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“Hi,” Solo replied. He managed to stop himself tugging at his collar and sat down quickly in the seat next to Pritchard’s.
He wasn’t quite sure how he survived the meeting, except it involved absolutely not letting his gaze stray in Polly Fletcher’s direction. Even when she spoke, her tone firm and confident about finding a patient some temporary accommodation or getting their welfare payments sorted, he managed to studiously keep writing notes, ignoring the buzz in his gut—or was it lower? The fact was, this Polly woman messed with his head, and apparently a number of other parts of his body, too.
Later, when everyone had scattered to get on with the day’s work and he’d seen Polly’s modest black slacks and pale lilac blouse heading at speed down the corridor, Solo finally found himself in the nursing station in front of a screen full of patient lists.
“Hey there. Good to have you on board.” A guy Solo recognised as Ben, the team psychologist, sauntered up.
“Thanks, good to be here.”
“Are you interested in group therapy?” Ben said.
Solo gave a grin. “Having some or giving some?”
“Ha, sorry—bad phrasing, I meant, have you ever led therapy groups? Some of the psychiatrists we’ve had on rotation tend to be more medication-focused and others enjoy getting involved in the talking side of things.”
Solo shrugged. He had done his fair bit of psychotherapy in training. “I’m not into psychoanalysis, but I think cognitive therapy combined with medication shows pretty good efficacy.”
Under the scrutiny of the guy’s earnest dark eyes he felt uncomfortably like he was being analysed.
A moment later Ben’s face relaxed into an easy smile and Solo decided maybe he’d misjudged him. At the teaching hospital in Sydney he’d just left, the professional jealousies had got a bit out of control, but maybe here in the west everyone was on friendlier terms. He cocked an eyebrow. “Why do you ask?”
“Oh, just that I’m heading off to Europe for four weeks and that leaves the PTSD group with only one therapist. We prefer for that not to happen. Thought you might like to take on co-leading while I’m away.”
Post-traumatic stress disorder. Solo consciously relaxed his spine, breathed in and released it slowly, letting the breath pinch out of his lungs in three measured exhalations. It helped.
“Yeah, sure, if Pritchard doesn’t have too many other things lined up, and it doesn’t overlap with any ward meetings.”
“Oh no, it definitely won’t, it’s an evening group. That’s probably why I’m having trouble getting someone to take it on, if I’m honest, but thought, you know, with…”
“Me being new to Perth and having no social life, you mean?”
Ben gave a polite laugh. “No, not at all. Anyway, happy to talk you through it. Besides, you’d be working alongside another very experienced member of the team.”
The hairs on the back of Solo’s neck stood to attention. “Oh, right.”
“Yeah, Polly, the social worker you met this morning. She’s brilliant. The group was her brainchild and basically she holds it all together. Just let her take the lead and you’ll get the hang of the dynamics real fast.”
What bad joke was the universe playing on him? A momentary image of Polly flipping him onto his back and shaking her curls in his face as he palmed her amazing breasts, nearly erased Solo’s last morsel of self-composure. It took a moment before he could trust himself to speak.
“I’ll give it some thought and let you know,” he muttered and stared back at the computer screen.
