from the nurse and glances over at me. “You’ll hang around until I’m out of the recovery room, right? I probably won’t be in much of a mood to talk, but it’ll be good to have someone here.”
“Of course. I’ll be here all along, and I’ll come visit tomorrow, too. Did you know they have a chef in residence? I wouldn’t dream of missing out on that. Do you think they do homemade Jaffa Cakes?”
Jeremy laughs. “Not in a high-class joint like this one.” He plonks the bundle of clothes down on the bed. “Guess I’d better get changed.” The tense expression has reappeared.
I pick up the item on top and shake it out. It’s a hospital gown – in black – with a small tag bearing the name ‘Versace’. Versace designed the hospital gowns? “Well, at least you’ll be operated on in style.” I say, handing it over to him. “I’ll wait in the hall. Just holler when you’re ready.”
I go out to the corridor and lean against the pearl-gray wall, feeling like I’ve stumbled into an alternate universe – the same way I feel when women fork over three thousand pounds in cash without batting an eyelid. A world where hospitals have chandeliers, nurses are models, and Versace designs black hospital gowns. I mean, I read the tabloids. I knew places like these existed. It’s just different when you’re in them.
Jeremy pokes his head out. “You can come back in now.”
“You look great,” I say, catching sight of him in his full hospital regalia. No limp pastel ensembles here – Jeremy’s wearing the black gown underneath a deep-red Chinese-style tunic. He actually does look pretty damn good.
“I’m like a bloody ninja,” he says, making a face. “I can’t believe this get-up. Honestly, I’d prefer good old flash-your-bottom gowns to these poncy things.”
I’d prefer flash-your-bottom ones too, if there was any chance of seeing his cute butt, I think, sitting back down on the bed.
“How’s it going in here?” Peter strides into the room and for some reason, I jump off the bed and over to a Philippe-Starcke-style chair in the corner.
“I’m fine, I guess.” Jeremy’s voice sounds shaky.
Peter pulls up a chair beside the bed and settles into it, in full authoritative doctor mode. “So what we’re doing today is removing the bags under your eyes” – he reaches out and grabs the loose skin under Jeremy’s eyes – “and then some chin liposuction, and then the nose job.” He tweaks Jeremy’s small jowls (very small, I’d say) and I turn away, mortified to watch my boyfriend poke and prod his patient like a side of beef. “All in all, you should be in and out in an hour or so.”
“Great.” Jeremy sounds a bit embarrassed, too.
“The orderlies will come get you in a few minutes, once we have everything prepped in the OR. And you’re sure you’re okay with Serenity being present during surgery?”
Jeremy throws me a warm look. “It’s the one thing keeping me sane right now. I must say, your clinic does provide a very comprehensive service.”
Peter nods, smiling proudly. “Customer satisfaction is our top priority.”
“We’ll leave you now,” I say quickly, before Jeremy can elaborate on how comprehensive the service really is. I leap off the chair and grab Peter’s arm, propelling him toward the door. “Good luck, Jeremy.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I realise how ridiculous they sound. Do people wish each other luck for surgery? I smile at Jeremy over my shoulder,
noting with chagrin that his face is glistening with sweat and a muscle under his eye is twitching.
“You’ve got the signed patient consent form, right?” Peter asks as we head toward the lift. “There’s no way I’m letting you in the OR without it.”
Oh, God. I put the form on a table in Jeremy’s room . . . and it’s still there. “Just a sec.”
“Hurry up,” Peter huffs. “I have to start operating in ten minutes or I miss the slot.”
I race down the corridor and back into Jeremy’s room. He’s at the window again, arms crossed over his chest as if protecting himself from a coming blow. “Sorry, I just need you to sign this form for me to be in the operating room.”
“Sure.” As Jeremy scrawls his signature across the document, I can’t help noticing his hand is trembling.
“I’ll check in with you after the operation. And I’ll even bring you some Jaffa Cakes from my private stash. Now that’s sacrifice.” I smile, worried now at how pale and shaky he is. Maybe he really doesn’t want to go through with this. But you wouldn’t have something as major as surgery if you didn’t want to, would you? He’ll be happy when everything’s done and dusted.
Jeremy looks so anxious that I put my arms around him in a friendly hug. The thick cotton of his tunic is soft against my skin and his spicy scent envelopes me. He wraps his arms around me and pulls me closer, and I feel a rush of warmth from his body pressed up against mine. Then, without warning, he releases me and takes a step back, his chest rising and falling.
“Right.” His voice sounds husky and he clears his throat. “I’ll see you after the surgery.”
I grab the form and dash down the corridor to where Peter is waiting, tapping his foot. “Jesus Christ, Serenity. We’re going to be late.” He glances sideways at me. “You all right?”
“Fine, fine. I got the form.” I wave it in his face to distract him from looking at me too closely. I can barely catch my breath. But that’s probably from all the running around, right?
