Kate Hardy - Her Celebrity Surgeon

‘Soph, hang on. You’re being a bit—’

‘No, I’m absolutely right,’ she cut in. ‘They’ve gone for something that will bring some press coverage for the hospital, instead of thinking about what’s right for the patients. And that stinks.’ She frowned again. ‘Baron Radley…Isn’t he the one in all the gossip mags?’ The ones her mum read. Now she remembered where she’d heard the name. Celebrity Life. Baron Radley had been photographed with just about every eligible woman in London—every woman with a title or who looked like a supermodel. There was a different woman on his arm every time he went somewhere. She shook her head in disbelief. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, what does the board think they’re doing? We ought to—’

‘Leave it, Soph,’ Guy warned. ‘Like you said, there’ll be other chances. None of us can expect to get every job we go for.’

‘But it’s wrong. It’s morally wrong that they’ve picked someone with a title instead of someone who can do the job.’

‘He might be a good surgeon. And there’s nothing we can do about it anyway.’

She sighed, knowing that he was right. ‘At least, working in general surgery, we won’t have to have much to do with him,’ she said.

‘Let’s just forget about it, yeah?’ Guy asked.

She nodded as their curry arrived, but the knot of tension at the back of her neck was starting to tighten again. How old was their new director of surgery exactly? Had he been one of the gang who…?

She wasn’t going to think about them. It had been years ago. If she let the memories hold her back, they’d win. And she was damned sure they weren’t going to grind her into the dust again. The chances were, R. C. Radley hadn’t been one of them anyway. He was probably Guy’s age, in his mid-to-late thirties—he’d probably finished med school before Sophie had even finished her A-levels. She certainly couldn’t remember being at med school with anybody called Radley. And if he was older than she was, it was unlikely he’d been part of their social set either.

They kept the conversation on more neutral topics for the rest of the meal—avoiding hospital politics—but as they left the restaurant Sophie realised with dismay that Guy must have drunk several glasses of wine while he’d been waiting for her to turn up, as well as several beers during their meal. Not only was he slightly unsteady on his feet but, when Sophie steadied his arm, he put his arms round her and tried to kiss her.

Sophie turned her face away so his lips landed wetly on her cheek. ‘Come on, Guy. I’ll call a cab to get you home.’

‘Come home with me, Soph.’

‘Not a good idea. You’d regret it in the morning.’

He smiled. ‘Waking up to a gorgeous girl like you? No.’

She shook her head. ‘Guy, it’s the drink talking. I’m your mate, not your girlfriend. You used to be my boss, remember?’

‘Not since you got promoted and moved over to Andy’s team.’

Mmm, and she couldn’t use the ‘we can’t mix work and a relationship’ argument if she wanted to get him together with Abby—not when he was Abby’s boss! ‘I’m focusing on my career, Guy,’ she said gently yet firmly.

‘And because I didn’t get the job, you’re not interested?’

She narrowed her eyes. ‘If I didn’t think you’re drunk and don’t really know what you’re saying, I’d slap your face for that. I don’t sleep my way up the ladder, Guy. In fact, I don’t do relationships at all, and you know that—my career comes first, last and always. We’re friends, and I’d like to keep it that way.’

‘Maybe I’d like more.’

The voices grated in her head again. And I’m going to take it.

She forced the memory back where it belonged. ‘Not with me, you wouldn’t. Guy, you’re a nice bloke, but I’m not interested in anything more than friendship from you. From anyone.’ She sighed. ‘I’m beginning to think you’re as shortsighted as the board.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning that there are other women in our department. Women who might like you and be interested in having a relationship with you.’

‘Like who?’

‘I’m not telling you when you’re drunk! Ask me when you’re sober, and I might give you a clue.’

‘Soph, you’re a tease.’

And teases get what they ask for.

Again, she pushed the words away. ‘Guy, just shut up and get in the taxi.’ She bundled him into the back of the black cab she’d managed to hail, closed the door, gave Guy’s address to the cabbie and paid him to take Guy home. Then she walked back to her own flat, made herself a strong cup of coffee and sifted through her post. Junk mail, more junk mail, a bank statement and a postcard from Sandy in Tokyo.

Sometimes she wished she’d had the nerve to do what her friend Sandy had done and taken a year out to travel. She could have rented her flat out for a year and gone round the world with Sandy. Had adventures. But, no, she’d been too staid and sensible. Surgical jobs weren’t as easy to come by as emergency department jobs, so she’d declined Sandy’s offer.

Did that make her boring? Maybe. But she’d worked hard to get as far as she had. Taking a year out would have set her back too much. She’d done the right thing.

Her mum had also popped round, found Sophie was out and had scribbled a note on the front cover of her favourite gossip magazine. Missed you. Call me. Sophie grinned. Typical. She’d even written her duty on her mother’s kitchen calendar, so her mum would know know exactly when Sophie was likely to be at home—and Fran completely ignored it. Scatty didn’t even begin to describe her. And Sophie adored her for it.

Idly, she sipped her coffee and flicked through the magazine. She really didn’t understand what her mum saw in this kind of stuff. Who cared where celebs went or what their houses looked like?

Then a name leapt out at her.

Charlie, Baron Radley.

She stared at the photograph. He was dressed up to the nines—expensive dinner jacket, dress shirt, bow-tie. Tall, dark and handsome—and he looked as if he knew it, too. A woman in a little black dress—a dress she must have been poured into, and she was dripping in diamonds as well—was hanging off his arm. Her blonde hair was cut fashionably, her make-up was flawless and they really looked like the ultimate ‘golden couple’.

The caption beneath, gushing about his fabulous wealth and his partner’s equally fabulous modelling successes, didn’t make Sophie feel any better about it. If anything, it convinced her even more that the board had made a terrible mistake. This man—one of the jet set, who went to all the best parties, probably only ever drank champagne and, for all she knew, might join the rest of his crowd in snorting the odd line of coke—was going to be the new director of surgery at the Hampstead General.

‘This,’ she predicted grimly, ‘is going to end in tears.’

‘SAMMY and I can’t wait any longer,’ Sophie said. ‘We’ve got a patient prepped for Theatre and a huge list to get through.’ It was all very well R.C. Baron Radley wanting to meet the team—but, if he couldn’t even be bothered to turn up on time, why should their patients have to suffer?

‘Sophie, don’t you think you ought to give him another five minutes?’ Abby said. ‘I mean, Andy’s off duty so you’re the most senior one here from your firm. He’s probably with one of the big cheeses—you know what they’re like when they start talking. Give him five more minutes.’

Sophie shook her head. ‘My patients come first. And if that gives me a black mark in Baron Radley’s book, tough.’ She curled her lip. ‘I’m a doctor, not a serf who needs to bow down to the nobility.’