19. Poundshop King Kong #2
‘Yes, Doctor Vincent, it is. But may I remind you that my hot mentor’—she finger-quoted the word mentor while giving Greta a pointed look—‘abandoned me after shouting at me in her poky cupboard office, and now I have a fucking fossil boomer mentor. No offence.’
‘None taken.’
‘Who thinks that helping me is telling me to think laterally and critically. Like I didn’t know those two things were absolutely essential to the process of life in general, let alone for a Master’s dissertation.’
‘Who do you have?’
‘Doctor Holland.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yeah. Exactly.’ Dylan put her beer down after a long swig from the bottle.
‘With all the due respect in the world, she’s been riding that retirement wave for about ten years…
I’m surprised her surfboard isn’t driftwood.
’ Greta snort-laughed making Dylan chuckle.
‘I had wanted to lean into the teenage and young adult aspect of trial access, hence me being thrilled when my first mentor got in touch. Fuck, she was hot,’ she added ruefully, her eyes drifting toward Greta with a sideways grin.
‘But I think perhaps I shouldn’t limit myself to the patient group, you know?
Am I setting myself up to fail? Giving myself too much to do?
I dunno.’ She shrugged and huffed out some air.
‘Plus, Doctor Fossy-McFossil-Face didn’t really rave about what I had written for chapter one.
’ She dipped a gyoza in the ponzu, popped it in her mouth and chewed hurriedly.
‘I was thinking perhaps I could look at barriers to participation in clinical trials among under-represented groups. Rare disease groups, maybe? Rare tumours. Sarcomas, brain tumours. Something like that?’
‘Sounds good,’ Greta said, wiping her mouth with her napkin.
‘You could incorporate the TYA group with rare tumours, perhaps. It would reduce your patient scope, but that doesn’t mean it’s not something you could really sink your teeth into.
It's a subject with lots of potential. Their trial access is without a doubt limited, particularly due the exclusion of under eighteen-year-olds from lots of studies…often arbitrarily. You just have to be prepared to put the work in.’ Greta leaned in slightly.
‘I have some very recent TYA uptake data for a randomised Ewing's Sarcoma trial at the PCI…and one of the ward sisters, Rae Mack, did a wonderful piece of research on TYA engagement and treatment compliance. I’ll send them to you. They might get your creative juices flowing.’
Dylan cocked a mischievous brow at the word juices. Greta caught the look and rolled her eyes with a sharp tut. Chuckling, Dylan reached to squeeze Greta’s forearm. ‘Thank you, that would be ace.’
Greta smiled. ‘Why didn’t you go straight into nursing once you had your degree?’
‘The degree...’ Dylan covered her mouth with her hand as she finished chewing.
‘As tough as I found it…and I did find it really fucking tough, strangely made me want more academia. By the time I’d done clinical placements and stuff, I just realised that perhaps nursing wasn’t for me.
It would have been impossible to have a nursing income, do shifts and support mum.
It made more sense, since I'd already deferred for so many years, to stay on another year and do my Master’s.
Pack in some more crippling debt and pick up more Scortare cli—’ The word stayed in Dylan’s throat, her expression twisting with what looked like a sudden surge of retrospective guilt.
‘It’s okay, Dyl,’ Greta said warmly. ‘I’m glad you did pick up Scortare clients.’ Dylan leaned in to accept the soft kiss Greta was offering. ‘I’m glad we met.’
‘Fucking hell, me too!’ Dylan laughed the words against Greta’s mouth, their breath mingling as the kiss turned into a shared grin.
‘So, what are we going to do about this dissertation, Miss St John?’ Greta asked, clicking her chopsticks together, eyes scanning the tray before selecting a piece of salmon maki.
‘Honestly?’
‘No. Lie to me. I love it,’ Greta deadpanned, before popping the nori-wrapped sushi into her mouth.
Dylan snorted, quickly covering her mouth with her hand to keep the gyoza from flying across the room, or at least to save Greta from watching her choke on it.
‘I think I might ditch the diss, G.’
‘You’ll do no such thing,’ Greta replied flatly, sliding off her stool and heading toward the fridge for another beer.
Leaning back on her stool, Dylan ran her hands down her belly as she wolf-whistled through her teeth.
‘You can’t make me do it,’ Dylan teased.
‘Err, I think you’ll find I fucking can.’
After casually flicking the lid off her beer, Greta held the bottle up with a raised eyebrow to offer Dylan another.
Dylan shook her head, her eyes locked on Greta as she took a long swig from the Asahi bottle.
Dylan looked completely mesmerised, entirely focused on the simple act of Greta drinking from the bottle, her eyes dropped to the way Greta's throat bobbed when she swallowed. Greta gave her a slow-blinking side glance and a smirk as she put the rim to her lips, watching Dylan rake her gaze over her loose white shirt dress and the brown layers of her hair cascading to kiss her collarbones. Greta canted her head, well aware she was being watched and loving every second of Dylan’s adoring gaze.
