minutes ahead of you.'
'Ah,' he said, chewing on the end of his pen, trying hard to retain his previous line of thought regarding the patient on whom he was writing up notes.
'It's all very civilized,' the woman went on cheerily. 'We've arranged these things before. If, by some remote chance, you don't like each other much, you just have a very good meal together, prepaid by the hospital, then you simply say goodbye.'
'I see,' he said woodenly. 'You make it sound as though that possibility would be very remote.'
'Oh, it would be,' she said, obviously trying hard to ignore his lack of enthusiasm. 'If you could give me a day, Dr Sotheby, I'll set the wheels in motion. Many people find a Friday night best.'
'How about the Friday after next?' he said. 'I'm not on call. About half past seven?' Damnation! he thought irritably. Between now and then he would think of some way of getting out of it, if he possibly could, without seeming too boorish. At the same time, he wanted to keep a profile at the hospital of being a good, all-round sort of guy.
'Precisely half past seven,' the woman said. 'Right! We'll set it all up for you Dr Sotheby, then I'll call you when it's all in place. We'll also call the day before to remind you.'
'Er...thank you,' he said. What he didn't need was a blind date, he thought once again as he replaced the receiver—not when he had Dawn, among others. For a few seconds he allowed his mind to dwell on images of her on the floor, with her sleek blonde head resting below him on the black mink. Not that Dawn was entirely satisfactory. He wanted more personality, intellect or something... He strongly suspected that her interest in him was largely calculated.
But what did it matter really? he asked himself irritably. It wasn't as though he wanted to marry any of them. Dawn wanted him physically. She liked to be seen with him in social settings, and that was great— a large part of the attraction. Maybe when he was in his early forties, part way through his stint as Chief of Surgery, he would think about marrying and having children. Plenty of time for that.
He stretched his long legs out under the desk, leant back in his chair and put his hands behind his head, closing his eyes for a few moments. God, he was tired! Time for a vacation. He'd tentatively planned a couple of weeks at the end of August away at his country cottage at Random Lake. As he saw in his mind's eye the blue-grey shimmery water of the lake he also found himself imagining a woman there, the sort of woman he might one day marry.. .if he ever did...with two or three little children around her, clutching at her dress.
Hell! He sat forward abruptly. The image had been vague, shimmery like the water of the lake, wrapped in an early morning summer mist.. .yet it was as though that image had conjured itself up from something very real, almost like something remembered. Yet he had never had it before. Clay shook his head, as though clearing away mental cobwebs, then turned his attention to the task at hand. Maybe he was getting mushy in his creeping old age.
* * *
When Wednesday dawned, an operating day, it was almost with a sense of relief that Clay was once again to do what he loved to do, what he was skilled at. As he parked his car at seven o'clock in the multi-storey parking lot opposite the hospital and strode out in the morning sun, it felt good to be alive. As usual, he would go to see the patients he was to operate on that day.
A few nurses and office women in the main lobby of the surgical building stared at him as he strode by in his stone-coloured cotton pants and white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, open at the neck. 'Morning, Dr Sotheby,' they chorused.
'Hi...morning.' He grinned and waved to all and sundry, making for the elevators, giving a special wink and wave to Dr Eva Clarkson, a young colleague and urologist, who had appeared from one of the corridors leading off the lobby.
'Long time no see,' he called to Eva. At
'Ah,' he said, chewing on the end of his pen, trying hard to retain his previous line of thought regarding the patient on whom he was writing up notes.
'It's all very civilized,' the woman went on cheerily. 'We've arranged these things before. If, by some remote chance, you don't like each other much, you just have a very good meal together, prepaid by the hospital, then you simply say goodbye.'
'I see,' he said woodenly. 'You make it sound as though that possibility would be very remote.'
'Oh, it would be,' she said, obviously trying hard to ignore his lack of enthusiasm. 'If you could give me a day, Dr Sotheby, I'll set the wheels in motion. Many people find a Friday night best.'
'How about the Friday after next?' he said. 'I'm not on call. About half past seven?' Damnation! he thought irritably. Between now and then he would think of some way of getting out of it, if he possibly could, without seeming too boorish. At the same time, he wanted to keep a profile at the hospital of being a good, all-round sort of guy.
'Precisely half past seven,' the woman said. 'Right! We'll set it all up for you Dr Sotheby, then I'll call you when it's all in place. We'll also call the day before to remind you.'
'Er...thank you,' he said. What he didn't need was a blind date, he thought once again as he replaced the receiver—not when he had Dawn, among others. For a few seconds he allowed his mind to dwell on images of her on the floor, with her sleek blonde head resting below him on the black mink. Not that Dawn was entirely satisfactory. He wanted more personality, intellect or something... He strongly suspected that her interest in him was largely calculated.
But what did it matter really? he asked himself irritably. It wasn't as though he wanted to marry any of them. Dawn wanted him physically. She liked to be seen with him in social settings, and that was great— a large part of the attraction. Maybe when he was in his early forties, part way through his stint as Chief of Surgery, he would think about marrying and having children. Plenty of time for that.
He stretched his long legs out under the desk, leant back in his chair and put his hands behind his head, closing his eyes for a few moments. God, he was tired! Time for a vacation. He'd tentatively planned a couple of weeks at the end of August away at his country cottage at Random Lake. As he saw in his mind's eye the blue-grey shimmery water of the lake he also found himself imagining a woman there, the sort of woman he might one day marry.. .if he ever did...with two or three little children around her, clutching at her dress.
Hell! He sat forward abruptly. The image had been vague, shimmery like the water of the lake, wrapped in an early morning summer mist.. .yet it was as though that image had conjured itself up from something very real, almost like something remembered. Yet he had never had it before. Clay shook his head, as though clearing away mental cobwebs, then turned his attention to the task at hand. Maybe he was getting mushy in his creeping old age.
* * *
When Wednesday dawned, an operating day, it was almost with a sense of relief that Clay was once again to do what he loved to do, what he was skilled at. As he parked his car at seven o'clock in the multi-storey parking lot opposite the hospital and strode out in the morning sun, it felt good to be alive. As usual, he would go to see the patients he was to operate on that day.
A few nurses and office women in the main lobby of the surgical building stared at him as he strode by in his stone-coloured cotton pants and white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, open at the neck. 'Morning, Dr Sotheby,' they chorused.
'Hi...morning.' He grinned and waved to all and sundry, making for the elevators, giving a special wink and wave to Dr Eva Clarkson, a young colleague and urologist, who had appeared from one of the corridors leading off the lobby.
'Long time no see,' he called to Eva. At
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