Going Under

by Sonia Henry

  Or you have a heart attack at fifty.

  forty-four

  At seven o’clock the next morning I walk into the emergency department to start my shift, trying to pep myself up for another ten hours of action. Using the power of positive thinking, I’ve nearly convinced myself that cannulating drug overdoses in the resus bay can be exciting, when I throw myself forehead first into another human being.

  ‘God, I’m so sorry!’ I exclaim, clumsily stepping back from the person I’ve headbutted in my haste to enter the workplace. ‘I wasn’t looking where I was going.’

  ‘Honestly, Katarina,’ my victim says, grinning. ‘You can never just say hello like a normal person, can you?’

  I stop and take a long look at the man I’ve just accidentally assaulted. My self-control, which I’m determined to improve, dissolves like sugar in boiling water. The drama of the recent weeks somehow fades away. I stare at the vision in front of me, and my pulse rate shoots up to about a hundred and fifty.

  ‘Oh my God!’ I exclaim. ‘Lucas!’

  He starts laughing, and my heart beats even faster. The soundtrack of my life immediately starts playing the Grey’s Anatomy theme. I’m standing in an emergency department in scrubs stained with old blood and other unmentionable bodily fluids about to struggle through a painfully long shift, but I feel as if I’ve been instantly transported to Seattle Grace.

  Dr Lucas Lang is without a doubt the sexiest, most charismatic, most charming man I’ve ever met. If Dr Prince is my Dr McDreamy, Lucas is Dr McSteamy. He’s a cardiothoracic surgeon, and I was under him (not in the fun way, sadly) when I was a medical student. It’s probably no surprise that I finished cardiothoracics thinking that I definitely wanted to be a heart surgeon. This was misguided—I soon realised that my true ambition was to sleep with the man wielding the scalpel. He’d let me come into the theatre to watch him operate a few times, and after every single encounter I left feeling I had been on a journey of sexual discovery without actually having sex.

  Fast-forward to the present day and amazingly, I realise as I admire the very fine specimen standing in front of me, I still feel the same. Lucas Lang inspires feelings of raw sexual hunger in me, made even more tantalisingly painful because I know they’ll never be sated.

  We walk into the emergency department together, chatting.

  ‘How come you’re not doing cardiothoracics?’ he asks.

  ‘I haven’t been given a term,’ I reply.

  ‘You were a great student,’ he says, smiling. ‘You should think about it.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you to say,’ I tell him, ‘but you don’t have to.’

  He looks surprised. ‘I mean it.’

  His eyes are a bright honey-brown, and I find myself growing rather lost in them.

  ‘Hey, look,’ he says, as I’m wondering how to respond, ‘the department is having a dinner this Friday night, for the registrars who are finishing up and for anyone else who might be interested in applying for cardiothoracics. Maybe you should come.’

  I almost shout, ‘No!’, remembering how my last dinner with surgeons ended, but catch myself just in time.

  ‘Have you thought about what you want to do?’

  I sigh. ‘No, not really … The only thing I really want to do is spend six months lying on a beach somewhere in the Mediterranean.’

  He laughs. ‘You haven’t changed.’

  As I look at him, at his warm eyes and tall frame and slightly flirtatious smile, I remember the old Kitty from years before, when life was a lot easier. Maybe a night out with Lucas Lang and the other heart guys will take my mind off things. Cardiothoracic surgeons have a reputation for being massive egomaniacs. Because they operate on the organ that pumps our life’s blood through our bodies, they tend to consider themselves superior to all other doctors, so there’s always plenty of testosterone, as well as oxygen, floating around. Lucas is the surgical opposite of Dr Prince. Surely this is safe.

  ‘So you’ll come to the dinner, right?’ he says.

  ‘Okay.’

  He looks pleased. ‘Great, I’ll email you the details.’

  It will be good for my career, I tell myself as I avoid the glares of the people sitting in the waiting room. Cardiothoracics isn’t such a bad idea, really. Plus, as hot as Lucas is, he’s resting safely on a pedestal way above my position under the stairs, so it will be a nice safe environment for me to expand my surgical networks.

