by Fiona Lowe
Bullying? What the—He held up his hands as if a gun was being pointed menacingly at his head. ‘Hang on just one damn minute, Dr Mitchell. That’s a very serious accusation.’
She swept an arm through a pile of papers, sending them fluttering to the floor. ‘And this is a serious setup. I can’t believe how badly you want me to fail.’
Fail? His temper surged at her abhorrent claims. Every part of him screamed to carpet her here and now for insubordination and character assassination, but something about the tension pulling sharply at her features and the desolation in her eyes quelled his anger. The furious boil reduced to a slow and cross simmer. Once again he’d glimpsed those same malignant shadows clinging tightly where they didn’t belong.
He sighed and dropped his arms, letting them fall loosely to his sides. ‘Something’s clearly upset you to make you behave like this but I’m at a loss as to what it is. When I said you were in the mud-sucking middle, I was referring to that moment in a project everyone experiences when you’re suffering from information overload.’
She stared at him from behind her tortoiseshell glasses, intently studying his face. It was like she was trying to decode his words and match them up with his expression and tone of voice. He pressed on. ‘That place in a project that demands you commence putting the data into a coherent form but the precise place to start eludes you.’
He tried for a wry smile. ‘To be honest, I was very surprised to get your text saying you were finished. I expected you to only just be starting the narrative.’
For a moment she made no sound and then her face crumpled and a long, low moan escaped across her ruby-red lips. She sank onto the chair and dropped her face into her hands. ‘Oh, God. No.’
The ragged sound carried old pain and it echoed around the quiet office before returning to cloak her in a toxic cloud. More than anything he wanted to reach out and touch her but then he remembered what had happened the last time he’d offered comfort. He decided that discretion was the better part of valour. He’d feed her instead.
As he silently dished up the food, she mumbled something, but given her faint volume, he assumed she was talking to herself rather than to him. Handing her a bowl of curry and some naan bread, he said, ‘Want to tell me what’s going on?’
Her hand shook as she accepted the bowl. ‘Not really, no.’
‘Put it this way. I was being polite.’ He pulled up a chair and seated himself opposite her. ‘You don’t have an option.’
With a jerky movement, she set the bowl down on the desk. ‘I can’t eat knowing you’re about to revoke my scholarship. Just do it and get it over with.’
He felt like he was watching a play where he’d missed act one and he was now totally muddled in act two. ‘I haven’t any intention of revoking your scholarship, although God knows why not, Claire Mitchell. Ever since you arrived, you’ve pushed the envelope and all of my buttons. You are by far the most challenging trainee I’ve ever worked with.’
She sucked in her lips. ‘I... You...’ She sighed and her head dropped. ‘Sorry.’
It was the first time one of her apologies actually sounded sincere. Looking at the top of her bent head, he was still at a loss as to what was going on. ‘I’m not sure you realise that you’re also the most talented trainee I’ve ever had the fortune to work with.’
Her head rose slowly but her distinctive chocolate-brown brows had drawn down into a frown of doubt and anxiety. Yet again he was convinced she didn’t come close to believing him. Exactly why, he had no idea. Nor did he understand why she was so convinced he’d been acting against her best interests. That accusation burned hot and cut deeply. In his private life he’d had women hurl accusations at him ranging from commitment-phobe to heartless, but at work he prided himself on equality and fairness. No one had ever suggested otherwise.
Looking for clues, he wracked his brain and tried to think of something he may have done or said to give her that impression. As he drew a blank, the mumbled words she’d spoken earlier suddenly sounded in his head as clear as a bell on a windless day.
Everything’s falling apart just as I always knew it would.
Why, with a track record of successes, did his most talented trainee believe she was going to fail? He’d bet his last pound that whatever or whoever had caused those tormenting shadows of hers was connected to this eroding self-belief. He was determined to find the source.
‘If we’re to continue working together, Claire, I need to know two things. Why you texted me saying you were finished when obviously you are nowhere near, and more importantly, why you would even entertain the thought I had set you up to fail?’
* * *
From the moment Alistair had stepped into the office, Claire’s heart had picked up its pace and now it was beating so quickly and erratically that she was light-headed and dizzy. She still couldn’t wrap her head around how rapidly things had unravelled. Not that she’d ever been in control of the project, but she’d been convinced she was in control of keeping Alistair far, far away from the office for the bulk of the day. Except now he was here and she was backed into a corner of her own making. The only available escape route was ripping out her soul.
His words ‘You’re exactly where I expected you to be’ had not only left her feeling utterly exposed, they’d hauled her backwards into the dark abyss that was her school days in Gundiwindi. She hated the emotions the past always generated. When she’d combined them with her determination that no one was ever going to bully her again, she’d lashed out, only to discover Alistair had no idea about her secret. No one got away with incorrectly accusing their boss of a heinous crime without having to face the consequences. This was her Armageddon.
Everything she’d worked so hard to achieve was about to shatter into a thousand irreparable pieces and she only had herself to blame. Lacing her fingers together tightly, she fixed her gaze on the tip of his left ear. ‘I’m—’ she forced the word up and out through a tight throat ‘—dyslexic.’
