Melting The Trauma Doc's Heart

She’d had doubts about the value of providing cosmetic surgery to people who were wealthy enough to chase the illusion of perfection but she’d decided to view purely aesthetic surgery a stepping stone when she’d decided to apply for this job. Elective procedures like a facelift needed the same skills as reconstructive microsurgery and the hours and pay of this new job gave Olivia the freedom to do any further postgraduate study she would need.

Auckland’s Plastic Surgery Institute had its own ward in this private hospital and Olivia’s patients had had their surgery this morning. She had been pushed to get through all her cases today and they had all been breasts. A breast lift and augmentation for a mother of three in her forties, a breast lift and reduction for a woman in her fifties, and an implant removal for someone the same age as Olivia, who’d experienced hardened scar tissue from silicone material leaking from her implants. The lift and augmentation had been her first case this morning and Olivia could see no reason for her not to go home now.

‘Sleep as upright as possible for the next forty-eight hours,’ she advised. ‘Prop yourself up on lots of pillows, or use a recliner chair if you’ve got one.’

‘It hurts more than I expected.’

‘We’ll give you something for that but you can expect your breasts to be swollen and sore for the next few days, I’m afraid.’

‘This instruction sheet says I have to avoid any strenuous activity for two to three weeks. That’s not going to be easy when I’ve got three small children, is it?’

Olivia made an effort to keep her smile sympathetic. ‘I’m sure it won’t be, but it is very important. Especially not to lift them. You’ll risk tearing stitches and other problems if you do.’

At least her breast reduction patient was more thrilled with the new shape of her body beneath the support bandaging and surgical bra.

‘I can’t think why I didn’t do this years ago. I just wish I’d got you to do a tummy tuck at the same time, Dr Donaldson.’

‘We can talk about that another time. It wasn’t a minor procedure that you had today, you know. How’s the pain level now?’

‘I’ve been too excited to notice it much. How soon can I go back to work and show it all off?’

‘Once you no longer need your prescription pain medication. In a week or so, I expect, but we can let you know when you come for your first outpatient appointment at the Institute in a few days.’

‘Will I be seeing you then?’

‘Of course.’ Olivia’s smile felt slightly forced. A lot of her time these days was spent in the luxurious consultation rooms of the Plastic Surgery Institute. Initial consultations to discuss desired procedures. Assessment and detailed planning in conjunction with the patients and then the follow-up appointments to track recovery and deal with any complications. And, even during the six months that Olivia had become immersed in the world of private cosmetic surgery, she was already seeing patients returning for their next procedure. It was flattering that they demanded to see her but it was a little disturbing, as well.

People getting addicted to cosmetic surgery in the hope of making their lives perfect was no myth and body dysmorphic disorder—where people became obsessed with a slight or even imagined defect in their appearance—was something Olivia intended to research more thoroughly in the near future.

The mental state of the last patient she checked on before discharging from the initial post-operative care was also a bit of a worry.

‘I’m confident we managed to get all the scar tissue out,’ Olivia assured her. ‘You should find a dramatic improvement in any discomfort you were having after you recover from the surgery.’

Her patient was in tears. ‘I can’t look. I’m going to look worse than I did before I had the implants, aren’t I? Nobody’s going to want to even look at me. I’ll be flat-chested again and now I’ll have all these scars, as well. I can’t believe I was stupid enough to do something like this in my twenties. Why does anybody do it?’

‘Don’t beat yourself up, Janie.’ Olivia took extra time to try and reassure this patient and let her know that there were counselling services available through the Institute that she might find helpful. She was running a little late for her six o’clock appointment by the time she left.

‘You’re so lucky, you know,’ Janie said by way of farewell. ‘You’re never going to need to even think of having any plastic surgery.’

It was walking distance from the hospital to the Plastic Surgery Institute, which was one of many buildings devoted to private health care in this prestigious suburb of Auckland, some of which were converted mansions on either side of the tree-lined streets. Normally Olivia would have enjoyed the swirl of autumn leaves drifting down around her but she was trying to pinpoint why her day was feeling as if it had been somewhat unsatisfactory. The surgeries had all gone smoothly and theatre staff had been complimentary about her skills. She’d had plenty of practice in breast surgery during her training, though, and she’d taken great pride in doing the best job she could in breast reconstruction for women who’d had cancer surgery. Now that had been satisfying…

The waiting room of the Institute was full, which wasn’t unusual. Any private clinic had to cater for clients who wanted an appointment after normal working hours. Olivia didn’t have a clinic to run this evening, however.

‘I’m just popping in for that six p.m. meeting,’ she told the receptionist. ‘I believe Simon wanted to see me?’

‘He’s waiting for you.’

