—He didn’t fall straight down. He kept hitting the cliff-face and bouncing off it until – It seemed to go on for ever.
Natalie Drax sighed and tilted her whole face to me. Huge tears welled in her hazel eyes, and I couldn’t help myself: I stood up and walked around my desk to where she was sitting, and spread my arms wide in an offer of embrace.
She didn’t hesitate. She stood up, took a step towards me and collapsed against my chest. I shut my eyes and felt the relief wash over us both. She hugged me desperately, like a child clinging to its parent. I felt immense pity. And then – to my horror – the sudden, unmistakable nudge of sexual arousal. Followed by shame and anxiety, and the realisation that things were taking a wrong turn. In that moment as I held her against my confused heart, and felt the answering beat of hers, I became acutely conscious of the fine line that exists between doctorly compassion and unprofessional behaviour. And I knew that, for the first time in my career, I had crossed it.
What I didn’t know then was that there was no going back.
I am not a secretive man by nature, so I am bad at hiding things. And Sophie is a sharp little person who misses nothing. It may have been, once upon a time, one of the reasons I fell in love with her, but with the steady curdling of our marriage, it’s become problematic – to me, at least – that I am so transparent to her.
—Tell me about that new patient you were expecting, she says at breakfast the next morning. We are eating outside on the balcony. It’s oppressively hot, but the sky is overcast and a net of clouds hangs low on the horizon. As usual, she has a huge pile of books towering next to her, threatening to topple. Kierkegaard, John le Carré, Márquez, a volume of Proust, the new Alexandre Jardin, and L’Internet et Vous . She is an omnivore.
—He’s called Louis Drax. He’s nine years old and in PVS. Can you get me a book called Les Animaux: leur vie extraordinaire ? It’s one of his favourites, apparently; I’d like to read it to him.
—Is his mother with him? asks Sophie, pouring coffee.
—Madame Drax? Yes, of course she’s here. She’s his mother.
—Needy? She narrows her eyes, and I raise mine heavenward in annoyance.
—Moderately.
—Husband? she interrogates, adding sugar for herself and milk for me.
—Not here.
—Why not?
—Because he’s on the run from the law.
Satisfyingly, that seems to throw her. She fingers the Proust and looks across at the pine forest as though in search of her next question. I drink my coffee peacefully, until a seagull flaps on to the balcony in search of crumbs: I scoot it away with my newspaper.
—Well? Aren’t you going to tell me what he’s done?
Unhurried, I take another two sips. —It seems he tried to kill his son by flinging him off a cliff, I say.
There. That’s wiped the smile off her face. But not for long; she always bounces back speedily from small shocks.
—In the Auvergne? Think I read about it. There was a man-hunt.
—Which is still going on. We’ve had to step up security.
—So, she says, reaching for a croissant. —She’s a tragic single woman.
At which point I sigh, fold my newspaper, and get up.
—She simply needs my help, I snap.
—Otherwise known as your saviour complex.
That last remark – saviour complex – riled me horribly. Many times I had inwardly fumed at the idea – implicit in that phrase – that compassion is a form of weakness or perversion. Surely it’s the opposite? What kind of person can resist offering succour, when someone is silently begging for it?
But Sophie didn’t bring up the subject of our wedding anniversary again and later on even said, in an almost conciliatory way, that she’d get me a copy of
Natalie Drax sighed and tilted her whole face to me. Huge tears welled in her hazel eyes, and I couldn’t help myself: I stood up and walked around my desk to where she was sitting, and spread my arms wide in an offer of embrace.
She didn’t hesitate. She stood up, took a step towards me and collapsed against my chest. I shut my eyes and felt the relief wash over us both. She hugged me desperately, like a child clinging to its parent. I felt immense pity. And then – to my horror – the sudden, unmistakable nudge of sexual arousal. Followed by shame and anxiety, and the realisation that things were taking a wrong turn. In that moment as I held her against my confused heart, and felt the answering beat of hers, I became acutely conscious of the fine line that exists between doctorly compassion and unprofessional behaviour. And I knew that, for the first time in my career, I had crossed it.
What I didn’t know then was that there was no going back.
I am not a secretive man by nature, so I am bad at hiding things. And Sophie is a sharp little person who misses nothing. It may have been, once upon a time, one of the reasons I fell in love with her, but with the steady curdling of our marriage, it’s become problematic – to me, at least – that I am so transparent to her.
—Tell me about that new patient you were expecting, she says at breakfast the next morning. We are eating outside on the balcony. It’s oppressively hot, but the sky is overcast and a net of clouds hangs low on the horizon. As usual, she has a huge pile of books towering next to her, threatening to topple. Kierkegaard, John le Carré, Márquez, a volume of Proust, the new Alexandre Jardin, and L’Internet et Vous . She is an omnivore.
—He’s called Louis Drax. He’s nine years old and in PVS. Can you get me a book called Les Animaux: leur vie extraordinaire ? It’s one of his favourites, apparently; I’d like to read it to him.
—Is his mother with him? asks Sophie, pouring coffee.
—Madame Drax? Yes, of course she’s here. She’s his mother.
—Needy? She narrows her eyes, and I raise mine heavenward in annoyance.
—Moderately.
—Husband? she interrogates, adding sugar for herself and milk for me.
—Not here.
—Why not?
—Because he’s on the run from the law.
Satisfyingly, that seems to throw her. She fingers the Proust and looks across at the pine forest as though in search of her next question. I drink my coffee peacefully, until a seagull flaps on to the balcony in search of crumbs: I scoot it away with my newspaper.
—Well? Aren’t you going to tell me what he’s done?
Unhurried, I take another two sips. —It seems he tried to kill his son by flinging him off a cliff, I say.
There. That’s wiped the smile off her face. But not for long; she always bounces back speedily from small shocks.
—In the Auvergne? Think I read about it. There was a man-hunt.
—Which is still going on. We’ve had to step up security.
—So, she says, reaching for a croissant. —She’s a tragic single woman.
At which point I sigh, fold my newspaper, and get up.
—She simply needs my help, I snap.
—Otherwise known as your saviour complex.
That last remark – saviour complex – riled me horribly. Many times I had inwardly fumed at the idea – implicit in that phrase – that compassion is a form of weakness or perversion. Surely it’s the opposite? What kind of person can resist offering succour, when someone is silently begging for it?
But Sophie didn’t bring up the subject of our wedding anniversary again and later on even said, in an almost conciliatory way, that she’d get me a copy of
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