  I go along to the dinner on Friday night not really knowing what to expect. It will probably be pretty dull, I warn myself as I walk into the restaurant. Heart surgeons love crapping on about how many lives they’ve saved, and bitching about how other heart surgeons or, even worse, lowly cardiologists are trying to steal their work. Not to worry, it is Friday after all. I also should be celebrating, I remind myself. My emergency term has finally ended, and I have the entire weekend off. It’s a rare luxury, and I vow to enjoy my freedom before Monday and the return to the operating theatre for another surgical term.

  The other real highlight is seeing Lucas Lang in a social setting away from work and, fortuitously, we are sitting opposite each other. I realise almost immediately that cardiothoracic surgery isn’t the career path for me and enthusiastically refill my wineglass as the people around me rave on about Bentalls procedures. The only slightly interesting tidbit of information I hear is in a hushed conversation between Lucas and the guy next to him. I hear him say ‘settlement’ and ‘she’ll take the kids’ and ‘I should just push through it’. I wonder if he’s going through a separation. Okay, big ears, I reprimand myself. That is quite enough.

  Lucas is exceptionally professional and loves talking about aortic valve replacements. By the end of the dinner I’m starting to realise he genuinely wants to foster my interest in cardiothoracics.

  ‘Look,’ I say honestly when he asks me for my thoughts as we all stand around outside the restaurant saying our goodbyes, ‘I don’t know if I want to give up the next ten years of my life training to be a heart surgeon.’

  Some of the registrars are planning to kick on, I notice, but all the consultants seem to be heading home. Lucas is still standing next to me.

  ‘Ah, are you going for drinks?’ I ask him, not really knowing what else to say now the subject of cardiothoracics has been totally exhausted.

  He looks at me. ‘Are you?’

  I suddenly decide maybe I should go for a quick drink. It is Friday, after all.

  ‘Yeah, of course,’ I say, ignoring my cringing subconscious self. ‘As if I’d turn down a Friday night drink!’

  We follow the group up the road and I begin to realise that Lucas’s personality is multi-faceted. Now we’re away from the table, he’s less keen on talking about heart operations and more keen to probe me about my personal life.

  ‘There is this one guy,’ I say, not wanting to go into too much detail, but the wine is loosening my tongue, ‘although, well, I don’t think we’re that compatible.’

  Even as I say the words, I see an image of Fabien in my mind and know I’m lying to myself. I quickly try to repress the feelings but all at once I realise that Lucas looks a lot like Fabien. Same height, same honey-brown eyes, same big white smile.

  No wonder I think Lucas is so hot. What on earth am I trying to re-create here? Is this some desperate grab at memories and happiness?

  ‘Anyway …’ I clear my throat. ‘Let’s talk about something else.’

  ‘How long have we known each other, Katarina?’ Lucas asks as we walk around the corner, slowing down ever so slightly so the distance between the two of us and the rest of the group starts to increase.

  ‘Years!’ I reply. ‘Remember when I was your student and used to come and watch you in theatre?’

  He laughs. ‘And you always used to tell stories about some guy you were seeing and what a disaster it was.’

  I laugh too. ‘God, I really need to learn how to keep my mouth shut!’

  ‘I like that about you.’

&
nbsp; The group is now so far in front of us that I can barely see them. We’re also dangerously close to the corner of North Avenue.

  Every single intelligent part of my brain is screaming at me. My subconscious is screeching so loudly I can barely hear myself think. This is a terrible idea. Stop this now. Jack Prince is still lying in hospital. Another doctor recently tried to kill herself. You’re just drunk. Lucas Lang is extremely bad news. He’s too hot and too married (maybe separating, a rogue voice whispers) and too sexy. He just looks like Fabien, this is all this means. Honestly—when will you learn? Behave yourself! Behave!

  ‘Gosh, we’re right near my house!’ I hear my voice saying.

  We both stop walking.

  ‘Well, we’ve kind of lost the rest of the group,’ he points out.

  ‘Fancy a nightcap?’ As soon as the words leave my mouth I try to reel them back in. ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I know—not really appropriate …’

  He smiles at me. ‘I think it’s completely appropriate.’

