Page 2 of Only for Christmas

Marching up the ramp, she pulled open the door, making a point of having to step backwards out of the way, before disappearing inside and letting the door swing shut behind her. Sometimes a dramatic exit was called for. And this was one such occasion.

She could well imagine the unsavoury names Knob the Builder was mouthing at her departing back. They were no worse than what she privately called him. She was past worrying about what other people thought. Gaining a man’s approval was not something to aspire to; making a success of her job was far more important. Sometimes that meant making tough decisions.

As she headed through the open-plan canteen, with its contemporary white furniture and jade accents, it was easy to forget she was working in a hospital. That was the private sector for you. Anything messy or treatment-related was hidden from view. The board of directors wanted their ‘guests’ to feel like they were in a plush hotel, with five-star cuisine, and concierge service. The staff wore navy uniforms, with a jade tie for the men and a neckerchief for the women; shoes had to be black, shirts a crisp white, and minimal make-up and jewellery. It was all very classy, tasteful, and a far cry from her days working in the NHS, where the focus had been on how to deal with the onslaught of patients filling the waiting rooms, rather than the need for toilet roll edges to be folded into an exact point. She’d nearly fallen off her chair the first time she’d seen that as an agenda item at their monthly management meetings. Talk about contrasting priorities.

As she approached her office, she could see her team had packed up for the day. Unsurprising. That was another thing about the private sector: no one worked overtime. There was no need. Operations were scheduled, clinics ran during office hours, and the consultants fitted in their sessions around playing golf and attending lavish lunches. It was amazing how calm a medical environment could be when you didn’t have to deal with heart attacks, car crashes, or a man inserting a vacuum cleaner pipe up his backside. It was an X-ray image that would haunt her eternally.

Deciding she’d had enough for the day, she collected her coat and bag from her office and was just about to switch off the light, when she noticed a well-dressed man smiling at her from the doorway.

‘I was hoping to catch you before you leave; I wanted to introduce myself. Stephen Stokes.’ He extended his hand with a confidence that matched his potent aftershave. ‘New medical director.’

Ah, the rumours were true, it seemed. ‘Welcome to the Queen Adelaide Hospital,’ she said, shaking his warm hand. ‘How was your first day?’

‘Good, thanks. It seems like a well-run place.’ He was handsome, she’d give him that. His brown eyes were so dark they looked almost black, which might have been appealing, if they hadn’t lingered ever so slightly on her breasts as he checked her out. ‘I have some questions about staff contracts I’d like to discuss with you.’

Sarah withdrew her hand. Making instant judgements about people wasn’t her thing, but she’d met enough senior managers in her time to know which ones were modern-thinking, respectful and decent, and those whose attitudes dated back to the 1950s. Sadly, this man, dressed in his sharp Savile Row suit, with his fashionably styled haircut, suggested the latter.

The best way to deal with men like Stephen Stokes was to set clear boundaries.

‘As you can see, I’m on my way out, but feel free to contact my colleague Georgia, and set up an introductory meeting. My diary is pretty clear next week. We can discuss the contracts then and any other issues you’d like to raise.’

He gave a slow nod, as if vaguely amused by her dismissal of him. ‘I’m not one for formal meetings; I prefer the more casual approach. Do you have time for a quick drink? I hear there’s a great wine bar on the Fulham Road.’

She hooked the strap of her bag over her head. ‘I’m afraid not.’

‘Another time, maybe?’

‘Maybe.’ Eager to escape, she moved towards the door, swerving around him when he refused to move out of her way. ‘I prefer to conduct work meetings on the hospital premises and during office hours,’ she said, praying one of the cleaners would miraculously appear and save her.

‘Ah, a woman who knows her mind. I can respect that.’ A response that might have been more reassuring if his arm hadn’t brushed against her breast as he moved past. ‘I’ll ask my secretary to set up a meeting. Have a great night,’ he said, sauntering off.

