Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 82868 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82868 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
“Not at the moment,” Debbie says. “Like I said, your job history makes it tricky. And you’ve got no references. Working for friends and family always makes things more difficult.”
“But I’m organized and proactive and I’ve got a lot of common sense. That’s got to be in short supply.”
“You need to try and make it work where you are. Going into a permanent position from a temporary job is the best you’re going to do at the moment. The last thing you need to do is get a reputation as an employee who can’t stick around. You said it yourself. You’re proactive and have a can-do attitude. You’ve got to make yourself indispensable.”
My heart is slipping into my shoes. She doesn’t realize that my current situation is unsustainable—she doesn’t know that we have no patients. But her tone of voice tells me she’s done talking to me about this.
“Okay, thanks, Debbie.” I try and sound upbeat, but I’m having a hard time stopping the gongs of doom from echoing all around me. I cancel the call and burrow into my scarf.
Even though it’s only just into November, Costa has the Christmas decorations in the window. I place the coffee order and look at what they’ve got on offer as a snack. Maybe I should get Zach something. It’s the usual croissants and pain au chocolat alongside jaunty gingerbread men who I hope aren’t left over from last Christmas. Then there are those weird, disgusting waffles that taste like sugar had a baby with sugar and called it sugar. And some cupcakes. Nothing particularly inspirational and nothing as good as the fudge brownies I made last night and brought in for my morning snack today. I don’t think Zach’s rock-hard bod is going to want any of this. He asked for coffee, and that and only that is what I’m going to get him. He’s my boss, not my boyfriend.
Seven
Zach
I try and fake a smile when I pass the head of gastroenterology before putting my lunch tray into the stand.
Things must be bad. I never fake a smile. I’m trying to cover up the discomfort I feel about being back here after a week off writing. The days went by so quickly, I resent being back. Having such a great week has watered and fed my general displeasure with my job and it has grown into something much darker.
Not only do I not want to be here, I actively want to be somewhere else.
I check my watch. I’m going to chat to the patient who was admitted yesterday and who I’m going to do a biopsy on this afternoon, then head to my office to do some paperwork. I’ve had two appointments cancelled this afternoon because the patient tested positive for E. coli. It’s a fuckup, but I’m grateful. I’m not in the right frame of mind to be diagnosing people.
I glance to the floor so I don’t catch anyone’s eye and head to the ward.
My patient is a woman in her early sixties. I’m pretty sure she’s celiac from her blood test results, but she needs the biopsy to be sure.
As I reach the entrance to the ward, I bring up her notes on my iPad and remind myself of her case before I enter. That way, I don’t have to pause at the nurses’ station and risk anyone trying to strike up a conversation.
When I’m done, I stride over to the nurses’ station. “Which bay is Mrs. Fletcher in, please?”
“Four,” one of the nurses I don’t recognize says. She mumbles after me but I don’t stop. I can’t do chitchat this morning.
“Mrs. Fletcher,” I say as I approach her bed. “How are you this morning?”
“Fine, Dr. Cove, if you ignore the vomiting and stomach cramps.” Mrs. Fletcher is clever, feisty, and strikes me as the kind of person who doesn’t like chitchat either.
“Your blood work is showing a substantial possibility of celiac. The results of the biopsy will confirm things. Now that you’re not eating gluten, things should start to settle down for you.”
“I know, I know. I just want to get the results and figure out how to live with this blasted disease. I have two months left until I retire and I want to be ready to travel. I want to make plans.”
“You like your job that much?” I know that feeling.
“I’ve loved my career. I’ve read some of the best books ever written. And in my own way, I’ve made sure those books have been read by more than just me and the writer. I’m proud of what I’ve achieved. It’s just time to move to the next phase of my life.”
Suddenly she has my interest. “Books? Can I ask what you do?”
“I’m a literary agent. Have been for the last forty years.”
My stomach swoops and I take a seat on the visitors’ chair next to the bed. “You know, I’m writing a book.”