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)
“How is it out there? It looks thick but it’s difficult to tell with the lights of the kitchen on.”
“It’s a few inches thick. But it’s coming down fast and the wind is wild.”
She laughs. “Why on earth did you choose the Scottish islands in November?”
I smile, not at my ridiculous choice, but at her. She’s gorgeous. Now I’ve reassured her I’m not angry, she’s lighter than before. Happy looks good on her.
“I have to say, this is the best moussaka I’ve ever eaten.” I point my fork down at my plate. It’s comforting home cooking and doesn’t pretend to be anything else, but it’s the perfect combination of cheesy and spicy and sweet. “It’s incredible. You have such a talent.”
She blushes and waves her hand away, like she doesn’t believe I’m telling the truth. “Thank you. But care to fill me in on why I’m cooking in the actual middle of nowhere?”
“It’s my cousin’s place. I needed somewhere at short notice and…he’s never even been here. He won the place in a bet.”
“What?” she shrieks, her eyes wide like someone just told her she won a house. “Who wins a house in a bet?”
“He’s American. He’s in this regular poker game and…I don’t know, I guess someone ran out of cash.”
“It’s pretty and everything, but if he’s never going to come here, why on earth doesn’t he sell it?”
“I think he likes to tell people he’s got a place in Scotland and have them assume it’s a castle.” I don’t know if that’s true. I’ve just said it to make her laugh. It’s the best sound.
“Well, it’s definitely not. But in summer I bet it’s beautiful. Or spring. Autumn even.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. “Yeah, just not the dead of winter. But it’s serving its purpose. I’m getting my work done.”
She takes a forkful of aubergine and nods.
My work. The work I’ve lied to her about because it’s writing, and there’s nothing remotely medical about it.
“I’m not doing medical research,” I say.
She meets my gaze but doesn’t say anything.
I exhale, put down my fork, and lean back in my chair. What have I got to lose by coming clean with her? Yes, she’s going to know there’s possibly not going to be a permanent job with me, but she’s chasing a different dream anyway, and if necessary, I’m sure we can put our heads together and find another role for her somewhere else. Even if she only glanced at my papers, she’ll know it’s not medical research. I’m not really telling her anything she doesn’t know.
“I’m editing a book,” I say. “Specifically, my book.” I tell her about Mrs. Fletcher and how she’s about to retire, how she wants my book to be the last thing she sells. “Maybe nothing will come of it, but when an opportunity like that comes along, I just felt like I had to grab it with both hands.”
“So you’re a writer,” she says. “Not a doctor.”
My heart thunders in my chest. Not a doctor. The words hit me like I’ve walked into a plate glass window.
I’ve only ever known myself as a doctor.
Medicine has been currency in my family for as long as I can remember, and far before any of us went to medical school. As we grew up, the shelves in my parents’ study were filled up with awards and trophies and certificates. Everything and everyone of significance in my childhood was about medicine. I’d hear my father taking animatedly about a breakthrough in his research, during the periods where he wasn’t practicing clinical medicine. My mother would come home elated or defeated, depending on how her surgeries had gone that day. Promotions were celebrated over dinner, the pros and cons of various treatments discussed over breakfast. Medicine was the air we all breathed, the language we spoke, the world we knew and understood.
If I’m not a doctor, where is my place in the world?
Of course Nathan figured it out, but not without bumps along the way. It helps that he’s borderline famous, fantastically rich, and one of the most powerful men in finance. Nathan built himself a fortress inside the family, emerging as and when he wants on his own terms.
I am fortress-free.
“I’m not sure what I am,” I say. “I know I don’t love medicine. Not like you’re supposed to.”
“Supposed to?” she asks. “Is that a job requirement?”
“I told you all my family are doctors or surgeons. They love it. They’re passionate about it. The only thing I’ve ever been passionate about is writing.”
“And this is your chance to make writing into…”
“I’ve not thought that far ahead. I mean, the plan is still to have a private practice twice a week, try and ignite some kind of spark for medicine that’s never been there.”
“And you think a private practice is going to help that? How?”