Waiting until she was sure he’d left, she locked her office door and almost ran for the exit. Her first assessment of Stephen Stokes wasn’t a great one. It might turn out to be a mild case of sexism, rather than full-on misogyny, but anyone who still referred to the role of personal assistant as ‘secretary’ clearly wasn’t going to be joining the hospital’s Equality, Diversity and Inclusion panel any time soon.

Shivering from equal parts disdain and cold weather, she skipped across the hospital forecourt, slowing to a reasonable pace when she was sure she wasn’t being followed. Paranoia wasn’t a welcome characteristic, and neither was constantly suspecting the worst from people. But that was what happened when life had let you down. More specifically, men. Or rather, one man in particular.

Breathing in a blast of cold air, she headed away from the hospital towards Putney Bridge, admiring the way the dark December night was lit up by an array of coloured lights. Most of the shops already had their festive decorations up, a cascade of flashing fairy lights that twinkled away as she walked down the street, shivering beneath her padded coat.

Above her, a set of stars twinkled brightly, glowing and cheerful, making her fellow pedestrians gaze up and smile in awe. Sarah kept her eyes down. It would take more than a few sparkling lights to ease her aversion towards anything Christmassy, which was a shame, as she used to enjoy the festive period.

Christmases at her childhood home in Cheam, Surrey, had been fun. Nothing elaborate or expensive, just time spent with family playing games, opening stocking presents, and pretending to enjoy the huge turkey dinner her mum would inevitably ruin and then get flustered over, before resorting to cooking oven chips, and vowing never to repeat the experience the following year. The memories made her smile.

Her parents had relocated to Devon following their retirement, and her brother was married with kids of his own, so Christmases in her twenties had been disjointed affairs, screeching to an abrupt halt five years ago when her life had imploded and killed any desire to celebrate ‘the most wonderful time of the year’. She’d avoided it ever since, turning down invitations and spending the day alone in her pyjamas eating cheesy beans on toast. And that’s exactly how she liked it. She’d rather stick pins in her eyes than join in with the festivities.

As much as she hated the festive lights, seeing Putney Bridge illuminated against the purply-black sky was another experience entirely. It was a view she’d never tire of. Warm white lights ran the length of the bridge, bleeding onto the Thames, making a gentle rippling effect as the water ebbed and flowed below. Ornate Victorian street lanterns lined the length of the bridge, their brass carvings from centuries past and beautifully eccentric. You didn’t see street lights like that on modern roads.

She was so busy admiring the lanterns, she almost didn’t see the bundle of matted fur curled against the bridge wall. Only a small yelp caused her to glance down, otherwise she might have walked straight by. Huddled against the brickwork was a dog. The poor thing was shivering and quietly whimpering. Turning full circle, she couldn’t see any signs of an owner. Cars sped by, along with a few red double-decker buses, but there were no other pedestrians in sight.

‘Hey there, fella.’ She crouched down. She had no idea if he was a ‘he’, but he looked male. Maybe it was the bushy eyebrows, or the large doleful eyes, pleading with her to take pity on him. It seemed cruel to punish a dog for the behaviour of all males. After all, he could be the exception.

She edged closer. ‘What’s your name, eh?’ He recoiled when she extended her hand, trying to see if he was wearing a collar. His matted fur and sorrowful state indicated that if he did have an owner, they hadn’t looked after him very well. She was just wondering whether to call the RSPCA, when he scurried forwards and rested his head on her knee. He looked up at her as if he’d decided she could be trusted.

Sighing, she patted his head. ‘Well, I can’t just leave you here, can I?’

When he appeared to shake his head, she blinked, before deciding it must have been a trick of the light. He was a dog. Dogs didn’t speak human.

Removing her coat, she wrapped it around him and picked him up, struggling under his weight. ‘You’re heavier than you look. Someone’s been feeding you, but not for a while, I’m guessing.’

He snuggled into her arms. Talk about manipulative. She’d been here before, succumbing to a male who toyed with her affections. She needed to stay strong.

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