Karin didn’t reply, but glared at her half-shaven husband and retreated into the bathroom.
Giles picked up the latest copy of his speech from the bedside table and replaced Durham with Darlington.
“And how can the right honorable lady hope to understand—” he leaned down and crossed out “hop
e,” replacing it with “begin,” as the bathroom door opened.
“The minister of state just might remind the noble lord, that she fully understands, as she had the privilege of chairing one of the largest NHS hospitals in the country for seven years.”
“Whose side are you on?” demanded Giles.
“I won’t make up my mind until I’ve heard both sides of the argument,” said Karin. “Because so far, I’ve only listened to one side, several times.”
“Love, honor, and obey,” said Giles, returning to the bathroom to finish shaving.
“I didn’t promise to obey,” said Karin, just before the door was closed.
Karin sat on the end of the bed and began to read Giles’s speech. She had to admit, it wasn’t half bad. The bathroom door swung open and a fully shaven Giles reappeared.
“It’s time to discuss more pressing matters,” he said. “Where shall we go on holiday this year? I thought perhaps a few days in the South of France. We could stay at La Colombe d’Or, visit the Matisse museum, drive along the Corniche coast, even spend a weekend in Monte Carlo.”
“Berlin.”
“Berlin?” repeated Giles, sitting down beside her on the bed.
“Yes,” said Karin, sounding serious. “I have a feeling it won’t be long before that barbaric wall finally comes down. Thousands of my countrymen and women are standing on the Western side in silent protest every day, and I’d like to go and join them.”
“And so you shall,” said Giles, placing an arm around her shoulder. “I’ll give Walter Scheel a call as soon as I get to the office. If anyone knows what’s happening behind the scenes, it will be him.”
“I wonder where Emma will be going on holiday this year?” said Karin as she returned to the bathroom.
Giles waited for the door to shut before he said quietly, “The island of St. Helena, if I have anything to do with it.”
46
“I MUST CONFESS, Sir Harry, that I have never read any of your books,” said the Harley Street specialist, as he looked across the desk at his patient. “My colleague Mr. Lever, however, is an ardent fan. He was disappointed to hear that you’ve chosen to have an operation rather than a course of radiotherapy, which is his particular field of expertise. Can I begin by asking if that is still the case?”
“It most certainly is, Mr. Kirby. I’ve discussed it at length with my GP, Dr. Richards, and my wife, and they’re both of the opinion that I should opt for an operation.”
“Then my next question,” said Kirby, “and I think I already know the answer, is whether you would prefer to go private or have the operation done on the NHS?”
“On that particular decision,” said Harry, “I wasn’t given a lot of choice. If your wife has chaired an NHS hospital for seven years, and gone on to become a minister of health, I have a feeling going private would constitute grounds for divorce.”
“Then all we need to discuss is the timing. I’ve studied your test results and agree with your GP that while your PSA level remains around four to six percent, there is no need for alarm. But as it has been increasing steadily year by year, it might be wise not to hold off the operation for too much longer. With that in mind, I’d like to book you in for some time in the next six months. That will have the added bonus that no one will be able to suggest that you jumped the queue because of your connections.”
“Frankly, that would suit me as well. I’ve just completed the first draft of my latest novel, and I plan to hand in the manuscript to my publishers just before Christmas.”
“Then that’s one problem settled,” said Kirby, as he began to turn over several pages of a large desk diary. “Shall we say January eleventh at ten o’clock? And I suggest you clear your diary for the following three weeks.”
Harry made a note in his diary, placed three asterisks at the top of the page, and put a line through the rest of the month.
“I do most of my NHS work at Guy’s or St. Thomas’s,” Kirby continued. “I presume that as Tommy’s is just over Westminster Bridge from your home, it would be more convenient for you and your wife.”
“Indeed it would, thank you.”
“Now, there is one small complication that has arisen since your last consultation with Dr. Richards.” Kirby swung his chair around and faced a screen on the wall. “If you study this X-ray,” he said, pointing a thin pencil beam of light onto the screen, “you will observe that the cancer cells are currently confined to one small area. However, if you look more carefully,” he added, magnifying the image, “you will see that one or two of the little miscreants are attempting to escape. I intend to remove every one of them before they spread to other parts of your body, where they will be able to do far more damage. Although we have recently developed a cure for prostate cancer, the same cannot be said for the bones or liver, which is where these little blighters are heading.”
Harry nodded.