‘And how do you propose to do that?’ Dylan asked, a smile tugging at her lips.
Greta sucked her teeth, running her tongue over an incisor. ‘Don’t make me pull out my best Margot,’ she said, her voice dropping in pitch. ‘She’s not buried too deeply, Dylan.’
‘Doctor Vin-cent!’ Dylan enunciated loudly, startling Greta with the bottle halfway to her mouth.
‘You and your hot alter-ego Miss Grenson will not boss me in the middle of my tea. I will not stand for it.’ Greta flared her nostrils and laughed as Dylan slammed her hands onto the island and shoved the stool back with her thighs.
She rounded the island, moving quickly toward Greta. ‘I am The Dylan of this House—’
‘What the fuck?!’ Greta all but screamed.
Dylan stopped just short of a shoulder charge, and before Greta could move, she performed a breathtaking lift, hoisting Greta onto her shoulder.
‘Dylaaan!’ Greta squealed in disbelief, as she was suddenly looking down at the kitchen floor.
‘Hush, woman,’ Dylan said in a deep voice, playfully slapping Greta’s arse.
‘Put me down!’ Greta was almost hysterical, wriggling and flailing as her hips pressed into Dylan’s shoulder. Dylan’s strong arm hooked over her thighs, holding her dress in place. ‘Have you lost your fucking mind? Put me down!’ Greta ordered through her increasing giggles.
As Dylan turned toward the door, Greta relented and grew still, feeling utterly ridiculous and thrilled in equal measure as Dylan carried her out of the kitchen and into the hall—stopping briefly to appreciate the reflection in the mirror.
‘That is one magnificent arse. Wanna see it?’
Dylan spun them both so Greta could see the glass. Greta twisted her head up to look at the reflection.
‘Dylan, that’s your arse.’
Dylan spun again.
‘No, it’s not, it’s yours. See?’
She spun them again.
‘Still your arse, Dyl.’
Dylan craned her neck to look over her shoulder. ‘Oh yeah! Chef’s kiss, though, eh?’ Dylan kissed the fingers of her free hand, flicking them out with gusto.
‘Jesus Christ, you utter lunatic! Please put me down.’
Clearly enjoying the ridiculousness of Greta hanging over her shoulder, perhaps more so Greta’s hands clutching onto her arse, Dylan waited. Despite Greta’s whining, Dylan made no move to put her down, content to let her squirm for a little longer.
‘You know, G. This underfloor heating is boujee as fuck,’ Dylan said, twisting her ankles to rub her feet into the herringbone floor as if trying to soak up the warmth through her socks.
Greta’s hair swung from side to side over Dylan’s back.
‘My tootsies be toasty all the time. You can’t walk barefoot in my house, not unless you want frostbitten toe—’
‘Dylan,’ Greta interrupted with a feigned, measured tone while she dangled patiently. ‘Do you intend to keep me here like some sort of Poundshop King Kong all night, or—’
‘Poundshop?!’ Dylan bellowed. ‘Insolence!’ Greta spiralled toward hysteria again as Dylan slapped her arse and turned toward her bedroom. ‘Right, early bath for you, Vincent,’ she continued, her voice dropping back to normal. ‘I can’t handle any more from you tonight.’
Bursting through the bedroom door, both of them laughing from their bellies, Dylan squatted slightly to place Greta’s feet on the floor.
She slid her off her shoulder and straight into her arms. Warm and flushed, Greta stood pressed against Dylan, her eyes wet with mascara-stained tears of laughter.
‘Seriously, Dylan, why are you like this?’ Greta asked, dabbing her bottom eyelashes with her thumb and fingers.
Dylan watched her for a beat. ‘Fuck me, you’re beautiful,’ she said, a sudden earnestness catching in her voice. She pulled Greta into her body and kissed her, arms pushed all the way around her waist to hold her as close as possible.
With her arms hooked around Dylan’s neck, Greta poked her bottom lip out. ‘What about my udon noodles?’ she moaned playfully.
‘We can still do nudes,’ Dylan replied, giving Greta an over-the-top conspiratorial wink. ‘Get me? Nudes? Like noods—’
‘I get you, Dylan,’ Greta interrupted with an accompanying heavy eye roll.
Dylan chuckled and kissed her again as Greta caught her chin with one hand to hold her face still. ‘You’re pretty fucking beautiful yourself, you know?’ Greta said, leaning back in Dylan’s arms.
Dylan pointed to her own face as it contorted into a strange gurn. ‘This old boat race?’
Greta laughed again. ‘Stop making me laugh, my crow's feet can’t take it.’
Nuzzling back into Greta’s neck, Dylan whispered, ‘Never.’ She pressed a soft kiss to Greta’s warm skin as Greta allowed the word to sink in.