Sometimes it feels like everything has finally settled down – the work is steady, the nurses respect you, the patients remember your name. Then life hands you another twist that makes you sigh, “What now, again?”
After the “internship” in the United States, where Blythe took her first steps in American medicine, and the endless “Doctor, I feel sick!” days that turned the ward into a circus of absurdity and exhaustion, a new chapter opened – the “Contract Queen”. And ahead lies the “Residency”, where medicine plays by its own strict but honest rules, occasionally with a dash of humour.
This story can be read on its own; you don’t need the previous parts.
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“The movies make‑it‑simple: the lawyer fights till the end, the judge is wise and fair, good triumphs. In real life – not so much.” Those bitter thoughts settled over Blythe after a late‑night viewing of an American blockbuster with her husband.
After a few years as a general practitioner at the Health Centre in Cambridge, Blythe finally felt she was where she belonged. Patients called her by name, the consultants treated her with respect, and the benefits, by British standards, were top‑notch.
Then came the day the director, hurrying past her office, muttered:
— They’re selling us out. Things are only going to get worse. You’d better start looking for another post.
A couple of hours later her friend brought an invitation to a lecture at Dr. Whitaker’s centre – the renowned cardiologist who owned half the buildings on the High Street. The event was hosted in his French‑styled restaurant, complete with a harpist, fine wine and a multi‑course dinner.
— He’s always on the lookout for fresh doctors, — winked her friend. — And he’ll write off the taxes for you.
The evening was flawless: the lecture was insightful, the food exquisite, the music. Then came the introduction – a sharp suit, gold‑rimmed glasses, a confident smile – and an offer for an interview.
— The base pay isn’t spectacular, but the bonuses are generous, — he said, sliding a cheque for forty thousand pounds across the table. — Two weeks’ holiday, occasional Saturdays off, a friendly team. You’ll be my queen.
The only clause that gave Blythe pause was the non‑compete: five years and fifteen miles.
— Standard, — he brushed off on the phone. — We’ll cut it to ten. You won’t want to leave anyway.
She believed him. She believed the floor‑to‑ceiling windows, the fireplace in his office, the aromatic coffee brewed in a brass pot by his courteous secretary. She believed the cheque that seemed massive at the time, because she desperately wanted her life to feel like a fairy‑tale.
The first months felt like a dream fulfilled: her own consulting room, a leafy garden visible from the window, a personal medical assistant, colleagues with whom she could discuss complex cases. But it soon emerged that Whitaker needed GPs like machines to churn out referrals to his own clinics. The bonuses were tied not to the quality of care of the patients but to the number of tests ordered.
The climax arrived when she was ordered to send a sixteen‑year‑old for a full cardiac work‑up, a boy whom Blythe was convinced only had a pulled muscle. His mother, reading the suggested diagnosis on the referral, nearly fainted.
A cloud of anxiety hung over the department: constant monitoring, surveillance, sudden dismissals. Then, like a lifeline, Helen – a friend from Blythe’s residency days – suggested they open a practice together.
— I know an elderly doctor who’s selling her surgery cheap. We’ll bring our own patients.
— The non‑compete clause…
— They say the courts won’t enforce it, — Helen replied confidently.
For the first time in ages Blythe tasted freedom. She would never have dared to act alone. They began to plan, until Helen vanished. She resurfaced at Whitaker’s office with a tempting offer she couldn’t refuse: her own consulting room, her own patients. One condition – Blythe could not come with her.
— Want an extra ten thousand? — Whitaker asked, his voice unchanged, still calling her “queen”.
— I’m leaving, — she snapped, barely holding back‑handed anger.
— Think again – you’ll regret it. I’ll sue if you need to! — he hissed through clenched teeth.
A security guard was summoned at once and escorted her out like a criminal. The office fell behind her: shelves of reference books, a painting his wife had done, a desk lamp from his home. She could only grab what fit in her hands. In the car she broke down in tears.
The following months were a marathon of hunting for premises, meeting landlords, compiling equipment lists. When it seemed everything was collapsing, former assistants called:
— Dr. B., we’re with you.
With their help the new clinic opened. Patients found her despite rumours that she had “died” or “fled to Russia”. The old office was only nine and a half miles away – a half‑mile is nothing, right? Soon a letter arrived from Whitaker’s lawyers.
The court case dragged on like a stubborn flu: hundreds of pounds per phone call, piles of paperwork, patient witnesses. After each meeting with solicitors Blythe felt drained, as if she’d been wrung out like a dishcloth, and for the first time she began to believe that Whitaker’s fairy‑tale could end in a total wreck.
Then the verdict was read.
The judge, yawning and shuffling papers, said:
— I see no problem. Reduce the radius, cut the term to one year.
That was it. All the months of fighting, the thousands spent, the sleepless nights – reduced to a brief “no problem”.
She reopened in a fresh location, away from the over‑crowded boroughs. The patient list grew even larger. Just when it seemed the past was finally behind her, the phone rang.
— This is Dr. Whitaker. How’s my queen doing? Hope you’re not holding a grudge. Could you sign the paperwork for a new MRI? I need doctors’ signatures.
For a heartbeat her chest tightened. She wanted to slam the receiver shut, to unload everything she thought of him. Instead she inhaled deeply and answered evenly, almost with a smile:
— All is well, Dr. Whitaker. Thank you. You’ve certainly toughened me up.
She hung up and realised: he had indeed toughened her. So much so that she no longer needs a crown.