  We walk up the road and through my overgrown front yard.

  ‘So, you’re a keen gardener then?’ he asks wryly, stopping to observe the weeds which are almost thigh height.

  ‘My housemate Winnie calls it the ecosystem of life,’ I tell him. ‘There are lizards and stuff living there. We can’t just knock down their house!’

  He looks at me and we both start laughing again.

  Still laughing, I open the door and we enter number 19, leaving the outside world conveniently far behind us.

  I listen for my subconscious, expecting resistance, but there’s none. Excellent!

  forty-five

  The house is in a terrible state. My bedroom is so messy not an inch of floor can be seen, with at least two pizza boxes sitting somewhere inside my bedclothes, so there’s no way I’ll be inviting him up.

  He insists upon the tour anyway, and though I try to block him from looking into my room he’s so tall that my attempts are hopeless.

  ‘Oh my God! You’re the messiest person I’ve ever seen!’

  ‘I told you we can’t go in there!’

  I also realise that my offer of a nightcap is a little optimistic as all we have in the house is a seedy old bottle of red, and all our wineglasses are dirty. I serve the wine anyway, in two matching Christmas mugs.

  ‘I love what you’re doing with the mugs,’ he says, grinning at his Santa mug and my Christmas tree. ‘It’s so kitsch.’

  ‘Well, I like to make a statement.’ I try not to shudder too obviously as I sip wine reminiscent of arsenic from my own mug. ‘You know how it is.’

  Lucas Lang is pretty cool. He’s taking it all in his stride. In fact, I feel surprisingly comfortable hanging out with Dr Lucas Lang (top cardiothoracic surgeon) on my couch in my hovel of a living room.

  ‘Do you live with anyone?’ he asks.

  I try not to laugh. Max, as I discovered when Lucas went to the bathroom—I can only imagine what kind of state that’s in—is at this moment lying in bed covered in chips, drunk as a skunk. I’d woken him up with a firm prod of the shoulder.

  ‘Yurghhhh,’ Max slurred, half opening his eyes. ‘Whaddyawant, Kitty?’

  ‘I thought you were staying at your mum’s!’ I hissed.

  ‘She started hassling me to pay her board again.’ He tried to sit up, looking irritated.

  ‘Don’t come out of your room!’ I whispered urgently.

  He tried without success to focus on my face. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Dr Lang’s here,’ I whispered.

  ‘The cardiothoracics guy?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘The one you always used to crap on about?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Well done, mate.’

  ‘Where’s Winnie?’ I asked.

  He looked confused.

  ‘You know—the other person who lives here!’

  ‘She’s gone to stay with one of her English mates who’s out here from London,’ Max said after a long pause, before lying back down among the chips.

  ‘Good. So just stay in here!’

  He was sound asleep again by the time I shut the door.

  ‘Um,’ I say in answer to Lucas’s question. ‘Sort of …’

  He raises his eyebrows. ‘Are they home?’

  ‘Well, yes and no,’ I fumble.

  There’s a loud snore from the direction of the front bedroom.

  ‘So that’s a … yes?’ Lucas guesses.

  ‘You’re too clever for me, Dr Lang,’ I say, smiling.

  ‘Does your housemate work at the hospital too?’

  ‘Oh, definitely not,’ I lie.

  Unfortunately, he turns to the shelf next to the couch and lifts an empty bottle of champagne from it. Stuck to the bottle are two name badges.

  Dr Katarina Holliday is typed on one, Dr Max Henry on the other. Both have the Holy Innocents logo on them.

  Dr Lucas Lang raises his eyebrows, again.

  ‘Look, he’s super drunk.’ I’m trying not to laugh. ‘He won’t even know you’re here.’

  This all may be a bit too close to home, or hospital, and he might decide it isn’t worth the risk and leave. I wouldn’t blame him. Instead he takes a sip of horrible red wine from his Christmas mug and starts to laugh.

  We talk for ages. We talk, and talk, and talk. We talk so much we become long-lost mates who’ve finally reconnected. Maybe Lucas wants new friends; I guess even surgeons need mates.