He looked utterly taken aback. ‘Are you sure?’ Doubt rang in his very precise accent.
‘Your daughter’s not going to amount to very much, Mr Mitchell.’
‘Moron.’
‘You’re a very lazy girl. Accept that you belong in the remedial class.’
‘Dumb ass.’
Against the harsh memories of the past, a bark of laughter fully loaded with derision broke out of her, raining down on them both. ‘Oh, believe me. I’m more than sure. Dyslexia’s been my constant companion since I started primary school.’
‘But...’
Confusion shone in his eyes. A part of her wanted to hug him that he’d been clueless about her condition. The rest of her ached with embarrassment that she’d got herself into the situation where she was forced to tell him.
‘I don’t understand,’ he finally managed to say as he ran a hand through his hair, making it even messier than usual. ‘If you have this disability, how on earth have you got this far in your career?’
She shrugged. ‘Sheer bloody-mindedness and a photographic memory.’
This time he laughed—a great booming sound that twirled around her with reassuring gravitas. ‘Well, you do have bloody-mindedness in spades.’
She smiled weakly. ‘Um, thank you, I guess.’ She didn’t know what else to say.
‘Determination can carry a person a very long way.’
Unwanted tears pricked at the back of her eyes and she blinked furiously, refusing to allow them to form, let alone fall. ‘When you’re told often enough that you’re useless, it can go one of two ways.’
Respect flared on his face. ‘And you chose success.’
She thought of her years of struggle and for the first time she glimpsed what she’d achieved in a new light. ‘I suppose I have.’
‘I’d say you definitely have.’ He
gave her a contemplative glance. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about the dyslexia?’
She tossed her head. ‘I refuse to be defined by it.’
‘But you are.’
His words crashed into her, making her chest cramp in twisting pain. She’d spent years proving she was no different from anyone else and she wasn’t about to accept his view. ‘No. I. Am. Not. You said yourself you had no idea I was dyslexic.’
‘That’s not what I’m talking about. All of us are an amalgam of our experiences.’ The skin on his bladed cheeks momentarily tensed and then relaxed. ‘You live with a learning disability. I imagine that isn’t always easy.’
‘No,’ she said softly, appreciating his insight on that point if not on the other.
‘Exactly how hard is it? Was it?’
The question made her flinch. ‘I don’t waste time thinking about it.’
Although a flash of sympathy lit up his eyes, his mouth straightened into a taut line. ‘Perhaps not consciously, but I think it all came out to play today when you accused me of bullying.’
The sternness of his voice didn’t hide his hurt and it ate into her. ‘I’m sorry. I should never—’
‘I don’t want an apology, Claire,’ he interrupted briskly. ‘But I require an explanation as to why you would make that leap.’
She knew she owed him the truth but that didn’t stop her feeling as if she was about to rip herself open from the inside out. Just do it and get it over with. ‘I grew up in a tiny outback town where sport ruled and there was no tolerance for being different. Not only was I myopic, I struggled to learn, which made me a sitting duck for cruel kids.’
‘Bullies?’
‘Yep.’ A long sigh shuddered out of her. ‘Although, in retrospect, it wasn’t the kids who were the worst offenders. I had an ally in my brother, who was a well-respected football player. He stomped on anyone who stole my glasses and pinched my books. By the time I left primary school, I had amassed a lot of one-liners. A clever putdown confused most of the boys who were all brawn and no brains.’
‘I can imagine,’ he said with a knowing smile. ‘I can see where you honed your acerbic skills.’
Her cheeks burned with embarrassed heat as her mind spun with confusion. She’d been so rude to him and yet here he was actively listening and trying to understand. As much as she disliked talking about her life prior to university, she wanted to honour his interest and hopefully hold on to her job.
‘The saying “Everything’s there but it’s wired differently” is my brain. Spelling and reading have always been a challenge. I had trouble linking the sound of a word to the letters on the page. When I was little, there was no reading recovery program and as the years went past I slipped further and further behind.
‘I was accused of being lazy and not putting in the effort. Teachers took to saying, “You’re nothing like your brother,” and it was easier for them to label me the difficult child. Mum and Dad tried to help but as I was frustrating qualified teachers, it wasn’t surprising that my parents eventually accepted what they’d been told. Eyes were constantly rolled in class when I struggled to read out loud and I never gained my pen licence. By the end of primary school, nothing was expected of me. Everyone assumed the moment I turned fifteen, I’d leave school.’
His leaned forward slightly. ‘What changed?’
‘A guardian angel called Strez.’ She smiled and gave a self-deprecating laugh. ‘Mr Strezinski. He was a Polish migrant who spoke four languages. I have no idea how he landed up at Gundiwindi High or why he agreed to teach typing and woodwork. Fortunately for me, I took both subjects. He saw something in me no one else did. He lent me audiobooks so I could hear the English texts while I read along. Without having to agonise over every word, I could hear the themes and analyse the text. He suggested I type my assignments.’
