Chapter 4 #2
“Nice place.” Neil follows me to the kitchen, letting out a low whistle. “Nice location, too. Must be worth a few bob.”
He seems cautious, as if he’s worried he’s going to damage something, in the way of someone wandering through an antique shop. It’s weird, for a person usually oozing confidence. I can’t make him out.
“Thank you. My…um…my grandfather left me some money in his will. I wouldn’t have afforded it otherwise.”
“Cool. Is it okay if I sit here?”
“Sure.” I pour myself a glass of water, more as a prop than because I’m thirsty. Does he think I’m odd not removing my hood indoors? He doesn’t seem to, busy unzipping his laptop bag.
“Would you like one?” I ask, politely.
He seems puzzled. “One what?”
“Um…” I wave my glass at him and his eyes land on it.
“Oh, yeah. Didn’t spot it. Thank you.”
I settle in a chair adjacent to him.
“It might be better we sit next to each other,” Neil suggests, scooting round. My table’s not huge, and I’m very aware of his knee against mine. He smells lovely, outdoorsy like he did at the club, except minus the iron tang of blood.
“Oh, okay.” My fingers stray to each cool blue bead on my wrist. “So, what’s this all about?”
“I’m dyslexic,” he explains, pointing to a moderately busy Excel spreadsheet on the screen.
“These are the Earth bar accounts which I need to go through and make sure they make sense within the next day or so, before they’re filed.
Ezra usually does it, but he’s away and I don’t want to disturb his trip. ”
“Is that it?” I almost laugh. He looked so stressed out on the pavement.
“Sorry, I don’t mean—sorry—don’t think for a second I’m belittling your dyslexia.
Not at all. I know it’s not great if you have to go through paperwork, but…
I assume dyslexia isn’t a new thing for you.
How do you normally manage? What I mean is what strategies do you normally employ?
” And why aren’t they working this time?
Neil’s expression is guilty, as if I’ve wrongfooted him. “I... okay. Maybe this spreadsheet is more detailed than usual. The accountant is a temp. Listen, if you don’t want to help, I’ll find someone else.”
“No, of course I’ll help. It appears straightforward enough. But why did Ezra ask you to do this if he knows you struggle so much?”
“I don’t, normally. As I said, it’s a different accountant.” His fist on the table clenches. “Does it matter?”
Awkward exchanges like this are precisely why I issue my conflict avoidance speech. “No, of course it doesn’t.”
“Okay then.” He points to the screen. “This section is the worst. I can’t take in the numbers at the far end and then keep it all straight as I scroll through to the other end. I tend to…I can’t keep it in my peripheral vision.”
“Fine, I can help you with that. How about I grab a pen and write down the numbers you can’t decipher yourself? I’ll talk you through it, too.”
Neil blows out a relieved breath. “That would be good, thank you. Write fairly big, if that’s okay.”
“Sure.”
We make our way through the documents. Neil squints a lot and rubs his temples, as though concentrating pains him.
“How’s the head?”
“Tender, but fine. I’ll stay off the booze next time we have a gig.”
My suspicions teeter on the tip of my tongue. “Maybe stay away from the edges of the stage, too.”
“Good plan.” He squints again at the screen.
“Would turning the brightness up help?”
“I think it’s as bright as it goes. And I tried printing it all out and putting the pages side by side but,” he shakes his head, “I can’t see any better.”
“Does that usually help?”
“I don’t…no. Not since…no.”
I sip my water. Neil’s glass sits forgotten at his elbow.
Earth is in excellent financial shape as far as I can tell, and their accountant seems to have everything in hand.
Neil repeatedly expresses his gratitude and I have a new, bushy Japanese peace lily to prove it.
All in all, his allotted five minutes (which has stretched to thirty) has been okay.
Actually, better than. I don’t have much company in the flat, and, now we’ve both settled down, dealing with someone else’s problems for a change is refreshing.
Moreover, I can’t complain about the smell or the view.
Neil is dressed in a threadbare long-sleeved T-shirt with the sleeves pushed up to mid forearms. Solid blue veins lie just visible beneath his pale skin, like low-voltage power lines.
I’ve never been particularly enamoured by anyone’s forearms before, but I suspect there is very little of Neil’s body I’m not attracted to.
Just below his left ear, on the curve of his neck, he has a small tattoo in black ink, fine-line, a dragon breathing fire.
It’s easy to miss until he tilts his head, obscured by his wavy and wild mass of thick dark hair.
He’s got enough for both of us and then some.
“See what you think of this.” I tap on my paper pad, hoping he’s not noticed me cataloguing his attributes.
He seems oblivious, to be honest. Maybe he’s used to it.
When he looks at where I’m indicating, he twists his whole body in his chair.
Have his falls resulted in a stiff neck or back? “Can you read it okay?”
His lips, a little chapped, half-press into a relieved smile, the first one since he sat down. “It’s perfect. Your writing is really clear.” He glances up from the pad, directly at me, brown eyes crinkling. “I thought good handwriting was beaten out of you lot at med school.”
I tear the relevant pages out and hand them to him. “I must have slipped through the net. Whoops!”
His elbow jolts his water glass. I grab it before it slides off the table.
“Good catch. Sorry, didn’t see it there.”
He gathers up his things. I hand him a sheet of paper he’s missed and, before I overthink it, say, “You know, if you need anything else whilst Ez is away, I’m around most days.”
“I wouldn’t want to take up your time. I know how busy you doctors are. Alaric never seems to stop working.”
“I’m part-time,” I answer. “For…um…health reasons.”
Thankfully, he doesn’t enquire. “What breed of doctor are you, anyhow?” he queries instead, rising to his feet. “I never asked.”
I brace myself, preparing to defend my entire career.
Usually, I start my spiel by pointing out the skin is the body’s largest organ, thus skin disease affects the entire human body.
Skin disorders don’t just itch—they isolate, they embarrass, they break people down.
They can be a sign of cancer or a harbinger of serious autoimmune disease.
Diagnosing and treating them is unbelievably rewarding.
Patients have thrown their arms around me, crying with relief when their skin conditions finally stop hurting.
“I’m a dermatologist,” I say.
There’s a beat, during which Neil hitches his laptop bag onto his shoulder. We’re of similar height, though he fills the space more.
“Dermatologist,” he repeats, sounding out every syllable in his velvety, smoky voice. “So you’re a rash whisperer. Very cool.”