Beginning, Section II, Next Section

Chapter Five: First Impressions

Posted on Sunday, 4 March 2007

Despite the excitement she had felt all week at the thought of her impending return to Melbourne, from the moment she opened her eyes on Friday morning, Elizabeth instinctively knew she was in for a rough day.

The zipper on her largest suitcase had split open the night before as she attempted to cram the contents back in, forcing her to resort to her mother's wheel-less carpetbag monstrosity. The previously reliable alarm clock, entrusted with waking her at sunrise for her daily jog, had chosen that particular morning to malfunction, with an overnight power surge resetting the times. As a consequence, she had awoken later than was her norm, something that was always guaranteed to produce a headache. Running late for her ten o'clock flight, her ire was further raised in the shower. It was only once her head had been submerged under the steady stream gushing out of the shower nozzle that Elizabeth made her discovery; her sisters had used the last of the shampoo and conditioner. In desperation, she resorted to massaging a generous dollop of strawberry-scented body wash into her long hair. With no time to dry her curls, she twisted her hair back in a severe-looking bun, a desperate attempt to hold the inevitable frizzing at bay.

As she pulled on her jeans, she was dismayed to find that the new turtleneck cashmere jumper she had purchased in Sydney had been mysteriously placed in the drier overnight, despite her strong recollection of hanging it on the clotheshorse to dry before going to bed the night before. As a consequence the jumper had shrunk to half its size, and Elizabeth had eyed Lydia suspiciously as her youngest sister eagerly grabbed the midriff baring knit with barely suppressed satisfaction. With bags packed and locked, and the time ticking, one of Mary's rather bohemian jumpers was accepted as a substitute against the chilly morning air, amidst Elizabeth's growing consternation. She was running late, and yet Fran insisted on her motherly prerogative to scold her, before she was finally rushed her out into the waiting car with Mary. The traffic was horrendous, and Elizabeth's fingers tapped on the dashboard with barely veiled impatience.

'Eager to go, hey?' Mary cast her a quick, reproachful glance, as she weaved the car maniacally through the lanes of the busy freeway.

'As much as I'll miss you, I'm not going to deny that I'm happy to be going home,' she replied anxiously, eyes fixed on the road. 'If I get to the airport in time, that is.'

'I can't say I blame you,' Mary stated meaningfully. 'Unfortunately, I'm stuck there until I finish university, and probably longer. We poor struggling artists can't afford to live where we wish.'

'Mary, you're welcome to come and stay with me during mid semester break in three months time,' Elizabeth offered with sincerity. 'I'll take you to the National Gallery and the Arts Centre. I'll show you the reason why Melbourne is the world's most liveable city. We are the cultural capital of Australia, you know.'

'My Sydney pride will never admit to that, but I'd love to come*,' she replied with a look that bespoke her gratitude. They pulled into the drop-off zone of the domestic terminal with twenty minutes to spare. Elizabeth leaped out of the car and wrestled her bag onto the trolley Mary produced.

'Okay, do you have all of your luggage?' Mary peered at the bags.

'I'm hardly going to misplace that monstrosity. Check." replied Elizabeth, counting the bags quickly.

'Passport'

'Its only a domestic flight, Mary, but, yes. Check'

'Newspaper, crossword and mobile?'

'Check, check and check.'

'You sure you don't want me to sit with you until your flight?' Mary offered. 'I know I told you yesterday that I was planning to go into the studio this morning, but there is nothing so pressing that I can't keep you company before you board.'

Elizabeth shook her head emphatically. 'No Mary, that's alright,' she replied. 'Don't procrastinate on my account. It's only twenty minutes before take-off. I'll call you when I settle in. Take care of yourself.'

The sisters embraced quickly. Mary rummaged in the back seat, producing a square package that she gently placed into Elizabeth's hand.

'A parting gift,' she said with a tentative smile. 'A little thank you for everything; the jewellery, artwork, keeping me sane….'

At the approach of an airport parking officer looking eager to book unattended vehicles in the drop-off zone, Mary hugged Elizabeth quickly before jumping into her car and speeding away. Elizabeth quickly turned to wheel her trolley through the mirrored doors. The sight that met her eyes was pure pandemonium. The terminal was overflowing with passengers occupying every seat, leaning against walls, and squatting on the ground. Long lines snaked from the check-in desk, the entire terminal buzzing with the sound of disgruntled, angry passengers. Elizabeth's jaw dropped. She looked to the departure board. Every flight was branded with a red delayed sign, including her own. She groaned audibly.

