Page 10 of Obedience

Dylan St John.

(She/Her)

She pressed send, slid her phone into her pocket, and made her way downstairs to her mum.

***

A ping from her inbox broke Greta’s focus. Looking over her glasses at the laptop screen, huffing out a breath, she read the subject line: Mentor Program Allocation. While she had hoped the mentee would wait before reaching out, she respected their eagerness. There was something oddly appealing as she read the name Dylan St John, and the inclusion of ‘she/her’ pronouns beneath the signature caught her eye. Greta was always glad when people included them, even if they were cisgender; she felt it simply normalised the conversation and created a safer space for others. Inclusivity was something she valued, mostly because it had been totally non-existent when she was growing up and navigating her younger years.

She immediately typed a reply.

Dylan,

I have last minute availability on Friday of this week. I will not be on campus, however; I will be at The Pankhurst Cancer Institute. If you do wish to meet, I am free at 3pm. I am willing to meet face to face but also happy if you prefer to meet over Teams.

In either instance, please do not make an appointment with me and then not attend. If you cannot make it, let my secretary know. Paula is cc’d. No need to reply to me directly. Please liaise with Paula.

Paula: please ensure Dylan knows the location of my office at PCI if she does, in fact, wish to attend in person.

Regards,

Dr G Vincent MB ChB, PhD, FRCP

(She/Her)

Consultant Medical Oncologist (TYA)

Honorary Senior Clinical Lecturer

Greta was free, the result of a deliberate gap in her calendar. She didn't trust her resolve where Remi was concerned, and the thought of starting fresh with a new escort felt too exhausting. She had no desire for it. At least not yet.

***

After reading Dr Vincent’s reply, in the stern tone she assumed was intended, Dylan smiled to herself.

‘Fucking hell, Greta, you old charmer. Stop flirting with me,’ she said aloud, her voice dripping with facetious charm.

As a disappointing result of Margot’s silence, she too was unexpectedly free on Friday. For one final desperate check, she opened the Scortare app, but there was nothing. After pinging a message to the bookers to confirm no oversight had been made, she resigned herself to reality. She typed a reply to Paula and accepted the kind offer to meet on Friday, specifying that she would prefer to meet face to face, in Dr Vincent’s office, at the Pankhurst Cancer Institute.

Chapter five

Dr G

By Friday morning, Dylan’s hope for a booking from Margot was still there. An annoyingly inconvenient niggle. It bothered Dylan that she would cancel on her new mentor in a second if Margot got in touch, but she couldn't help it, she was worried. Margot had been acting more and more out of character during their meetings, Dylan felt a desperate need to talk to her, to make sure she was safe. It wasn't her business, but she couldn't shake the thoughts of her running on an endless loop in her mind. After checking the Scortare app—something she was doing far too often—she slipped her phone into her pocket.

While sipping her coffee in the doorway, Dylan watched Jordan fussing over her mum. ‘Looking good, Margacita,’ she said with a wink. ‘I’ll be back teatime-ish, Jord.’

‘Alright, mate. You do what you need to do,’ Jordan replied. ‘We’ve got a jam-packed schedule ourselves anyway. Ain’t that right, Margs?’ She arched an eyebrow at Margaret mischievously.

Jordan was another one of Dylan’s favourite nurses. Young, experienced, and trendy as fuck. Originally from Camden, she wore her Southern accent like a badge of honour and her Chelsea cut a different colour every week. This week it was yellow with blue tips. Between quoting acerbic takedowns from Drag Race UK and showing off her Sailor Jerry tattoos, she was exactly the kind of person Dylan would have been friends with if she wasn't part of Crew Mamacita. Crew Mamacita was the name Dylan gave to the intimate care team Dylan relied on to keep her world upright, of which Jordan and Priya were royalty. Nicknames, silliness, and shit Dad jokes were Dylan’s coping mechanisms. Those and Margot. Margot was her therapy, and she was really going to miss her therapy session today.

Like really fucking miss it.

After bounding upstairs to get ready, Dylan looked in the mirror. She looked fatigued but her bright green eyes, fresh fade and brown curls did most of the heavy lifting. She didn't need makeup; she was blessed with olive skin that looked fresh despite the stress. Dressed and ready in her uniform: stonewash Levi’s and a band T-shirt—this one being a 1988 ‘Shake the Cage’ Fleetwood Mac T-shirt, a vintage find from a show played nine years before she was born—and slid into her battered beige Converse. She dismissed the thought of a more formal outfit to meet Dr Vincent. If the old dear noticed at all, maybe they’d bond over the gig’s setlist. Shrugging into her brown Carhartt bomber, she grabbed her rucksack, kissed her mum goodbye, giving Jordan a quick hug on the way out.

Making the tram with seconds to spare, Dylan smiled at an elderly woman with a shopping bag balanced on her thighs, before sliding into the seat next to her. En route to the PCI, she let Guy Garvey’s voice bathe her brain through her AirPods. One of her favourite albums, Seldom Seen Kid, acted as a much-needed barrier against the teenagers playing each other the first twenty seconds of TikTok videos on loudspeaker as they frantically doom-scrolled. Dylan’s musical taste was eclectic to say the least. From Barbra Streisand to Chappell Roan and back again, the odd classical pieces and the standard heavy dose of the nineties. She loved almost everything, with the absolute exception of jazz—much preferring her music with corners.

***