Top-Notch Men!: In Her Boss's Special Care. Anne Fraser
restrained at the back of her head with a clip of some sort; loose tendrils were falling out around her small ears, and one long strand was over one of her rainforest green eyes. He watched as she tucked it behind her ear with her small slim fingers, her nails short but neat. Her face was faintly shadowed with residual tiredness but he knew if he looked in a mirror right now, his would look very much the same. Her mouth was soft and full, and her skin creamy white, as if she hadn’t seen much of Melbourne’s hot summer.
She looked like she worked hard and he felt a little uncomfortable with how he had spoken to her earlier. She had a good reputation among the staff, everyone spoke highly of her dedication to patients, but he couldn’t help feeling her project had all the potential to provoke criticism and crackpot commentary as the new ICTU was evaluated by those who had backed its funding and those who had lost out on their own funding as a result. From what he’d heard so far, her study was time-consuming, had little theoretical basis and it would be hard to show results. And he of all people knew how important results were. His parents’ situation was living proof of how the wrong results could change everything—for ever.
‘So …’Allegra said, moistening her lips as she searched for something to fill the silence. ‘How are you enjoying things so far at Melbourne Memorial?’
‘It’s a great facility,’ he answered, ‘the first of its kind in Australia. Having Trauma Reception on the same floor as ICU means that ICU staff are at close hand to be involved with trauma management. It’s a very innovative concept, even for a level-3 trauma centre.’
‘Yes, it makes a lot of sense. Less handing over of patients from one group to another, involvement of ICU staff right from the start of resus, and less movement of patients, too,’ Allegra agreed. ‘Wheeling patients twenty metres straight into ICU, instead of the old arrangement of up two floors and the opposite end of the hospital is a huge plus in itself.’
‘And having the two fully equipped operating theatres in Trauma Reception is real cutting edge,’ Joel said, ‘although some of the surgeons and theatre staff I’ve spoken to haven’t been too keen on it, actually. They don’t like splitting the staff and equipment between the main theatre and us.’
‘It can be disorientating, working in an unfamiliar theatre,’ Allegra pointed out, in the surgeons’ defense.
He held her gaze for a moment. ‘There are some good people here. But it’s a high-pressure job and I’m very conscious of being the new broom, so to speak.’
‘You really like your metaphors, don’t you?’
His smile was crooked. ‘I do, don’t I?’
Allegra found the friendly, more approachable side to him totally refreshing and wondered if he was trying to make up for the bad start they’d had. Without the stark backdrop of the hospital and without his white coat and tie, he looked like any other good-looking guy in his early to mid-thirties. His face was marked by fatigue but, looking around the bar, most of the hospital staff who were still here looked much the same. It came with the job. Chronic tiredness was a given, especially in ICU, where the shifts were long and the work intense.
‘I heard you’ve been working overseas,’ she said, toying with the straw in her empty glass.
Joel’s eyes went to her hands before returning to her face. ‘Would you like another drink?’
‘Um … why not?’ she said, deciding she was starting to enjoy herself for the first time in ages. ‘Vodka and lime.’
‘Coming up,’ he said, and got up to get their drinks.
He came back and, placing her drink in front of her, took his seat opposite. ‘Yes, I was overseas for a while.’ He returned to her earlier question, his expression clouding a fraction.
‘Where were you stationed?’
‘In the Middle East.’
‘That would have been tough, I imagine.’
He took a sip of his drink before answering. ‘Yeah, it was.’
Allegra could sense he didn’t want to talk about it in any detail and wondered if he’d been involved in any of the skirmishes that had seen countless people injured or maimed for life.
She took another sip of her drink and changed the subject. ‘Are you a Melbourne boy?’
‘Yep, born and bred. What about you?’
‘I’m a bit of a crossbreed, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘My father is originally from Sydney and my mother is a Melbourne girl. They both live here now but not together. I’ve spent equal amounts of time with them over the years.’
‘They’re divorced?’
‘They never married in the first place,’ she said. ‘But they’re the best of friends. They never went down that blame-game route. They’re what you might call … progressive.’
‘Progressive?’
‘They have a sort of open relationship. They don’t live together but whenever my mum needs a partner for some function or other, she takes my dad, and vice versa.’ She gave him a little embarrassed glance and added, ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if they still occasionally sleep together.’
‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘That’s pretty progressive.’
‘What about you?’ she asked, picking up her glass. ‘Are your parents still together?’
‘Yes, for something like thirty-five years.’
‘Do you have any brothers or sisters?’
His eyes moved away from hers as he reached for his glass, absently running the tips of two of his fingers through the beads of condensation around the sides. ‘I have a twin brother.’
There was something about his tone that alerted Allegra to an undercurrent of emotion. His expression was now shuttered, as if he regretted allowing the conversation to drift into such personal territory.
‘Are you identical?’ she ventured.
‘Yes and no.’
Allegra frowned at his noncommittal answer but before she could think of a response to it he met her eyes and asked, ‘What do your parents do for a living?’
‘My father’s a psychologist, who specialises in dream therapy, and my mother is a Tai Chi and yoga instructor.’
His eyebrows rose slightly. ‘No wonder you have a tendency towards the other-worldly.’
‘I would hardly call what I do that,’ she protested, with a reproving glance.
‘So what exactly is it you do?’ he asked, settling back into his seat once more.
‘You’ll only rubbish it so what would be the point?’
‘I promise to listen without comment,’ he said. ‘Look, right now we’re just two overworked, tired people in a bar, chatting over a drink, OK?’
She let out a tiny sigh after a moment’s hesitation. ‘All right.’ She took a little breath and briefly explained her theory of how human sensory touch could strongly trigger memories that might be integral to stimulating consciousness in a comatose patient. ‘There is evidence that skin sensation is wired up as our most primitive memory system, plugging more directly into primitive brain areas. If you think about your dreams, and record them after you wake up, the sensations you were experiencing just before you woke up are nearly always touch-related sensations. So—in this study, I encourage the relatives, particularly those who are most intimately involved with the patient, to touch them in predetermined ways. I teach them how to massage and touch their loved one in ways we think will trigger strong memories.’
Joel remained silent as she talked passionately about some of the trials she’d done, including one involving a post-heart-surgery coma patient.
‘It was striking,’ she