The Socialite's Secret

Anya had been famous for forty of her fifty years of life and would, after today, be even more so.

Especially if she died.

‘You’d better let the director of nursing know,’ Luke said.

Paul gave a worried nod. ‘I already have.’

‘Good. I’ll go and make sure the screens are up outside.’ As he went to go out, Heather, the director of nursing, was running down the corridor towards him.

‘Do we know what she’s taken?’ was the first thing that Heather asked when she caught up with Luke.

‘We don’t know that she’s taken anything.’ Luke’s response was tart and Heather flushed as Luke continued to speak. ‘Let’s just make sure that the screens are up and no cameras can get a shot of her.’

The media were already starting to gather. He could hear the sound of a helicopter hovering overhead but thankfully the ambulance bay was covered.

Right now it was about affording Anya some privacy.

Whether she would want it or not.

Paul came outside and briefed them further. ‘Ambulance Control has just called. It’s an unspecified drug overdose …’

‘Well, that was never going to happen.’ Heather’s response was sarcastic.

‘If you want to help—’ Luke had heard enough innuendo and the patient hadn’t even arrived. He turned and faced Heather and made his feelings on the subject very clear. ‘—then cast judgement aside. If you can’t manage that—leave.’

He meant it.

Luke had long ago learnt not to judge and to keep his own feelings very much in check, and it would take everything he had in him to maintain that today.

‘I was just—’ Heather attempted.

‘Well, please don’t,’ Luke interrupted.

Heather looked over at Paul and they shared a glance. Luke had worked at the Royal for just over two years now. He was never the sunniest of people but he rarely snapped and his mood seemed particularly dark today.

The ambulance arrived and as Luke opened the doors he saw that Anya was being given cardiac massage by a paramedic and that a sun-tanned man was shouting orders in a strong Californian accent. He informed Luke, only when asked, that his name was Vince and that he was Anya’s private physician.

Luke already knew.

And he hated that man more than anyone could possibly imagine.

‘What’s the story?’ Luke asked him, as the paramedics worked skilfully on the unconscious woman while they wheeled her in and Luke pulled on a gown and gloves.

‘She must have taken some sleeping tablets,’ Vince said.

It was a vague response but, with time of the essence, for now Luke ignored him. Instead, he listened to Albert, one of the paramedics, who relayed far more information than the private physician seemed willing to give.

‘She was found unconscious by her daughter at six a.m.,’ Albert said, as they moved Anya over to the resuscitation bed.

‘Semiconscious,’ Vince corrected.

‘The daughter, Scarlet, is hysterical,’ Albert said. ‘It was hard to get any information out of her. Apparently Anya was given an opiate reversal but then vomited and went into respiratory and then cardiac arrest.’

‘What has she taken?’ Luke asked Vince, but any clear information remained unforthcoming.

‘We’re not sure.’

Albert gave Luke a wide-eyed look, which he took as meaning that the paramedics had had as much trouble extracting details.

Paul took over the cardiac massage as Albert relayed the rest of what he knew. ‘There were no bottles or syringes and she had been intubated before we arrived.’

Oh, so they’d had a little tidy up, Luke thought, and he looked over to Vince as he listened to Anya’s chest. ‘What medication is she on?’ Luke asked.

Vince gave Luke a short list that consisted of antianxiety medications and some light sleeping tablets.

‘So why are there no bottles or packets to be found?’ Luke pushed.

‘I give Anya her medication,’ Vince answered coolly. ‘I also have her on a strict regime of nutrients …’

‘We’ll get to them later,’ Luke snapped, as he started delivering vital drugs that might reverse anything Anya could have taken. ‘Any opiates?’

‘Only when her back injury is exacerbated.’

It would take pliers to extract any useful information from him, Luke was sure. ‘Get a toxicology screen,’ Luke said to Barbara, who was pulling blood as he listened to Anya’s chest.

‘Her chest sounds terrible.’ Luke was very concerned that the tube might be somewhat blocked. ‘I want to replace the tube.’ He wasn’t happy that the right size had been inserted or that, given Anya had vomited, the tube was clear, so he decided to reintubate her.

‘Watch the vocal cords!’ Vince warned.

The billion-dollar vocal cords!

Luke did not look up but Heather swallowed as she watched Luke’s jaw clamp down as he was delivered an unnecessary order.

Luke did not pause in his treatment plan, he just carried on with the procedure and then secured the tube, but he offered two words in response to a very unwelcome guest in his resuscitation room.

‘Get out.’

The celebrity physician did not.

Luke repeated his command, but added a couple of expletives this time, and everyone startled because Luke rarely showed emotion. He never really swore or raised his voice. He didn’t need to assert himself angrily. He just chose to now.

No one present could even guess at Luke’s true loathing for this man.

Luke listened to Anya’s chest again and, happy that the tube was in the correct position and that her air entry was better, he pulled off his stethoscope and asked Vince to repeat whatever it was he had just mumbled.

‘I’m not leaving Anya,’ he said.

‘Oh, but you are,’ Luke responded. ‘Unless you can tell me, right now, exactly what Anya has taken, and why it took so long for you to get her here, you are to leave my area now.’