Her heart swelled as it did whenever she thought of Strez. ‘I’ll never forget the day I got a B+ on an essay. I was both over the moon about the mark and white with fury that I had to prove to the teacher I hadn’t plagiarised the work. Strez helped me devise strategies, like chewing gum, to help me focus and using headphones to block out extraneous noise. Most importantly, he was the one person who truly believed in me.’
Alistair nodded and a lock of hair fell forward. He brushed it aside. ‘He sounds like a true mentor.’
She looked up into his eyes, which in the low light were the colour of silver moonbeams dancing on water. ‘He changed my life. Without his help, I’d never have passed Year Twelve, let alone got into medicine. He released me from all of Gundiwindi’s preconceived ideas.’
His brow’s rose questioningly. ‘But not, I think, from its legacy.’
She considered the statement. ‘I’ve never thought about it in those terms. You may have a point.’
This time he gave a bark of laughter. ‘There’s no may, Claire. I see it in your eyes. There’s a part of you that still believes you’re that struggling little girl.’
‘That’s because I am.’ The words shot out before she could catch them back. Idiot! She hated feeling so vulnerable in front of him. ‘You’re the first person outside of Gundiwindi to know I’m dyslexic. I only told you to try and save my job.’
A sympathetic look similar to the one he’d shown her last night flashed across his face. For a moment she yearned for a touch of his hand and immediately thought better of it. She couldn’t trust herself not to lean in and repeat last night’s kiss, and that was totally out of the question.
He moved abruptly, picking up her curry from the desk and pressing it on her. ‘Eat this before it goes cold.’
She gratefully accepted it, having discovered that not being fired on the spot had revived her appetite. She was suddenly ravenous. Using the garlic naan, she scooped up some curry and savoured the subtle flavours.
‘Part of me can understand why you’ve kept it quiet,’ Alistair said. ‘Medicine’s fiercely competitive with a take-no-prisoners approach.’
‘And I learned that hard lesson in the Gundiwindi playground. Never expose a weakness or you get trampled. Like anyone with a secret, I’ve gone to great lengths and become very good at hiding it. Today was no exception.’ She huffed out a breath and looked him straight in the eye. ‘I didn’t want you here working alongside me. I couldn’t risk you seeing how I have to read things twice to decipher them and once more to memorise them.’
His high forehead creased into deep lines. ‘So that’s why you told me you’d completed the job. You wanted to keep me away.’
She nodded and he added drily, ‘Well, that answers my question as to why you were so unexpectedly conciliatory about my extended absence today.’
She gave an apologetic shrug. ‘When you arrived back here and said you expected me to be in the mud-sucking middle, I thought you’d deliberately given me this task to expose my biggest weakness and my worst fear.’
Understanding rolled across his face. Ruefulness followed immediately, settling in the lines around his mouth and eyes. ‘My general dislike of statistics combined with my procrastination became your worst nightmare.’
‘The project isn’t the nightmare.’ She hurried to reassure him. ‘It’s the short timeline.’
He helped himself to more Tandoori Chicken. ‘So what I’ve interpreted as officious organisation is in fact one of your coping strategies?’
She nodded slowly. ‘I need time to read and memorise. I can’t leave anything to the last minute.’
‘And I leave everything to the last minute.’
‘Why is that when it must make things more difficult for you?’ she asked, genuinely interested.
A muscle in his cheek twitched unexpectedly. ‘Because life’s far too short to spend so much time doing stuff I don’t enjoy.’
And there it was again—his selfish streak. A strand of disappointmen
t wound through her with more intensity than she cared to experience. What did it matter to her if he was a fully paid up and card carrying member of the live for today and for me club.
‘The first thing I did when I qualified was activate the fine tradition of all consultants and dump the bulk of the boring paperwork onto my trainees.’ He suddenly winced and rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Hell, Claire. No wonder we’ve been crossing swords. I’ve exhausted you.’
Guilt slugged her. ‘I should have told you I was struggling, but now you know why I didn’t.’ She gave him an apologetic shrug. ‘All of the above. The thing is, in my previous positions I’ve never had to deal with quite so much paperwork. Brain surgery is so much easier than reading and writing. As for public speaking, I fear death less.’
He laughed. ‘Dyslexia aside, you’re not alone there.’ His expression sobered. ‘Despite—or perhaps because of—your dyslexia and the type of brain you have, you’re an excellent neurosurgeon.’
Gratitude flowed through her and for the first time she actually accepted and believed in the compliment. ‘Thank you. Surgery’s spatial and kinaesthetic learning.’
‘The practical component is, but what about all those years of lectures?’
‘Like I said, I have a visual memory. Just don’t ask me to write anything quickly or my “p”s will become “b”s and vice versa, along with a lot of other words spelt backwards. Oh, and never get me to navigate because I can’t follow a map, and don’t expect me to identify left or right without making my left hand into an L.’
He grinned. ‘I’ll remember that.’
She watched his open and friendly face and saw kindness reflected there. Other consultants would have summoned security to march her off the premises for her earlier behaviour. Although she’d hardly enjoyed his insistence she tell him about her dyslexia and school days in Gundiwindi, she appreciated it because it had saved her job. Sure, the man had a selfish side but how could she have ever thought he was shallow? Or that he wanted her to fail?
