A Kiss To Change Her Life. Karin Baine
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rolled-up sleeves of his shirt bunched at his biceps and his sand-coloured trousers taut across muscled thighs, the guy looked as if he should be playing rugby and smashing into other huge beasts rather than holding hands with poorly children. As the consultant paediatric oncologist at the Belfast Community Children’s Hospital, he was a vital link between the patients, staff and camera crew. It was a shame he’d been so reluctant for the documentary series to go ahead in the first place.
He’d voiced his considerable concern that they were violating his patients’ privacy at the production meetings and it was in the project’s best interest for Jessica to get him on board. Regardless of the hospital board’s decision to allow filming and the crew’s assurances that they would be sympathetic and respectful to all involved, the consultant had treated their presence here with quiet disdain. Jessica hadn’t addressed him directly in the few days they’d been on-site to prepare for filming and instead had focused on building a rapport with the families on the ward. She had the signed consent forms of those willing to participate and didn’t want anything to jeopardise everything she’d worked towards. This meant more to her than ratings and job security.
Cancer had been a huge part of her life; it still was in some ways. Not content to hijack her childhood, it had also tried to dictate her future. The after-effects of her treatment had followed her into adulthood and triggered early menopause. Just as she’d started to recover her femininity, that life-stealing illness had dealt the ultimate blow and made sure she could never be a whole woman.
Well, cancer had taken on the wrong redheaded warrior to tango with. It could take away her fiancé who couldn’t deal with a barren future wife. It could take away the daughter she’d always dreamed of pampering like a little princess. But it couldn’t take away her spirit. Nor anyone else’s if she could possibly help it. If this series brought more funding to the hospital and helped even one child with their fight, it would be worth the pain it caused Jessica to relive her own.
The easiest way to allay Dr Campbell’s fears that they’d trample over anyone in the pursuit of a good story would be to explain she was a survivor of childhood leukaemia herself. It would substantiate her plea that she simply wanted to raise public awareness of the incredible work that went on here. But that would mean exposing her weakness and the last time she’d done that it had cost her everything.
Adam, the man she’d thought she’d spend the rest of her life with, simply hadn’t been able to cope with her health problems and who could blame him? When a man proposed to a vibrant young woman, he didn’t expect to be marrying some prematurely aged, decrepit version of her. Their engagement had ended once Jessica’s failings as a woman had become apparent. The hot flushes, mood swings and childless future had been difficult enough for her to deal with, never mind live alongside.
In tear-filled hindsight, he probably hadn’t been the right man for her. Although he’d been right when he’d told her no man should be expected to take her on now that she was infertile. It would be selfish of her to ask that of anyone, not to mention detrimental to her well-being to imagine it a possibility. She’d only got through her body’s changes and the break-up by accepting her fate as an eternal singleton and moving on. These days, her career was her significant other and these programmes filled that void where a family should be. They were her babies and she cherished every one. Each successful production she made was validation of her worth and all that she needed to fill her life. No man could ever make her feel as good as the awards and accolades bestowed on her for her work to date.
Now, not even an uncooperative oncologist could persuade her to divulge that deeply personal medical information lest it be used against her in some way. She’d worked too hard to put the pain of the past behind her to use it as a bargaining tool.
This was the first day of shooting and Jessica wanted to get it off to the best start possible. She’d done some reading up on Dr Campbell, enough to understand where his passion lay, and it wasn’t a million miles from her own. He was leading the fundraising drive to pay for an MRI scanner for the Children’s Hospital. There was no reason they couldn’t use the airtime to promote the cause and perhaps cultivate a more harmonious relationship at the same time.
With that in mind, Jessica left the busy hub of the mobile production unit situated in the grounds of the hospital car park and went in search of her latest challenge. She’d learned at an early age to meet every obstacle in her path head-on and Rob Campbell was no exception. A liberal application of lip gloss, and a toss of her bouncy auburn curls later, she was ready to make contact with her target. She strode through the hospital entrance with a confidence that wasn’t one hundred per cent genuine.
It was still early morning, the best time to do a recce around the corridors while it was relatively peaceful, quiet except for the sharp tap of her stilettos on the tiled floor. The impending sense of doom which descended as she navigated the maze of corridors had less to do with first-day nerves and everything to do with her residual hospital phobia.
The bright, airy atmosphere of the modern hospital was a far cry from the imposing Victorian building she’d attended for treatment. Instead of dark and imposing corridors, this wing was lined with colourful frescos designed to appeal to the children who attended.
Despite the visual differences and the time she’d had to get used to the surroundings, the glare of fluorescent lights and smell of bleach and antiseptic still took her back to a time when she wasn’t so in control of her own destiny. Her steps faltered as a tide of nausea washed over her and forced a halt to her journey. She leaned against the wall, fighting to regulate her breathing and quell her rebelling stomach.
Inhale. Count to five. Exhale. Try not to puke on your expensive red-soled shoes. Repeat until normal brain function returns.
Jessica pulled off her heels so her stockinged feet rested flat on the cool floor, back on solid ground. This wasn’t about her. She was a visitor this time around, a grown-up replacing that pitiful figure who’d once resided here. When she’d first heard about this opportunity, she’d jumped at the chance to take part, regardless of her personal experience, perhaps even because of it.
Good or bad, hospital life had been a huge part of her childhood. Without the staff who’d looked after her, she would never have made it past adolescence, never mind the ripe old age of twenty-eight. Finally, she was in a position to pay something back. Replacing a husband and two point four kids with an impressive CV and impeccable professional reputation meant she could shine a light on a worthy cause. Nothing was going to stand in the way of that. Not her own personal issues and certainly not a difficult doctor who didn’t know the first thing about her.
The double doors at the end of the corridor swung open and closed as staff walked in and out, giving a quick flash of the elusive consultant in his natural habitat. Every glimpse of Tall-Dark-and-Handsome reminded her how he’d earned his hospital heart-throb status. The nurses were flitting around him like groupies around a rock star and she was sure there were a few hoping to catch his eye for more than professional reasons. She could see why his good looks and high-ranking position seemed to attract every female within a five-mile radius but Jessica’s focus had to remain on her project. There was no time for distractions. Certainly not a sexy, six-foot-plus real-life superhero one.
She gave herself a mental shake and coaxed her mind away from the image of her new work colleague in body-hugging Lycra and tights. Fantasy rarely lived up to reality anyway.
With another deep breath, she drew herself up to her full five feet eight inches and made her way towards him, her shoes still in hand. Since any infection was potentially life-threatening to those on the other side of the doors, she paused only to squirt some hand sanitiser from the dispenser on the wall before she entered the ward.
Dr Campbell was standing at the nurses’ station, his back to her, exuding a don’t-come-any-closer authority without even trying. It took every ounce of her courage to edge closer to him.
‘What do you want?’ He didn’t look up from the charts he was studying as he barked at her. It was the tone a busy and important professional used to fend off time-wasters so that only the bravest souls would persevere with their queries. She used it herself from time to time.
Having