Page 7 of The Night Shift
He nodded and turned his attention back to selecting the least stained mug he could find for himself, but a moment later the girl appeared back at the hatch.
‘Actually,’ she said, ‘I’ll have a tea. Please. White. No sugar. And can you not leave the teabag in for too long. Please. I like it borderline anaemic. Thank you.’
She seemed unsure of where to put herself now that she’d placed her very specific order, but her gaze was steady as she regarded him with those grey-green eyes. He’d been struck by the colour, that particular shade of soft rain, when he spoke to her after the resuscitation. It reminded him of country walks when the weather changed, mist settling over hilltops, breathing in the tiny droplets, feeling the moisture on your skin. Or maybe it wasn’t just the colour he’d noticed and more to do with how she had looked at him so directly, as if she knew his secrets. Feeling the weight of her scrutiny now, he dropped his own gaze, unable to avoid glancing over her as he did so. He could see the neckline of her scrub top was frayed at the edge, pulled to the left with the weight of the bleep attached to her upper pocket. It was possible to just make out a glimpse of creamy coloured fabric beneath the stiff green cotton, lying flat against her skin as it followed the curve of…Bloody hell, what was he thinking?He dragged his eyes away. Just because he’d had no action for the past few months was no excuse to perve on junior colleagues. He must have been missing female company more than he’d realised.
He risked a quick glance back up at her face, hoping she hadn’t seen him staring. Luckily, in those brief seconds she’d managed to knock over the sugar bowl and was now concentrating on sweeping the scattered grains into a pile with her fingertips. Her hands were pale and delicate, fine-boned with long tapered fingers. No rings. No adornment at all other than the dusting of sugar crystals.
‘Borderline anaemic,’ he said as he reached for another mug out of the cupboard. ‘Absolutely. It’s Violet, isn’t it?’ His voice was deliberately casual. ‘See? Only two hours later and I still remember. Told you I was good with names. Most of the time.’
‘Yes. And you’re Dr Gus Jovic– resuscitator of the frail.’ She smiled, revealing neat white teeth. Her eyes focussed back on him as she absent-mindedly licked the sugar off her fingertips.
He laughed, enjoying the moniker but also slightly discomforted by the sight of her fingers in her mouth, those neat teeth nibbling at the sticky sweetness of her skin. She evidently didn’t have a clue about the effect this simple action was having on him though. This girl was no practised seductress– he’d seen a few in his time. No, Violet still looked just as awkward as when she’d walked in. Which bizarrely made the whole thing much more erotic. Jesus. He really needed to get a grip.
‘I’m also the finest tea-maker this side of the Bristol Channel,’ he said, clearing his throat. ‘Go and sit down, I’ll bring it over.’
* * *
‘I’m just waiting for a bleep from HDU to go and speak to Mr Thirkettle’s family,’ Gus said as he joined her at the far end of the mess a moment later. ‘The chap who arrested– I think the daughter is heading straight over from Gloucester.’ He handed her a mug only marginally less chipped than his own. ‘Saved you the best cup,’ he said. ‘Is the tea weak enough for you? I made sure the bag had only a cursory glance at the water before I brutally whisked it away.’
She regarded the battered mug and its milky contents. ‘Mmmm, bandage beige,’ she said. ‘Excellent. You are indeed a master tea-maker.’ She glanced into his mug and shuddered. ‘Although I see you prefer a shade more, what would you call it? Summerhouse teak? Tannin gravy?’
‘Oh, I drink mine any old how.’ He didn’t tell her that his own tea had gone that colour because it had stewed while he made hers again from scratch, wanting to ensure it was just right.
‘Did you know that the British drink more than sixty billion cups of tea every year,’ Violet said, fixing him with her serious gaze.
‘I did not.’ Gus smiled to himself. ‘But I can’t say I’m surprised. I wonder what proportion of that tea-drinking occurs in hospital?’
Violet nodded and looked at him as if she found his question enormously interesting. ‘I wonder,’ she said. Gus had the feeling she might try and look it up later.
She balanced her mug on her knee and closed her eyes briefly, resting the back of her head against the sofa, her neck exposed. ‘God, this night feels endless.’
‘Only a few hours to go.’ Gus took a seat on the sofa at right angles with hers, realising that it would be a bit weird to perch right next to her when there was seating for thirty in the large echoing room. ‘And then we can all get some sleep.’
‘And come back for more this evening.’
‘It’s an odd way to spend the Christmas week, isn’t it,’ Gus conceded. ‘Guess you pulled the short straw, first year of house jobs and you get the festive night shifts.’
Violet’s expression became a little more guarded. He wasn’t sure why.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Just bad luck, I guess.’ She shifted awkwardly in her seat. ‘Same for you though, unless you’re just finishing?’
‘No, I’m starting the week, same as you,’ he said.
Violet nodded. ‘I thought you looked a bit fresh for someone who’s completed several nights in a row.’
He raised his eyebrows at her funny turn of phrase. ‘Fresh?’
‘Yes. Fresh. You know. Bright-eyed. Perky. Cheery. Like a Christmas elf.’
He scanned her face to see if she was making fun of him before he snorted a laugh into his tea. ‘O-kay,’ he said. ‘Well, I’ve been called worse than a Christmas elf, I guess. We’ll just have to see if I’m still perky and fresh by New Year.’
They sat for a while scrolling through their respective patient lists, with Gus occasionally questioning whether the silence was a comfortable one, and whether the obligation was on him to break it. It didn’t look as though Violet minded the lack of conversation but maybe she was starting to find it a bit awkward, maybe she thought he was some kind of mute weirdo. Unsurprisingly, he cracked a few moments later and picked up the bulky remote control from the table.
‘Any preference?’ he asked Violet, pointing it towards the large television in the corner. He had the distinct impression that she would tell him if she did have strong feelings about the programming.
Violet looked at her watch. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Three o’clock on Christmas morning. I’m not sure what’s likely to be on. Surprise me.’
‘Okay. Boo!’What? Why had he done that?