She approached the nearest security guard. 'What's going on?' she asked with growing apprehension.

The security guard shook his head reflectively, before holding out his hands in helplessness. 'Industrial action. The baggage handlers and plane refuelers have called a snap strike.'

'What?' she groaned incredulously. After the horror start to her day, this was the last thing Elizabeth had anticipated. 'How long will it go on for?'

'Anyone's guess,' he shrugged, casting her a sympathetic glance. 'Anyhow, please don't get narky like the other passengers and shoot the messenger. I've copped a verbal bashing by a lot of ticked-off people around here today.'

Elizabeth closed her eyes briefly and rubbed her forehead. She instantly regretted that she had not accepted Mary's offer to wait with her until she had boarded the plane. 'This cannot be happening to me' she muttered to herself.

'I'm sorry, love,' the security guard continued kindly, 'but the unions have been pulling these sort of stunts ever since I was knee-high to a grasshopper**. Best to just get in line and see where you stand.'

With a deep sigh, she took her place in the queue, growing increasingly irritable as the line moved at snail's pace towards the check-in counter. Everywhere she turned she saw faces with expressions that mirrored her own irritation and frustration. She felt pity for the young mother in front of her, balancing a baby in her arms as she hissed loudly at her younger children to keep still. Elizabeth shifted from one foot to the other, cursing her luck, cursing the union, and cursing the democratic process that tolerated protests into the bargain.

'At times like this, there is one thing to be said about dictatorships' she mused silently. 'No self-respecting despot would tolerate any such democratic protest from his people.'

The clock ticked by slowly. The time for her scheduled flight came and went, and still the departure board remained unchanged. She finally approached the flustered clerk trapped behind the desk, with trepidation.

'I was scheduled to be in Melbourne at eleven-thirty',' she began. 'I have someone waiting for me at Tullamarine...***'

'I'm sorry,' the clerk shook her head impatiently, obviously frazzled. 'There is little chance that any passengers on scheduled departure flights will be going anywhere. The few baggage handlers we do have today are busily clearing up the incoming flights. I recommend you ring your friend in Melbourne and inform them that you can't predict when you'll be there.'

Elizabeth scratched her head in frustration. The departure lounge was growing louder, the anger and resentment of the other passengers becoming less restrained.

'Are all flights to Melbourne affected?' Elizabeth asked desperately.

'All flights originating from this terminal, to all destinations, are affected by the strike,' the clerk responded wearily, taking a quick gulp from a water bottle resting near the console. 'It's an absolute nightmare. We don't know how long the industrial action will last this time round. Even if it was to end now, it will take hours to clear up the backlog of flights.'

Elizabeth mulled over her words.

'Is the international terminal unaffected by the strike?' she asked, barely hopeful.

The clerk nodded. 'The Industrial Relations commission ruled against the union taking industrial action which would affect the airport's international flight scheduling,' she said, rolling her eyes in exasperation. 'Unfortunately, the domestic passengers are the ones who have to suffer.'

'Is it possible to find a seat on the international flights? Elizabeth asked, shifting from leg to leg. 'There has to be some international flights going onto Melbourne via Sydney.'

The clerk shrugged her shoulders helplessly.

'I couldn't say. The best chance you have would be to run over to the international terminal and check with the individual airlines. I'm sorry, but there's nothing more I can do. Next please.'

'Thanks,' muttered Elizabeth, rolling her trolley around. Finding a semi-isolated corner, she fished out her mobile and punched in Charlotte's number. She strained to hear the ringing down the line.

'Lizzy!' answered Charlotte at length, her voice panicked. 'I thought you said you were due to arrive at eleven-thirty! Did you take an earlier flight?'

'No, Char' Elizabeth replied loudly. 'I'm not in Melbourne. I'm still stuck in Sydney. I'm caught up in a strike at the airport.'

'What? Poor thing,' Charlotte clucked sympathetically. 'So, what time do you want me to pick you up then?'

Elizabeth sighed in frustration. 'I can't say, because I don't know. I appreciate the offer, but under the circumstances, I think it'll be best for both of us if I just take a taxi home.'