Olivia couldn’t miss the knowing hint in the look she was receiving. Had someone in the administrative staff started a rumour that something was going on between her and her boss? Maybe they all thought it was only a matter of time before something happened. She was single, after all, and who could resist the charms of one of the most eligible bachelors in Auckland’s A-list society?

Olivia could, that’s who. She held the receptionist’s gaze until the young woman looked away, flushing slightly.

‘Can you let him know his next client is here already?’

Simon’s office had an enormous desk, leather chairs and a glass display case of antique surgical instruments.

‘Sharon told me to tell you that your next client is here already.’

‘She can wait for a minute or two. Oh, wait… I think it’s a “he”. Our new campaign to persuade men that aesthetic surgery is not just for women is starting to pay off. Literally…’

Olivia heard an echo of that slightly bitter compliment her last patient of the day had given her—that she was lucky that she wouldn’t have to think about surgical enhancement of any kind. Simon was the male equivalent, wasn’t he? Every feature perfectly symmetrical and his grooming and taste in clothes contributing to make him look years younger than forty-five. Even those grey streaks in that immaculate haircut could have been put there just to make him look more attractive.

As he stood up from his desk and put his jacket back on, she thought he looked as though he’d just stepped out of a magazine page—from an advertisement for luxury Italian suits, perhaps.

‘So… Did you get my message?’

‘Um…’

‘You forgot to switch your phone back on after being in Theatre, didn’t you?’

Olivia groaned. ‘Sorry… It’s been a long day. What was the message?’

‘A last-minute invitation to a charity gala tomorrow night. The guest speaker is a London doctor who rang here this morning asking after you. He knew your mother well, he said, and he wanted to arrange a chance to pass on his personal condolences. He was out of the country on a sabbatical at the time of her funeral, he said, and by the time he got back, you’d already made the move here.’

Anybody who was anybody in London had known Olivia’s mother, Janice, thanks to her position as one of the city’s leading cardiologists and her thriving Harley Street practice. That spotlight had extended to Olivia, as her daughter, as well, bringing with it a pressure that had never felt comfortable. Escaping that spotlight was one of the reasons she had chosen to come back to New Zealand.

‘I’m not sure, Simon.’ Olivia knew she was frowning. ‘I’ve never liked being in a crowd of people I don’t know and any formal dresses I own are still in storage until I find an apartment I want to buy.’

‘But you’ve got a day off tomorrow, haven’t you? You could go shopping for a new dress. And this is how you get to know people. The important people.’

Attending functions like charity galas had been pretty much her mother’s only social life. It had been at a charity event she had attended with her mother that she’d met Patrick, in fact—the man everybody, including herself, had expected her to marry. That breakup had been the other, even bigger reason she had decided to come back to the country of her birth to make a fresh start in her life. Olivia knew that her mother would have shrugged off the failed relationship as no more than an inconvenience. She also knew what she would have said about going to this event.

Go, Olivia. It’s important to be seen. This is your career. The most important thing in your life. The only thing you can really count on…

‘You don’t have to go alone,’ Simon added with an encouraging smile. ‘I’ll be there. I’ll look after you, I promise.’

Olivia couldn’t help glancing at the door as if looking for an escape route. Simon couldn’t possibly know how much of a nerve he was stepping on. That he was reminding her of exactly how her relationship with Patrick had started—and its disastrous ending not that long after her mother’s death—when he’d moved on to someone who offered an even better step up the social ladder.

Simon had followed her glance. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘I’d better get on with seeing my next patient.’ He went to open the door for Olivia. ‘Let me know what you decide. Maybe we can meet up for a drink before the event and that way you won’t have to go in by yourself.’

Olivia fished her phone out of her pocket and turned it on as she left the building. It really was a very bad habit to turn her phone off but she knew that a staff member could easily find her if there was a problem on theatre days and she hated even the possibility of distractions when she was operating. Hearing the chime of an incoming message, she glanced at the screen, expecting it to be the message Simon had left about the invitation to the gala tomorrow, but it wasn’t. It was a voicemail that had been left a couple of hours ago. From an unknown number.

Curious, Olivia keyed in her code as soon as she was sitting behind the wheel of her car, turning on the ignition as the message started to play.

‘My name is Isaac Cameron,’ a male voice said. There was a hint of an accent there. An Irish lilt, maybe? ‘I’m a doctor at Cutler’s Creek Hospital.’

Olivia gasped. Hearing the name of that small Central Otago township was disturbing, to say the least. She had a sudden urge to cut the call and delete the message but it was too late. She had been captured by the sound of the stranger’s voice.

‘I don’t suppose you want to hear this, Olivia Donaldson, but—you know what? I’m going to tell you anyway.’