Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 82868 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82868 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
“Dr. Perfect,” Beau says as he comes into the kitchen. “How goes it? I hear you’re not content with being the best doctor the UK has ever seen—don’t tell Jacob I said that—but now you have to lay bare your polymath skills and become a famous author.”
“Is he related to us?” Vincent asks me in a growl.
I’m not quite sure why Vincent is here for Christmas. He comes to the UK a few times a year, but if I see him, it’s always in London. Yet the twice he’s been over here, he’s come to Norfolk. When I asked him about it before, he muttered something about a tax issue. But here he is, laptop open on the kitchen table as people mill in and out of the kitchen.
“I can only pray he’s not. They must have switched him in the hospital.”
“You can’t rain on my parade, Vincent,” Beau says.
“I’m surrounded by Americans all day,” Vincent says. “And not one of them is as upbeat as you are.”
“I’m different when I’m at work. Given you don’t do anything but work, you’re not used to seeing people in a social setting.” Beau’s annoying, but he’s not wrong. Vincent’s work ethic since he got here makes the rest of us look like slackers.
“What’s so important that you have to work on Christmas Eve?” I ask. Jacob is stuck at the hospital, since other people’s health is, of course, the only exception. Growing up, we rarely had a Christmas with both parents at the Christmas lunch. But we got it—they were saving people’s lives.
Vincent rolls his eyes. “Typical doctor, who doesn’t think any job is more important than his own.”
“Is it?” I ask. “I mean, I don’t enjoy what I do, but I accept it has value.”
“Is it more valuable than the people who collect the trash from the sidewalk once a week?”
Beau groans. “It’s rubbish from the pavement. Don’t pretend you don’t know. You went to uni here, mate. Or you could just ask, are doctors more important than bin men.”
“Sexist,” I tell him.
“Bin people,” he corrects himself.
“It’s not about being more or less important,” I reply. “But one person is trained to save a life. One person isn’t.”
“Doesn’t mean they’re not important for the functioning of society. We need scientists to develop the drugs you administer. We need the pharma companies to manufacture the drugs. We need the truck drivers to deliver the drugs to hospitals.”
“But those people have to have holidays, and their jobs don’t tend to be time critical in the way a doctor saving a life is time critical. And anyway, you’re not any of those people.”
“No, but I’m the guy who invests in the start-up that creates the technology that enables the scientist to create the drug, or the software that the logistics company uses to make sure everything gets delivered on time and on budget. And come to think about it, I’m also the shareholder in the lab that’s developing some of the drugs and—”
“We get it,” Beau says. “Society would fall over if it wasn’t for you.”
“Not fall over exactly.” The corner of his mouth turns up. “Maybe bend and sway a little.”
Beau catches my gaze and nods over to Vincent as if to say, isn’t he arrogant?
The answer’s yes, he is. But he’s a self-made billionaire who got kicked out of medical school for failing his exams because he was too busy making his first billion. That kind of thing leads to arrogance even when not combined with the Cove family genetics. Arrogance runs through our veins—it has to, or none of us could practice medicine.
“If this book thing fails, can I have a job?” I ask him. “I don’t want to go back to medicine,” I say as I take a bite of my cheese and cucumber sandwich. If Ellie had made this sandwich, she would have added herbs or some kind of seasoning which would have elevated it to restaurant-worthy. My stomach misses her too.
“Really?” Beau asks. “Not even if the writing thing doesn’t work out?”
“Is that news?” I ask. Our family aren’t the best secret keepers. There’s no way they don’t all know I’ve never enjoyed what I do.
“So you’d rather go and do something in an office than be a doctor?” he asks.
“No, I’d rather be a writer than be a doctor,” I reply.
“I thought you’re having a book published?” Vincent asks.
I groan. “It won’t come out for years. Or eighteen months anyway.” It’s not like I expected it to happen right away, but when they talked about releasing autumn next year, I couldn’t think of what they could possibly be doing between then and now that could take that long.
“So you’re just sitting around for eighteen months?” Beau asks as he swoops in and grabs half of my sandwich, takes a bite, and then puts the rest back on my plate.