'No way, Elizabeth Bennet,' Charlotte retorted fiercely. 'I haven't seen my best friend for over year. There is no way you're entering the state without a welcoming party to greet you. I can go to the shopping centre in Airport West and do some shopping while I wait for your call to meet you at the airport. That's not negotiable, okay?'

Elizabeth smiled weakly. 'What did I do to deserve a friend like you?'

'I take it that's a yes,' Charlotte returned. 'Call me the minute you know something.'

Elizabeth snapped her phone shut and sighed. If the international terminal was unaffected by the strike, it was worth a shot to check it out. She knew enough about Sydney's Airport to know that the domestic and international terminals were housed in completely separate complexes. She cursed the inconsiderate airport designers as she wheeled her trolley back through the throng, stopping dejectedly before the same security guard from before. He looked at her with sympathetic eyes.

'I need to get to the international terminal,' she stated tiredly. 'Could you please tell me the quickest way to get there?'

'Well, you've got three options,' he began leisurely, 'the bus, taxi or the airport link. Bus generally takes ten minutes and runs every half hour. Departure point is bus bay three, near baggage carousel six. You've got little chance of catching one though,' he stated as she moved towards the direction he was pointing. 'The drivers are on strike with the baggage handlers.'

Elizabeth rubbed her eyes with the tips of her fingers. A strong recollection of Tom Hanks' character in the film 'The Terminal', of a man forced to live in the confines of an international terminal, swept through her mind. She had watched the movie with Adam on one of their rare nights off from hospital. She was growing more empathetic with every passing moment for the character's real life inspiration, Merhan Karimi Nasseri, a man who for the past 18 years had been stuck in international limbo at Charles de Gaulle Airport. Elizabeth remembered an interview given by the Paris airport's medical director revealing that Nasseri's incarceration had robbed him of the ability to make rational decisions. With the frustration simmering around her, Elizabeth could understand how rationality could be lost in times of stress.

She snapped back to reality, to see the guard watching her with a raised brow. 'Taxi, airport link?' she asked with a politeness she didn't feel.

'You could take a taxi, but apparently there is a large throng of people out there waiting for one. I just heard that one of my mates had to intervene when two passengers came to blows trying to claim the same taxi.'

He sighed, as Elizabeth gritted her teeth.

'Your best bet would be the Airport Link. Transfers passengers between T1 International and T2/T3 Domestic Terminals, via a train line linking all the terminals. The trip only takes a couple of minutes. Just follow the signs to the lifts to take you to the station beneath the terminal.'

With quick thanks, Elizabeth rushed towards the nearest lift. Her anticipated relief was not to be. Upon arriving at the station, it seemed that the entire population of domestic travellers was of a similar mind to hers. By the time she forced herself and her bags into the crowded train carriage, she was well and truly exhausted.

At the international terminal, the turmoil caused by the domestic carrier had rippled through. She manoeuvred her way to the nearest desk. British Airways. Elizabeth swallowed her ire and pasted on her best smile.

'Please,' she started with a confidence she didn't feel. 'I need to get to Melbourne. Are there any seats available in the next half-hour?'

The clerk shook his head. 'I'm sorry madam; all domestic transfers on international flights in the next four hours have been sold. There is little likelihood we'll be able to accommodate you until late afternoon.'

She closed her eyes briefly and inwardly cursed Murphy and his Laws.

'There's no chance whatsoever of any seats?' she asked, eyes downcast.

He tapped away at the console and shook his head. 'Not at all, I'm afraid. The computer indicates no seats are available. Your best bet would be check out the other carriers, or wait until boarding time and hope that a vacancy comes up from a last minute cancellation.'

The news at the other carrier desks was equally discouraging. Exhausted emotionally and physically, she dragged her feet and luggage to the coffee lounge, ordered a latte and sat in dejected silence. She checked her watch. Twelve o'clock. She had been at the airport for over two hours. As she sipped her drink tentatively, her phone vibrated in her bag.

'Hello' she answered wearily, stirring her coffee absentmindedly.

'Is that anyway to greet your favourite uncle, Lizzy?' a voice chastised on the other end.

'Uncle Edward,' she said weakly. 'You'll have to excuse me; I'm not in the best of moods. I'm at the airport.'

