“I’m proud of you, darling.”
I nod. She says it all the time, to all of her sons. She wouldn’t be half as proud if she knew how lax I’ve been about this new start.
I stand and move toward the door. The voices are getting louder. “Love you, Mum. I’ll call you later if I can.” I hang up and open the door. A clown carrying four helium balloons is demanding to see me.
Standard Thursday morning stuff.
“How can I help?” I ask, trying to stay neutral about the fact I’m addressing a literal clown.
“Are you Zach Cove?” He’s got a broad cockney accent and I can’t help but think that if this was a Harlan Coben thriller and I answered yes, he might pull out a gun and shoot me.
Here goes nothing. “Yes, I’m Dr. Cove.”
“Finally,” he says, exasperated.
“Congratulations. And celebrations.” He starts to sing the Cliff Richard hit my grandmother sang at every opportunity and now my mother sings instead.
What did I do to deserve this?
He’s holding four balloons. I hate all four of my brothers right now. I’m thinking this is Beau’s idea, and that Nathan paid.
I stand there, allowing the clown-guy to do what he’s been paid to do.
When he finishes, he looks at me and I look at him and then he hands me the four balloons—one for each of my siblings. They’re star-shaped in different colors. “He said you’d know who it was from.”
I nod and he shrugs before turning and leaving.
“Let’s have that meeting,” I say to Ellie, who’s sitting behind her desk, staring at the door where the clown just exited. We might as well get some prep done. I head back into my office, the balloons bobbing and creaking behind me.
“Just so I can prepare myself, is that likely to happen again?” she asks as she comes in holding a pad and a pen. She’s more attractive than I pictured her. She’s got long brown hair tied up in a ponytail and bits at the side hanging loose. It’s nice. Which is weird—not that her hair is weird. It’s just been a while since I noticed a woman’s hair.
“It’s difficult to say.” I’ve learned not to assume my brothers won’t do something idiotic. It always comes back to bite me. I let go of the balloons and they pool on the ceiling.
“Is it?” she asks.
“Prepare for the unexpected,” I say, like I’m some sort of sage Jedi master. I’m pretty sure there won’t be much of anything unexpected in this job.
“Okay. Would you prefer me to wear a suit?” She takes a seat opposite my desk. “Or did you have a uniform in mind? I’m flexible.”
I ignore the stirring in my trousers at the idea of her dressing as a French maid and doing flexible things in front of the window.
“Just dress smartly,” I reply. Everywhere I turn, I realize not only have I not done the preparation I should have for this new chapter of my career, I’ve not even thought about what that preparation is. “At this stage, no uniform.” Maybe further down the line, I would want my assistant in a uniform. Maybe not. I can’t think.
“First thing, let’s order some stationery.” I lift my chin at the whiteboard. “Whiteboard pens would be good.”
She draws her eyebrows together like she knows I clearly don’t have a clue what I’m doing, but she notes it down anyway.
“And I need some business cards and letterhead.” Anything else? “That kind of thing,” I add in case I missed anything obvious.
“Yes. What would you like them to say? Is your clinic going to have a name or is it just you?”
“Just me,” I say as if I’m sure. “Very simple branding.”
“I notice you don’t have a website. Is that something you’re looking to get up and running?” she asks. “I could do some research and maybe get a few quotes.”
“Yes. Good.” She’s one step ahead, which is reassuring and disconcerting at the same time.
“And you don’t have any patients booked in yet?”
I shake my head. “Today’s the first day. I need to get consultant recognition with the insurers. I won’t get many patients before that.”
She tilts her head to one side, revealing her long neck. “Hmmm, and you’re super attractive. Have you thought about getting a public relations firm, or a manager? You could do television work. You know, be the in-house doctor on one of those morning shows.”
She’s running at a thousand miles an hour and I haven’t even stood up yet. “I’m not interested in that kind of thing,” I say.
Did I hear her say I’m super attractive?
“Or do you know any celebrities?” she asks. “I’ve done a bit of PR here and there and I could contact some people I know and get you some coverage if you’re treating anyone famous.”
“I’d have to check,” I say, and I can’t help the sarcastic tone in my voice. “But I’m pretty sure I owe my patients a duty of confidentiality—famous or not.”
She laughs like I’m the one who’s saying something idiotic. “I wouldn’t give away names—just so we could tell people that you’re a ‘doctor to the stars.’ You know, something like that. But then if you’re not interested in the spotlight…”
“I’m not.”
She nods and taps her pen against the notepad. “Have you started the consultant recognition stuff?” she asks. “I could help you with it.”
“I’m—I think it’s best if you get the computer set up. And if you’re confident, maybe get some email addresses for each of us. Business cards and then a letter format that looks professional, I think that would be a good start.” At least I should understand what consultant recognition involves before I delegate it.
“No problem,” she says. “That will keep me busy for today. And of course I’ll order some stationery.”
I reach for my wallet. “You can take this credit card for expenses.”
“Excellent,” she says. “What about medical supplies. Do we need…gloves or anything?”
“The building supplies all that. Speak to Jen. I’m going to make some phone calls.” I have no one to call. But I could research consultant recognition. And I want to scribble down some ideas that I’ve had about the cozy mystery I’ve been writing for the last decade. It’s been a while since I’ve written anything substantial. I haven’t even tried to write anything for a couple of months, but given I don’t have any patients and I seem to have a competent assistant, for the first time in a long time, I have the opportunity to throw about some ideas. With or without whiteboard pens.
Three
Ellie
I dust flour onto the work surface and set down my pastry.
“You really don’t need to go to this much trouble,” Cynthia says from where she’s sitting on the barstool, glass of wine in hand, watching me and my pastry. “We could have had takeaway.”
I roll my eyes. As if I’m going to order takeaway. Not when I can cook. Cheese and onion tart is one hundred percent pure comfort food, and therefore soothing to cook, because it comes with the anticipation of feeling wrapped in a warm blanket when it’s ready. Not just any blanket, either—a blanket made of cheese.