u’ve had quite a long day today.”
“I’m fine, Miss Bradshaw,” replied Robert, not wishing for any fuss. He simply wanted to finish his timetable, take a shower, and relax in a reclining chair with a glass of Vida Nova.
“Well you don’t look it, if you don’t mind me saying.”
“And I thought I was the doctor. I must be training you too well.”
She smiled. “You know what I mean, Mr Sinclair. You work too hard and too long, and you need to take better care of yourself.”
He knew she meant well, but sometimes she was intolerable. Still, he put his briefcase on the floor and held her shoulders and smiled back. It didn’t hurt to be civil.
“And you fuss too much, Miss Bradshaw.”
“Well, if I don’t, who will? Now, have you had your lunch?”
It was pointless lying because she knew his daily routine to the minute.
“No, but...”
“Mr Sinclair, that’s unforgivable. I’ll prepare you something now.”
“Ah, ah,” he cut her off before she went too far. “It’s too late, Miss Bradshaw. I still have a lot of work to do, and two more patients to see.”
She was about to protest, but he held up a finger. “Please, not another word. My digestive system won’t take it. Afternoon tea with a couple of oat-based biscuits will be fine.”
From her expression, he knew she didn’t like it, but also knew better than to argue. He was pleased to see her retreat to the kitchen.
He picked up his briefcase and went into his study, where he calmly launched it into a chair at the other side of the room, then clenched his fists.
“Shit!” He was absolutely gutted by how fast Christine Close had deteriorated.
He dropped down into the chair behind the desk, and for one split second, could have swept his hands across the top of it and pushed everything to the floor, such was his anger. He hated to lose control of any situation; more importantly, he hated to lose a patient. But you couldn’t have one without the other.
Sinclair placed his elbows on his desk and rested his head in his hands.
Miss Bradshaw knocked and entered the study carrying a tray with herbal tea and oat biscuits, which she placed on the desk.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like anything else, Mr Sinclair?”
“No, thank you, that will be fine. What time are the Bonewells due?”
“Four-thirty.”
He glanced at his watch. “Perhaps you’d be kind enough to make them some tea, and explain I’ll be a few minutes late.”
“Of course.”
She turned to leave the study, but he called her back.
“Miss Bradshaw? If I could have my evening meal at seven o’clock precise, please?”
She nodded and left the room.
Sinclair’s thoughts returned to Christine Close. No matter how good a brain surgeon Iain Ross was, he could not save her. When Christine had first come to see Sinclair six months previous, she had been an NHS patient at St. James’s Hospital. Her symptoms had been severe headaches, nausea and vomiting, all for no reason she could think of.
Unhappy with two opinions, she had tried a completely different surgery altogether, and had even sought out herbal remedies and acupuncture, to no avail. Two months later the symptoms became much more severe, resulting in seizures and cranial nerve disorders.
Sinclair’s housekeeper, a close friend of Christine’s, had suggested she seek his professional opinion. He’d consulted with Ross and within twenty-four hours the neurosurgeon had diagnosed a high-grade glioma, for which there was no known cure.