‘Dr Gullick?’
Aiden suddenly shoots up, excited, shifting himself into a position where he can see me but the woman at the door cannot see him. He is wide eyed and open mouthed. He eyeballs me.
‘Yes, that’s me,’ I say.
‘Could you please help me. It’s an emergency,’ she says.
‘Yes. Yes, of course,’ I say, swallowing hard and reaching for my black leather washbag. Here we go.
I told you. I am not a doctor. As you well know. But this does tend to happen from time to time.
WM – Phil – Desk by the door – Brown hair – Very singular – Open, friendly, maybe too friendly – Air con broken, sweaty, temperature unknown – 5’ 11”.
There’s a tall fern in a plain white porcelain pot in every corner of the room, you know the kind. Blackening bananas litter an enamelware fruit bowl. And people have started to sit on awkward seats that force you into a position somewhere between ‘riding a penny-farthing’ and ‘kneeling while being held at gunpoint’. It’s good for the back they say, but what you gain in posture you must lose in dignity. There’s no place like home. And this really is no place like home. They say that in twenty years’ time everyone will work from home. We’ll communicate with colleagues and clients purely through the net and companies will save millions on the office space. I’m counting the days.
I turn off my phone because it’s been ringing again today. I don’t want it interrupting me now. There was even a voicemail. And we both know who’s calling. Don’t we? But, no. I’m not ready to talk, yet. Take the hint. I spend most of my time at work talking on the phone. To people in far off countries. People I don’t know. And have no desire to. This is how it goes:
‘Could I ask how you found the seating arrangement during the conference?’
‘Was there enough seating in the relaxation areas?’
‘Interesting, what sort of seating would you like to see for the conference next year?’
‘OK. OK. Uh huh. Right. Did you… Ha ha. Oh, of course. Well, I… of course.’
Did you ever hear that rumour about office temperature? That an ancient office law comes into play during summer if your air con is broken? Which is probably more likely to be enacted if your windows don’t open. Apparently they worry in this place that if they did open everyone would spontaneously jump out. Opting for the sweet release of death rather than filling out another spreadsheet.
That rumour. About that law. That states that if someone is officious enough to take an official reading with an approved thermometer. And the mercury inside hits that magic number. You all get to go home on full pay? Yes? You’ve heard that one? Well, apparently, that rumour is complete bollocks. I’m so tired from everything that happened last night. I just want to sleep.
I know that rumour is bollocks. Because Phil, who has the desk by the door, has just attempted to invoke this medieval law. He used a thermometer he oddly happens to have in his drawer. He’s that kind of guy. Then he went to confront our line manager with his findings. He did all this because I asked him to. He’s the only one I speak to. The only guy in the office that seems even vaguely interesting. The only one who shows any sign of a possible personality, now Lena and Rob have moved on to better things.
In a moment of desperation I Skyped him a cry for help. It was a nice moment. It went like this:
Gull1978: Get me out of here.
KentishPhil: Why?
Gull1978: I’m sweating. Even my sweat is sweating. It’s like I’m bathing while I sit here.
KentishPhil: Graphic. You look tired.
Gull1978: Thanks. Couldn’t sleep last night. Again.
KentishPhil: I understand.
Gull1978: Get me out of here. I’m serious!!!!!
KentishPhil: OK. Have a plan.
Then he tried it. He reached for his thermometer. Took a reading. Then very skilfully and with the utmost charm took the findings to Deborah, in a valiant attempt to bust us all out of here. Deborah laughed, said: ‘That isn’t really a thing. I’ve literally never heard of that rule. Sorry to disappoint you all.’
We all laughed it off and secretly seethed. She patted him on the shoulder. And asked him if she can get the Friday report by Thursday.
‘If you were to design a perfect conference for cardiologists, what would it look like?’
‘Well, just, say anything you like.’
‘Really?’
‘Lots more toilets. OK.’
‘Hotel provision closer to conference centre, good.’
‘Free hot dogs? Ok. Ha ha. Very funny. No, you never know.’
‘How about a water slide? No, just joking there.’
‘No, I know that wouldn’t be appropriate.’
‘Yes, I know heart disease is Britain’s biggest killer.’
‘Yes, I do know that.’
‘Sorry.’
From out of the window I see a plane go by that could be headed anywhere. The sky is so blue. The plane cuts through it at tremendous speed. Everyone in it has a comfortable seat and someone is bringing them coffee and a decent enough meal. They are heading to Barbados, or Tenerife, or Ibiza, or Honduras, or Tuscany, or Agadir, or Cephalonia.
I think about that Missing poster again. It flashes into my mind occasionally.
I look down at my trainers. I’ve still got blood on them from last night.
WF – Me, Lily – In an apartment at night – Light brown hair – Married, but utterly singular – In the mirror – Could be a doctor, in another life – 5’ 7”.
To cut a long story short sometimes our Internet goes down. We had to call out a local guy in the end because our provider takes so long to actually send someone to fix it themselves. Our guy says there aren’t quite enough sockets in the building for everyone. So every so often someone’s Internet guy changes around the sockets, pulling one out at random so there is a free socket for whoever is paying them that day.
It’s like there were three in the bed and the little one said roll over, so they all rolled over and one fell out. Maybe that’s not a good analogy. There are twenty-two flats and twenty-one phone ports, so it’s like musical chairs, let’s put it like that. At any one time, someone in the building doesn’t have a phone or Internet connection. And you can’t even get a mobile signal round here because we’re too close to the water, apparently. They can’t get a transmitter close enough or something. So you have to boost your phone signal using an app and your Internet connection. So if you don’t have the net you haven’t really got anything. You’re stranded.
So our guy, nice guy, Dexter, big guy. He has the idea of putting a sticker on our port that reads ‘doctor on call’. He’s done it before he says. It works.
The first time we got a knock on the door was four months ago, 4 a.m.
‘Please, the concierge