Page 37 of Jessica Beam is a Hot Mess
‘Love sounds, etcetera.’ He frowns and then stares pointedly at my cigarette on the floor, the last orange embers dying out to grey.
‘Gad. What is it now?’
‘You can’t just leave that there.’
‘Jeez. No swearing, no smoking, no leaving something on the floor for A TINY MINUTE. Who are you? The … Life Police?’
‘Um, no. But it’s littering. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but this is a really nice street. It should be kept that way.’
‘God, man.’ I pick up the cigarette with the tips of my fingers, mosey across the empty road to a racing-green litter bin and drop it in. I cross back over, indicate the now clear spot on the floor and put my hands on my hips. ‘Happy now?’
‘Yes, thank you. You’re keeping Britain tidy.’
I glare at him, willing him to leave me alone. I really would like to get back to my one-woman pity party on the stoop.
He fiddles with his white coat for a moment.
‘Would you, ah, would you like a wee cup of tea?’ he says eventually. ‘I could actually do with a break.’
He shuffles from one foot to the other and puts his hands in his pockets. The tips of his ears turn red.
Aaaah, I know that look. The doctor totally fancies me. Blue lacy top – works every time.
I squint at him. He’s quite cute-looking, I guess. Bit short, but nice glossy dark, curly hair and warm, long-lashed brown eyes. Nerdy. But really quite cute.
I suppose a little kissing might be a reasonable way to cheer me up, help me relax after the stress of the day.
‘You got any booze?’ I say.
He looks surprised. ‘Er … Doctor Qureshi is Muslim, so no. No booze.’
‘Fair enough. Tea will do.’
He nods brusquely and we go back into the lobby of the building. He opens up the door to the clinic and we walk in, past a posh waiting room with lots of big comfy-looking tub chairs and oil paintings of gross squelchy- hearts on the walls.
We enter a small dark room. The windows are flung open, and a light breeze makes the blinds turn from side to side so that they look as if they’re doing the twist. Along one wall are two hefty filing cabinets, and in the centre of the room is a desk covered in textbooks and papers with scientific diagrams of heart stuff on them. I hop onto the corner of the desk and dangle my legs down.
‘Is this your office then, Doc?’
‘It is.’
‘It’s teeny. How do you treat people in here? I can barely fit in. What if you have to treat a larger person? What if you have to treat a wrestler?’
‘I don’t actually treat patients on my own, so a cupboard-sized office isn’t a problem because nobody is in here but me. I’m a part-time assistant. Mostly admin, to be honest, but it looks good on my CV while I’m doing my specialist cardiothoracic training, and I get to be around a genius surgeon every day.
‘Why the white coat, then, if you’re just here to do admin?’
Jamie goes a little pink in the cheeks. ‘I’m still a doctor.’
‘Yeah, but you’re not doing any doctoring here.’
‘I, ah … I suppose I like how it looks,’ he admits with a self-conscious shrug before pouring bottled water into a small kettle.
I laugh. Jamie responds with an embarrassed chuckle.
‘So you’re going to be a heart surgeon too?’ I ask, as he pulls two mugs from his desk drawer. One of them is an NHS mug and the other has little pink hearts dotted all over it. Man, this guy loves hearts so much.
‘Yeah, that’s the plan.’