  There’s an unfortunate moment when he asks me about my surgical term.

  ‘Who was your boss again? Jack Prince?’

  I nod into my mug, feeling it’s safer not to elaborate.

  ‘What’s he like?’

  I shrug. This is typical of surgeons. They love having a gossip about their counterparts. They know juniors always hear the juicy bits, which is why it’s a good idea to get us drunk and let us spill the beans. In this case, the juice is so concentrated I feel like he might choke on it.

  He tries to catch my eye, which I avoid.

  ‘I don’t really know him that well,’ I offer.

  To my relief, Lucas nods. ‘I don’t think anyone really knows him,’ he says thoughtfully. ‘You know, I grafted him a few weeks ago.’

  I swallow a huge gulp of wine so quickly I spill some down the front of my dress. Thank God it’s black. ‘You grafted him?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Urgent bypass. I saved the guy’s fucking life, and when he finally came out of it a few days later he told me I’d not done a bad job.’

  I smile despite myself. Typical.

  Lucas Lang shakes his head, not realising that the night before he had his hands on Jack Prince’s heart, the neurosurgeon had been in this very room.

  ‘Not done a bad job,’ he mutters, looking half amused, half irritated.

  I know the world of medicine is a small one, but this is getting a bit ridiculous.

  I notice that his hand has moved, so it’s resting on my upper thigh, and I realise that as much as I want us to be friends I’m fighting against the inevitable.

  I start rabbiting on at a mile a minute, plucking random subjects out of the air, until Lucas puts his hand over my mouth. ‘Kitty,’ he says, smiling, ‘can you stop talking for one fucking second?’

  My eyes widen, and he drops his hand. I can still feel the touch of his skin on my lips. ‘Did you just have your hand … on my mouth?’ I ask incredulously.

  We stare at each other.

  ‘I think I did.’

  If there was ever a time to say the one thing I’ve been wanting to say to this guy for the last six years, that time is now. ‘I think we should have sex,’ I tell him. ‘We don’t have to do it right now, or even this year. But some time, in some place, I think you and I should have sex.’

  There’s a pause. He shakes his head, laughing slightly in disbelief.

  ‘I agree,’ he says. ‘I’ve actually wanted to have sex with you for about six years.’

  ‘Oh my God, me too!’ I exclaim
enthusiastically, as if we’ve just discovered we both love the same TV shows.

  You really like British crime drama? My God, SO DO I!

  I examine him closely. I admire his chest underneath his shirt. Fuck—he’s so hot. I mentally shake myself—wait until I tell Estelle about this! Lucas Lang, after all these years, finally at my fingertips!

  Speaking of fingers, I look down to where his hand rests on my thigh and feel a bit short of breath when I see how huge his hands are. His fingers are massive. My mouth goes dry. Wow. He probably has the most perfect penis.

  Maybe being a junior doctor is a bit like Grey’s Anatomy after all, I think, as I take in the truly fantastic sight of Dr Lucas Lang, top cardiothoracic surgeon, moving his hand further up my leg.

  ‘You look lost in thought.’ He smiles at me.

  I decide immediately that I’m sick of thinking, I’m sick of worrying, I’m sick of the bloody hospital and all its associated stress and anxiety, and instead of doing the sensible thing and changing the topic to mitral valve regurgitation or, even better, quickly escorting him out, I let my vagina take over and I leap across the couch.

  ‘God, you are sexy,’ he breathes, roughly shoving his fingers through my hair. ‘Do you even know how sexy you are?’

  Now this is more like it! I straddle him and he grabs my arse, squeezing it as we kiss. I feel myself getting wet.

  ‘God, you’re so hot.’ He pulls me closer to him. ‘You’re just so fucking hot.’

  He starts kissing my neck, and I feel my nipples hardening. I push myself onto him, wondering whether I’ll have the self-control to stop. Instead, I pull my dress over my head so I’m wearing only black stockings, high heels and a black bra.

  He’s a man possessed, and as his tongue runs over my breasts I realise that I’ve forgotten about anything particularly serious or work-related and that all I want to do is fuck, hard, on my couch.