‘So, what do you write?’
I’m gazing up into the vivid blue eyes of my very handsome anaethetist. It’s 24 September 2012, I’m about to have my knee reconstructed, and yesterday I finished my second draft of Bloom. And I’m really not sure what to say.
‘Ummm. . . sexy stuff.’
The anaethestist’s assistant stands on the other side of the bed smirking. (What do aneasthetists assistants do? Get paid a lot for standing around looking reassuring? Must get me one of those jobs). The anaesthetist’s glorious eyes widen. I think I might be falling in love.
‘Do you write mummy porn?’
I feel the cold creep of anaesthetic up my arm and nod, aware that the bustle of the operating theatre has stilled and all ears are turned to me.
‘Do you have anything published?’ he presses. By rights he should be asking me to count backwards from ten, but we’ve wandered into territory called ‘weird stuff you find out about complete strangers’ and he really wants to know.
‘Well, I have a couple of books coming out next year. They’re about this hot guy called Ramon and he . . .’
At this crucial point I loose consciousness. I know I kept talking, but have no idea what I said. I don’t know what was in that anaesthetic, but when I wake up hours later every single person who cares for me is stunningly gorgeous. I ask one of the nurses if being a model is a requirement of employment at this hospital. She laughs and shakes her head.
‘It’s the med’s, love.’
In the fog of recovery I’ve forgotten my Prince Charming anesthetist – until he visits me in my room nine hours later. He sparkles through the door, looking more desirable than ever. He’s perfectly safe though. My right leg is wrapped in a bandage the size of a baby whale and is encased in a full leg brace. And I feel like shit. Not a snowflakes chance in hell of me launching myself at him.
‘We heard all about Ramon today,’ he mentions idly as he checks my chart.
My turn to widen my bloodshot eyes. ‘WHAT?’
More smirking from the attendant nurse.
‘Oh yeah, we got a full synopsis and everything.’
SHIT! What the hell did I say? And how many people heard it? And what must they THINK? I feel myself going red and hot, like I'm suddenly menopausal.
‘What name do you write under? I have to tell my wife to buy them.’
I get that bouncy feeling when joy (he wants to recommend my books) and disappointment (to his wife) come together at the same time.
‘Kate Belle,’ I mumble, not sure if I’m supposed to be proud or embarrassed. ‘They’re out in February.’
‘Kate Belle,’ he repeats to himself quietly. ‘Great. Well, good luck.’
And he leaves, giving my crimson face a glittering smile, a wave and a sexy, blue-eyed wink.