'What, today?' he asked incredulously. 'Your flight was today? I assumed you would reschedule for tomorrow. Didn't you hear about the probable strike on the news last night?'

She sighed in frustration. 'Evidently not.' She could have throttled Lydia. Her youngest sister had sat the entire night with the remote control firmly clenched in her hand, avoiding news and current affairs programming like the plague. Relinquishing the remote control or the telephone from Lydia's grasp was a virtual battle at Longbourne, and with the exception of Kit, none of her sisters were willing to go to war.

'Look, I'm not going to keep you long, sweetheart,' her uncle continued. 'I just thought I let you know that the gentleman you met on the plane booked an appointment yesterday,'

'Ah, Mr Collins,' Elizabeth replied in recollection. 'I know better than to ask you to breach patient-doctor confidentiality, but was your general impression?'

'Actually, Lizzy, my secretary said he seemed very lucid and coherent on the phone. He was most surprised to learn the number you had provided him was for a psychiatrist. Based on what you told me when you first arrived back, it's possible his words on the plane were entirely alcohol and exhaustion induced. He definitely wasn't lying when he told you about his company. According to my research assistant, his firm, De Bourghs', is an incredibly prestigious one.'

'If he was under the influence of alcohol or exhaustion, why would he make an appointment to see you in his present state on the sole incentive that you can help him with his St Catherine?' she probed, alluding to the note she had left Collins.

'You make a valid point, and one that I plan on exploring. I still haven't assessed him, but I thought you would want to know. Anyway, I don 't want to keep you too long.'

Elizabeth grunted. 'Believe me, Uncle Edward. You're not keeping me from anything important.'

'Sorry, Lizzy, I wish I had time for a longer chat but I promised your aunt I would take her shopping for a dress to wear to the recital at the Opera House tonight, and then…' he started apologetically.

Elizabeth quickly cut in. 'I had better let you go then. Give my love to Aunt Maddy for me'

'Will do, sweetheart,' her uncle returned, affectionately. 'Take care and keep in touch, okay.'

Tucking her phone into her pocket, Elizabeth drained the remainder of her lukewarm coffee, wrinkling her nose in disgust at the concentrated strength of the murky contents. She rose wearily, and propelled her way back across to the British Airways check-in desk. She sat down with a sigh, brushing away the frizzy tendrils of her hair that had escaped her bun. She skimmed through her newspaper, pausing for a half-hearted attempt at the crossword before tossing it down in impatience. Her eye rested upon the package that Mary had given her, and she reached for it with curiosity. With great care, she gently peeled away the embossed paper. As it fell away, a small smile played upon her lips as she gazed fondly at the miniature painting her sister had painstakingly created. It was Longbourne in summer; specifically the house, framed by plants in full bloom and an azure sky. As Elizabeth took in the exquisite detail and fine brush strokes, she marvelled at her sister's growing talent. As the middle child, Mary had struggled her entire childhood to assert herself under the shadow of Elizabeth's celebrated intelligence, and Elizabeth was immensely pleased that Mary had found her niche in life.

Elizabeth carefully rewrapped her gift, and checked her watch again. Two o'clock. She hesitantly approached the clerk.

'Please, is there any change?' she asked tentatively. At his vacant look, she elaborated. 'A seat to Melbourne?'

'No.' The clerk shook his head apologetically. 'Short of you purchasing a business class fare, you'll just have to keep waiting.'

Elizabeth clenched her jaw tightly.

'Are you telling me there are business class fares available?' she asked quietly, her anger rising.

The clerk nodded. 'Of course! Nobody has been willing to pay the business class fares, though, as they cost significantly more than the economy fare. I presumed you wouldn't want anything other than an economy seat.'

Elizabeth gritted her teeth in annoyance at the realisation that the nightmare could have ended hours ago had it not been for the incompetence surrounding her. She looked down at herself and sighed in sudden understanding at the clerk's error. With her mopish hair, tired face, and bohemian jumper, she wouldn't be surprised if the clerk doubted her ability to afford a meal. Food. Her stomach grumbled loudly. Elizabeth became conscious that with the exception of the latte, nothing had passed her lips since dinner the night before.

'I'll take the next business class flight' she stated, opening her purse and drawing out her credit card and relinquishing her passport.

