Top-Notch Men!. Anne Fraser
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from the chocolate-brown depths of his. ‘Allegra Tallis.’
‘Please, sit down, Dr Tallis,’ he said. He waited until she was seated before resuming his own seat, his dark eyes steady on hers. ‘You’re an anaesthetist, I believe.’
‘Yes. I’m on a twelve-month rotation in ICTU,’ she answered, trying not to fidget like a naughty schoolgirl called into the headmaster’s office. Her mouth felt suddenly dry and she would have loved to run her tongue over her lips to moisten them, but didn’t dare do so with those dark, fathomless eyes seemingly watching her every movement.
A heavy silence pulsed for a moment or two. Allegra felt each thrumming second of it, wondering what he was thinking behind the screen of his darkly handsome features.
She hadn’t had time to reapply her lipstick and her hair was falling from its clip at the back of her head. Heaven knew what her eyes looked like after a week of night duty. She’d barely been able to see out of them that morning when she’d dragged herself out of bed, but she knew there were shadows on top of shadows beneath them that no amount of cover-up could have concealed.
Her brief meeting with him in the corridor hadn’t given her time to examine his face in any detail but now she could see how lean and chiselled his cleanly shaven jaw was. His skin was tanned, as if he spent outdoors whatever time he had away from the hospital. His hair was thick and dark with a hint of a wave running through it, and the way it was currently styled it looked as if his long fingers had been its most recent combing tool. His eyes were a deep brown, so dark she couldn’t tell what size his pupils were as they seemed to be indistinguishable from his irises.
‘I’ve heard some interesting things about you, Dr Tallis,’ he said into the silence.
‘Oh?’
He leaned back in his seat, his posture positively reeking of indolent superiority as his eyes held hers. ‘Yes.’
She held his unwavering gaze with steely determination, not even allowing herself to blink. ‘And?’
‘I have some concerns about your research project. I find it hard to justify. I would appreciate your explanation of its scientific merit. As far as I can see, it would be more appropriate at a mind and body expo than in an ICU unit.’
Allegra straightened her spine, her green eyes flashing with fury at his condescending attitude. ‘I’ve had full ethics approval for my coma recovery assessment project,’ she informed him. ‘And I have a research grant from the hospital.’
‘The ethics is not what I take issue with, Dr Tallis, it’s the scientific merit, unfortunately, in my opinion, spelt out by the first letters of the project name. As far as I can see, the research committee seemed swayed by factors other than scientific validity.’
She shifted in her seat again. ‘I don’t exactly know what you’re getting at, but if you read the proposal …’ It hit her then, the acronym he had made of her project. CRAP. She inwardly seethed but she was loath to allow him the credit of making a joke out of something she took very seriously.
His cool little smile already suggested to her his inbuilt cynicism. She’d seen scepticism before, but somehow Dr Joel Addison took it to a whole new level. She silently fumed at his attitude, wishing yet again that Dougal Brenton had been given the job of new director.
‘I have read it—several times. How long have you been at Melbourne Memorial?’ he said.
‘I did my training here,’ she answered.
‘So you haven’t worked anywhere else?’
It was amazing how someone who had worked overseas always had to hold it over the heads of those who hadn’t, Allegra thought resentfully. She’d seen it time and time again. Even registrars, who, after a short stint in the UK or even in a developing country, came back with a superior attitude, as if Australia was a backwater wasteland with limited training experiences.
‘No,’ she said with more than a hint of sarcasm. ‘I haven’t as yet had that wonderful privilege.’
He ignored her comment to ask, ‘What is the gist of this project—in one sentence?’
Allegra forced her shoulders to relax, wanting to come across as coolly efficient and in control. ‘I’m examining the effect on coma recovery of different methods of sensory contact, using a BIS monitor as a key detector of effect,’ she said.
‘Sensory contact …’ He lifted one dark brow in query. ‘Such as?’
She gave him a very direct look, mentally preparing herself for his reaction, a reaction she had seen far too many times to hope that this time would be any different. ‘Reiki therapy, massage therapy, music therapy and aromatherapy.’
‘So …’ The leather of his chair creaked as he leaned back even further, his expression unmistakably mocking. ‘It sounds to me that if ever I’m feeling a little tense in the shoulders, I should head right on down to ICTU, feign a coma in one of the incredibly expensive beds and hope for a quick massage from you. Is that right, Dr Tallis?’
Allegra felt her anger rising to an almost intolerable level. ‘I believe that human touch is an important part of a patient’s recovery, comatose or not,’ she said through tight lips.
‘Important—I doubt it,’ he returned. ‘What ICU specialises in is ensuring good oxygenation and blood pressure maintenance—if brain injury is not too severe, recovery will occur. As far as I can see, these alternative therapies are marginal at best, maybe counter-productive at worst. There is no scientific evidence that they are effective, and attempts to prove their unlikely effectiveness are unaffordable in this unit.’
‘That’s not true. Reiki therapy has been shown to increase local circulation and—’
‘Dr Tallis.’ The little mocking smile was still in place. ‘Increasing the circulation by touching someone’s arm is not the same as increasing cerebral blood flow. And these smells and so-called natural aromas, your oils or whatever—what if someone suffers an allergic reaction to them?’
‘I’ve done a literature review on—’
‘I’ve seen the “literature review”, as you call it, hardly peer-reviewed journals—more like the latest women’s magazines.’
‘That’s so totally unfair!’
‘Look, Dr Tallis, you’ve spent—what is it now?—six years at medical school and a further four years studying anaesthesia. It’s called medical science. That’s what we practise here, and it’s damn expensive. Leave the quackery to the quacks and let’s get on with the job of saving lives. That is what you have been trained to do and that is your primary responsibility while you are working in ICTU.’
‘Patrick Naylor, the CEO, has given me his approval,’ she put in with a tilt of her chin.
He held her defiant gaze for an infinitesimal pause, before asking, ‘Is it true that you and he are an item?’
Allegra felt hot colour rush up into her face. How had he found out about her one dinner with Patrick? How had anyone found out about it? One date did not constitute a relationship as far as she was concerned and, besides, Patrick was still getting over a nasty separation. She had agreed to have dinner with him more because she had felt sorry for him than any degree of attraction on her part. It had been her first date in eighteen months and certainly no one’s business but her own.
‘I hardly see that my private life is any concern of yours,’ she said with a heated glare.
‘No, indeed, but if it interferes with how ICTU is run then it becomes of great concern to me. I’m here to put ICTU at Melbourne Memorial on the map as best practice for trauma reception and acutely ill patients, and I will not tolerate either my reputation or that of this hospital with the introduction of alternative “medicine” practices that do not have a scientific leg to stand on. We’ve a got a big enough workload with conventional medical care.’
Allegra