Page 22 of The One Day You Were My Husband
“Ten. I’d been teaching myself medicine for a while by then.”
Johan let out a cloud of breath. “Did they call your parents?”
“Yes.”
“And what did they say?”
“Mum found it funny. Dad tried to convince himself I was just a keen medic in waiting, although I think he was worried. But he got busy throwing Mum out of the house and divorcing her soon after. I think he forgot.”
“Oh. That’s not so funny.”
“It wasn’t.”
“So your Dad brought you up on his own?”
“From the age of ten, yes.”
He nodded thoughtfully but didn’t push me further. “My name is Johan,” he said after a pause.
“I know. I’m Carrie.”
He laughed. He seemed to be someone who did a lot of laughing. “I know. Doctor Carrie Cole.” He leaned over and picked up my lanyard, smiling. My ID facial expressions, Maya always said, were only just the right side of frightening.
“Severe,” Johan said, carefully replacing it without touching me.
“Very severe. As you saw with that poor policeman.”
“Oh, he was an asshole. But I don’t think that was normal Doctor Carrie I was watching then. It felt like the supermax version.”
“I…I hope so.”
“She was great! If I was dying and everyone had abandoned me, I’d want that version of Doctor Carrie striding in with her defibrillator, or whatever you’re using in an emergency. Either way, I’d want you.”
In spite of what Maya believed, Ihadactually had a proper boyfriend at med school. It had even progressed far enough for him to introduce me to his parents, but I’d ended it soon after. He wanted to be a neurologist. They’re full of abstract ideas and theories, neurologists. Surgeons, on the other hand, are precision craftspeople, trained very specifically to go in and fix things. We would never have worked out.
By and large, my solitary existence worked for me. I was surrounded by people all day; the few hours I had away from work were dedicated solely to study and sleep. Which meant I was entirely unused to this. To sexual energy, body language, conversations I would forensically examine later on.
His leg was close to mine. No work trousers today, no painty skin. Nice blue jeans and that clean smell.
“Are you on your way in or out?” I asked.
“In,” he said. I felt embarrassingly relieved that he wasn’t about to walk away for the second time.
“Did you not have to work?”
“I’m translating a condom information leaflet,” he shrugged. “It’s not life and death.” He got some crisps out of his rucksack and offered me the bag. I took one, even though this was something I’d never normally do. I heard myself admitting this to him, and he laughed again. “You can give the crisp back if it’s going to stress you out.”
“No, I can handle this.” Salt and vinegar. That felt right for him.
“OK then, Doctor Carrie. Another?”
I took it. A porter walked past, wheeling a tiny old man who was swearing vehemently at nobody. After they’d passed, Johan stretched out his legs and I asked why he was translating condom leaflets. He said it was an occasional job he had for a Swedish personal care company. He also did painting and decorating and taught scuba diving at a pool in Soho—“And a few other things, too.” All to support his sporadic and badly paid main job as an underwater archaeologist.
“As a what?!”
“A marine archaeologist. I dig old things up, like any archaeologist, but I do it under the sea.”
“What a job!”
