Career Girl in the Country. Fiona Lowe

was her only remaining option.

      Her disappointed gaze caught sight of the envelope with the Southgate crest that had arrived yesterday containing a letter with the words ‘unsuccessful candidate’. She hadn’t read past them because there’d been no point. Poppy Stanfield didn’t lose, she just regrouped and planned a new strategy. It would have been a huge coup to land the Southgate job ahead of the Perth City one, but the interview panel had been hostile from the moment she’d walked in.

      The Bampton win had ruffled more than a few feathers in surgical ranks, and the media attention had been unexpected. The memory of the ditzy and pen-less journalist, with hair flying, who’d arrived late to interview her, sent a sliver of irritation down her spine. Poppy reread the article and the bald, incriminating words. Hell, why hadn’t she spent more time with the journalist instead of rushing through the interview?

      The faint echo of mocking laughter sounded deep down inside her. You spend all your time at work and when have you ever really spent time with anyone?

       Steven.

      Her phone chirped loudly, making her jump. Given it was 6:00 a.m., the call was most likely the hospital needing her for an urgent consult and absolutely nothing to do with this tiny article buried in the centre of the paper. Yes, an emergency consult would be the best scenario. The worst scenario would be—Stop right there. She refused to contemplate the worst scenario, but still she checked the screen before answering it.

      She groaned into her hand. The name of the hospital’s executive medical officer and her current boss blinked at her in inky and unforgiving black. Damage control. Tilting her head back and bringing her chin up, she answered the call with a firm, crisp greeting. ‘Hello, William.’

      ‘Poppy.’ The professor spoke her name as if it pained his tongue to roll over the combination of letters. ‘I’ve just seen the paper.’

      Show no weakness. ‘You must be pleased.’ She ignored the vividly clear picture of him in her mind—tight face and stern mouth—the way he always looked when he believed a staff member had let him down. She infused her voice with enthusiasm. ‘It was an excellent article about your groundbreaking in utero surgery.’

      ‘It was, and surprisingly accurate, but that’s not the article I’m referring to.’

      No way was she admitting to anything so she let the deliberate silence ride, biting her lip not to say a word.

      William continued. ‘In your thank-you speech at the Bampton awards you said you were committed to Perth City.’

      She pushed the Southgate envelope under the paper and out of sight. ‘Absolutely. City’s given me every opportunity.’ The words of her speech flowed out smoothly, in stark contrast to the reality, which had involved her fighting to get into the surgery programme, working harder and longer hours than her male counterparts and ignoring the advice that surgery took beautiful young women and turned them into ugly old ones. She’d stopped thinking of herself as a woman long ago and with it had gone the dream of marriage and a family of her own. ‘Should the board see fit, it would be an honour to serve as the Chief of Surgery.’

      ‘An honour?’

      His tone bristled with sarcasm, which Poppy ignored. ‘Yes, indeed, and as I outlined in my interview with the board, I can start immediately and provide a seamless transition period before Gareth leaves for Brisbane.’

      ‘The board’s still deliberating on the best person for the position.’ His voice dripped with disapproval. ‘But I’m reassured by your commitment to the hospital, and by knowing how much of an honour you consider it to be working for the WA Healthcare Network.’

      She let go of a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. ‘Excellent.’

      ‘So it stands to reason that you were the first person we thought of when Bundallagong Hospital requested a visiting surgeon.’

      ‘Excuse me?’ Of all the possible things she might have anticipated him saying, that wasn’t one of them.

      ‘Bundallagong Hospital.’ William repeated the name slowly, a hint of humour skating along the cool steel of his voice, as if he was party to a private joke.

      Her brain stalled, trying to think why the name of the town was vaguely familiar, and with a start she frantically flicked the pages of the paper open until she found the weather map. Her gasp of surprise was too quick for her mouth to stifle. ‘But that’s fifteen hundred kilometres away!’

      ‘Or nine hundred and thirty-two miles, which is why they need a visiting surgeon for three months.’

      Years of well-honed control started to unravel. ‘William, this is ridiculous. Sending me out into the boonies is only going to make the day-to-day running at City even tighter than it is.’ ‘We’ve allowed for that.’

      Her stomach clenched at his terse tone. ‘We’ve been chasing staff for over a year and what? Now you’ve just pulled a surgeon out of a hat?’

      ‘One of the east coast applicants will fill your position while you’re away.’

      The staccato delivery of his words shot down the line like gunfire and she rocked back as if she’d been hit. The board was deliberately sending her away so they could observe her opposition in action without her being around to counteract any fallout. Incandescent fury flowed through her. ‘And let me guess, that surgeon would be male.’

      A sharp intake of breath sounded down the line. ‘Poppy, you know I can’t disclose information like that. Besides, as you’ve always pointed out, gender is irrelevant and it’s all about expertise.’

      He’d used her words against her to suit his own ends.

      ‘Let’s just be totally honest, shall we, William? You’re seriously ticked off that I applied to Southgate and now you’re punishing me for doing what any other surgeon in my position would have done.’

      ‘Now you’re being irrational, which isn’t like you at all. Go to Bundallagong, Poppy, do your job and let the board do theirs. My secretary will be in touch about flight details but start packing because you’re leaving tomorrow.’

      The phone line suddenly buzzed and she realised he’d hung up on her. Blind anger tore through her and she shredded the newspaper, venting unprintable expletives at the journalist, William, the hospital and the system in general. Who the hell was this interloper from the east coast? She had contacts and she’d find out because learning about the enemy was a vital part of the strategy of winning.

      But as the final strips of paper floated to the floor, her anger faded almost as fast as it had come and uncharacteristic tears of frustration and devastation pricked her eyes. Suddenly she was whipped back in time to when she had been a gangly ten-year-old girl valiantly trying to hold back tears after a drubbing in the first set of a tennis final, one of the few matches her father had actually turned up to watch.

      He’d crossed his arms and stared down at her, his expression filled with derision. ‘Don’t be such a girl. Do you think boys cry? They don’t. They just go out there and win.’

      Shaking her head as if that would get rid of the memory, she stomped into her bedroom and hauled a suitcase out of the wardrobe. If Bundallagong Hospital needed a surgeon then, by God, they were getting one, and the staff there wouldn’t know what had hit them. She’d clear the waiting list, reorganise the department, overhaul the budget, meet every target and make William and the board sit up and take notice. Nobody put Poppy Stanfield in a corner.

      Dr Matt Albright was on an island beach. The balmy tropical breeze skimmed over his sun-warmed skin and a book lay face-down on his naked chest, resting in the same position it had been for the last half-hour. ‘Daddy, watch me!’

      He waved to his daughter as she played in the shallow and virtually waveless water, then he rolled onto his side towards his wife, who lay next to him, reading. At that precise moment he knew his life was perfect in every way.

      She