(2013) Four Widows Read Online Free
Cece boomed. “Misery loves company.” She raised her glass with a stage-version wink and we followed her lead, somewhat inappropriately, I know; doing a Cliquot-loud chink that everyone heard over Carly Simon singing Coming Around Again on an expensive retro jukebox.
Chapter Three
He Loves Me
Harrison was my biggest love and my greatest mistake. I didn’t realise this, of course, until he was dead. Even now it is a hard admission to make. My mother, on the other hand, has no trouble nailing him: I had fallen in love with a scandalous man.
This opinion was first formed after “the hospital incident” in London, which, to be fair to Harrison, was not his fault. The fallout, however, was a terrible blow to his career and confidence. A blow to us as a married couple.
No, what was to follow or unravel in the months after his death is how one earns a truly scandalous reputation, albeit a posthumous one. And it had nothing to do with his abilities as a surgeon.
“He’s brought shame on this family,” my mother said emphatically, spoken like the true matriarch of the clan. I could tell from the tone of her voice that she believed the scandal would run deep for generations. We know this but we also know it wasn’t a single-handed accomplishment.
It’s no surprise to me that my mother came down hard on Harrison though because she had zero tolerance to bad behaviour. What’s more, she had great expectations and had married a good man: my father was unsullied by scandal.
The only time I ever saw a chink in my father’s armour was at my mother’s surprise 50th birthday party. Everyone turned out for the celebrations except him. He couldn’t or wouldn’t switch his shift. “Never date a doctor,” my mother whispered as she cut her cake. And I noticed her smile was not bright enough to hide the disappointment in her eyes.
Talk to anyone and they’d tell you Harrison was a maverick man, flamboyant, confident and great at his job. Patients loved him. I’m not surprised; he had this tremendous aura and an incredible assuredness. Heavens, he gave the impression he could pass his hand over a liver and cure it of cancer.
Such confidence was well-earned because he did a remarkable job–and at 40 years old had done more surgical procedures than one would have thought possible as well as finding time for lectures, research meetings and forever mentoring interns. Formidable fix-it machine.
I believe his flair for fixing people was not just learned in medical school but stemmed from an intuitive and instinctual talent. No one needed a second opinion after a consultation with Dr Harrison Warner because he never left a stone unturned. His mission: heal people, save the world. As I got to know him, I realised he had a pathological fear of letting people down and worked over the odds to save them. He was a consultant, one of the leading heart doctors in the country.
The irony wasn’t lost on me. He fixed other people’s. He broke mine.
I met him for the first time in a bar behind Russell Square and, as first impressions go, it was the familiar diluted-Dettol smell still clinging to him from the hospital ward that turned my head in time to see him throw down a whisky without ice. I stepped back and stood in the shadow of someone else who was drinking at the bar while I inhaled Harrison Warner without him knowing I even existed in the world.
Without doubt, I knew he must work at a hospital; not just because the bar was in proximity to London hospitals and medical schools but more to do with the presence and confidence of someone that goes hand in hand with saving lives. He even ordered drinks with authority; someone used to getting what he wanted at whatever cost. I could picture theatre matrons and scrub nurses waiting on his every word: people passing scalpels on demand. Dr Heartthrob, swoon, baby, swoon–
I remember thinking at the time: he’s beautiful but a handful–drop the drink, Lori, leave now and
Chapter Three
He Loves Me
Harrison was my biggest love and my greatest mistake. I didn’t realise this, of course, until he was dead. Even now it is a hard admission to make. My mother, on the other hand, has no trouble nailing him: I had fallen in love with a scandalous man.
This opinion was first formed after “the hospital incident” in London, which, to be fair to Harrison, was not his fault. The fallout, however, was a terrible blow to his career and confidence. A blow to us as a married couple.
No, what was to follow or unravel in the months after his death is how one earns a truly scandalous reputation, albeit a posthumous one. And it had nothing to do with his abilities as a surgeon.
“He’s brought shame on this family,” my mother said emphatically, spoken like the true matriarch of the clan. I could tell from the tone of her voice that she believed the scandal would run deep for generations. We know this but we also know it wasn’t a single-handed accomplishment.
It’s no surprise to me that my mother came down hard on Harrison though because she had zero tolerance to bad behaviour. What’s more, she had great expectations and had married a good man: my father was unsullied by scandal.
The only time I ever saw a chink in my father’s armour was at my mother’s surprise 50th birthday party. Everyone turned out for the celebrations except him. He couldn’t or wouldn’t switch his shift. “Never date a doctor,” my mother whispered as she cut her cake. And I noticed her smile was not bright enough to hide the disappointment in her eyes.
Talk to anyone and they’d tell you Harrison was a maverick man, flamboyant, confident and great at his job. Patients loved him. I’m not surprised; he had this tremendous aura and an incredible assuredness. Heavens, he gave the impression he could pass his hand over a liver and cure it of cancer.
Such confidence was well-earned because he did a remarkable job–and at 40 years old had done more surgical procedures than one would have thought possible as well as finding time for lectures, research meetings and forever mentoring interns. Formidable fix-it machine.
I believe his flair for fixing people was not just learned in medical school but stemmed from an intuitive and instinctual talent. No one needed a second opinion after a consultation with Dr Harrison Warner because he never left a stone unturned. His mission: heal people, save the world. As I got to know him, I realised he had a pathological fear of letting people down and worked over the odds to save them. He was a consultant, one of the leading heart doctors in the country.
The irony wasn’t lost on me. He fixed other people’s. He broke mine.
I met him for the first time in a bar behind Russell Square and, as first impressions go, it was the familiar diluted-Dettol smell still clinging to him from the hospital ward that turned my head in time to see him throw down a whisky without ice. I stepped back and stood in the shadow of someone else who was drinking at the bar while I inhaled Harrison Warner without him knowing I even existed in the world.
Without doubt, I knew he must work at a hospital; not just because the bar was in proximity to London hospitals and medical schools but more to do with the presence and confidence of someone that goes hand in hand with saving lives. He even ordered drinks with authority; someone used to getting what he wanted at whatever cost. I could picture theatre matrons and scrub nurses waiting on his every word: people passing scalpels on demand. Dr Heartthrob, swoon, baby, swoon–
I remember thinking at the time: he’s beautiful but a handful–drop the drink, Lori, leave now and
Readers choose
C. J. Cherryh
Simon R. Green
Melissa Schroeder
Fern Michaels
Mary Pope Osborne
Eliza Daly
Danielle Steel
Kristen Middleton
Brett Halliday