and see us, pay us a hundred pounds an hour because they think we have the answers. We stick a few pills down their throats and let them keep talking until they come up with the answers themselves. Or get bored.
Or, he thought, with a sudden sharp twist of guilt,
kill themselves
.
Michael began to sidestep around him. ‘Can we talk about this later, Paul?’
Straddley did a clumsy shuffle so that he was blockingMichael’s path once more. ‘Um, how much later exactly, Michael?’
‘I don’t know. I have a busy day and I’m late for my ward round.’
‘Can you do lunch? The canteen?’
Michael nodded reluctantly, although he’d been hoping to pick up a sandwich and sit quietly by the river.
Straddley released him. Michael walked across the hall and up the grand balustraded staircase. The entrance hall was a huge space, filling most of the ground floor, with columns and a high, elaborately stuccoed ceiling; it had a grandiose air that seemed aloof to the imitation wood of the reception counter and the metal and plastic chairs arranged in the waiting area.
He took a quick walk round his in-patients, checking their charts and medications and asking how they were, then collected his list of appointments from Thelma.
At ten to nine his multi-disciplinary team of two nurses, a junior doctor, a psychologist and a social worker were crammed into his office for their twice-weekly review of his patients and departed shortly after nine ten.
His first patient hadn’t arrived yet. Good.
Before he had even taken off his jacket, he sat down at his computer and logged on. Twenty-eight new e-mails, mostly from other psychiatrists and psychologists with whom he shared ideas and problems. Another confirmed details of timing for a paper he was to present at a conference in Venice in September. And there was one from his brother Bob, in Seattle, the usual chatty stuff about his wife (Lori) and kids (Bobby Junior and Brittany) and had he seen Mum and Dad recently?
There was no e-mail from Amanda Capstick.
But that was OK, it was early, he’d sent it to her office. No need to fret.
Yet.
There was no e-mail from Amanda at ten o’clock. Nor after lunch. Nor by five o’clock in the afternoon.
It had been stupid to send his.
Amanda was a tough, sensible young woman. She wasn’t going to be won over by cheap, soppy sentiments, they would just be a turn-off.
His last patient of the day was due at five fifteen. Quarter of an hour’s grace. He made a couple of notes in the file of the patient who had just left, then replaced it in the cabinet.
‘Georgia On My Mind’ was still playing over in his head. It wouldn’t quit. ‘
Amanda
On My Mind’.
The sweet smell of freshly mown grass was in the air. He yawned, swivelled his chair around to face his desk, then slouched forward, rested his head on his arms and closed his eyes. He let his mind sink back to last night – or earlier this morning.
She had looked stunning. A long, shiny, leopard-print jacket, silky black T-shirt, short black skirt, loose gold bracelet on her wrist. Her face was even lovelier than he had remembered and he tried to picture it again now but, oddly, could not assemble an entire clear image in his mind.
He could see her blue eyes sparkling with laughter. Her teeth white, even, but large, which made her mouth seem sensual, predatory, and he longed to kiss it. Her slender arms, the tiny crow’s feet around her eyes when she smiled, the flick of her head to toss back her hair, her scent. Calvin Klein. He’d seen the bottle in the bathroom.
How had her body language been?
She hadn’t thrown herself at him, that was for sure. But neither had she done anything distancing. She’d been neutral; kept to her space. Yet she had watched him constantly, and that was a positive sign. Her smiles had been warm and her laughter genuine and open.
But he felt he had learned little about her, at least about her love life, which was where he had been trying to
Or, he thought, with a sudden sharp twist of guilt,
kill themselves
.
Michael began to sidestep around him. ‘Can we talk about this later, Paul?’
Straddley did a clumsy shuffle so that he was blockingMichael’s path once more. ‘Um, how much later exactly, Michael?’
‘I don’t know. I have a busy day and I’m late for my ward round.’
‘Can you do lunch? The canteen?’
Michael nodded reluctantly, although he’d been hoping to pick up a sandwich and sit quietly by the river.
Straddley released him. Michael walked across the hall and up the grand balustraded staircase. The entrance hall was a huge space, filling most of the ground floor, with columns and a high, elaborately stuccoed ceiling; it had a grandiose air that seemed aloof to the imitation wood of the reception counter and the metal and plastic chairs arranged in the waiting area.
He took a quick walk round his in-patients, checking their charts and medications and asking how they were, then collected his list of appointments from Thelma.
At ten to nine his multi-disciplinary team of two nurses, a junior doctor, a psychologist and a social worker were crammed into his office for their twice-weekly review of his patients and departed shortly after nine ten.
His first patient hadn’t arrived yet. Good.
Before he had even taken off his jacket, he sat down at his computer and logged on. Twenty-eight new e-mails, mostly from other psychiatrists and psychologists with whom he shared ideas and problems. Another confirmed details of timing for a paper he was to present at a conference in Venice in September. And there was one from his brother Bob, in Seattle, the usual chatty stuff about his wife (Lori) and kids (Bobby Junior and Brittany) and had he seen Mum and Dad recently?
There was no e-mail from Amanda Capstick.
But that was OK, it was early, he’d sent it to her office. No need to fret.
Yet.
There was no e-mail from Amanda at ten o’clock. Nor after lunch. Nor by five o’clock in the afternoon.
It had been stupid to send his.
Amanda was a tough, sensible young woman. She wasn’t going to be won over by cheap, soppy sentiments, they would just be a turn-off.
His last patient of the day was due at five fifteen. Quarter of an hour’s grace. He made a couple of notes in the file of the patient who had just left, then replaced it in the cabinet.
‘Georgia On My Mind’ was still playing over in his head. It wouldn’t quit. ‘
Amanda
On My Mind’.
The sweet smell of freshly mown grass was in the air. He yawned, swivelled his chair around to face his desk, then slouched forward, rested his head on his arms and closed his eyes. He let his mind sink back to last night – or earlier this morning.
She had looked stunning. A long, shiny, leopard-print jacket, silky black T-shirt, short black skirt, loose gold bracelet on her wrist. Her face was even lovelier than he had remembered and he tried to picture it again now but, oddly, could not assemble an entire clear image in his mind.
He could see her blue eyes sparkling with laughter. Her teeth white, even, but large, which made her mouth seem sensual, predatory, and he longed to kiss it. Her slender arms, the tiny crow’s feet around her eyes when she smiled, the flick of her head to toss back her hair, her scent. Calvin Klein. He’d seen the bottle in the bathroom.
How had her body language been?
She hadn’t thrown herself at him, that was for sure. But neither had she done anything distancing. She’d been neutral; kept to her space. Yet she had watched him constantly, and that was a positive sign. Her smiles had been warm and her laughter genuine and open.
But he felt he had learned little about her, at least about her love life, which was where he had been trying to
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