The clerk typed away furiously on his console.

'The next flight is British Airways, coming from London via Singapore. Departure to Melbourne is in twenty minutes time. You'll need to make your way to Gate 8 quickly,' he replied, handing her the boarding pass and passport. 'I'm sorry for the misunderstanding.'

Collecting her documents with a cold thanks, she dragged her bags up to the counter and checked them in. She rang Charlotte and informed her of the new arrival time, before making her way quickly to the departure gate. As she jogged, the first faint poundings of a headache brought on by hunger and stress started to reverberate in her head.

It was a tired, flushed, hungry and self-conscious Elizabeth that boarded the British Airways flight BA7445 to Melbourne. As she stood in line with the immaculately attired passengers of business class, for the umpteenth time she wished that she looked a little bit more presentable.

*There is a strong rivalry between Sydneysiders and Melburnians. Unfortunately, Sydneysiders are extremely jealous of Melbourne's reputation as the sports and cultural capital of Australia *ducks from any lurking Sydneysiders*

**Knee high to a grasshopper is the Aussie way of saying 'since I was a young child'

***The Melbourne airport is affectionately called the Tullamarine Airport due to its location in the suburb.

Chapter Five: First Impressions (continued)

Posted on Wednesday, 7 March 2007

William sighed in frustration, stretching his arms leisurely. He hadn't realised how slowly the hours could drag when one was confined to a chair. The flights he usually took on his private jet had always, quite literally flown by; due mostly to the comforts of his own king-sized bed and ample floor space for stretching his long legs. The British Airways flight, William's first as a commercial passenger, had been a necessary sacrifice towards his well-laid plans for anonymity. And he hated it, passionately. He hated the reclining seats that were no substitute for the comfort afforded by a decent bed, hated the tiny bathrooms that proved smaller than the smallest of closets at Pemberley. He hated the lack of privacy, and the fact that other passengers could gaze upon him whilst he was at his most vulnerable, whilst he was sleeping. And most of all, he hated the fact that he had not possessed the foresight to accept Sandra's offer to make arrangements for a small stop over in Singapore, to break up the monotony of the trip. He had been too eager to arrive in Australia, too eager to set the wheels of his plan in motion, the consequence of which he had endured almost thirty hours of continuous travel. One benefit, however, had been the level of service he had received since boarding the plane. The stewardesses had been extremely attentive to his needs, frequently enquiring into his comfort and whether they could improve it any way. He had grinned inwardly at their fussing and fawning. Dr Hotloins obviously still had it.

Richard had been a godsend, organising his placement, accommodation and paperwork within days of William's decision. William could scarcely believe that merely a week had passed since that fateful day in his office at Darcy Pharmaceuticals. It had been a difficult task discharging all of his responsibilities and informing the family of his decision, but it was done, and done for the best. For the first few hours of his flight, he had taken the opportunity to read more about the hospital and study the arrangements Richard had put in place. Professor Walter Lucas, a celebrated academic and world-renowned neurosurgeon, was the current Melbourne Memorial chief of staff. Richard had warned him that Professor Lucas had been initially displeased over subjecting the hospital's clinical resources to the whims of their minor shareholder, but had been appeased by the promise of additional hospital funding.

Richard had procured him a serviced apartment in Port Melbourne, less than ten kilometres from the hospital's Parkville base, with his reassurance that the beachside Beacon Cove address was fitting accommodation for a medical professional. A chauffeured car had been organised for the first days of his visit, until William familiarised himself with the Australian roads. He had been relieved to learn that the Australian road rules were similar to those of England, with drivers sitting on the right side of the car, and driving on the left side of the road. He never forgot the mortification he had experienced at eighteen, when on a trip to New York during his gap year, he had crashed his father's BMW into a crowded intersection in his confusion at the foreign road rules. He had never heard so many choice four-letter words in his life as those that were hurled at him that day, for creating a traffic jam in downtown New York during peak hour. His father had been none too happy about it either, and it had cost him a pretty penny in compensation. That was another thing about New York that annoyed him; New Yorkers certainly seemed to have a penchant for suing.

Choosing an alias for the duration of the stay was left to William. Deception was not a natural part of his character, and he passionately abhorred disguise of any sort. Not surprisingly, the alias was the only aspect of his trip with which William was decidedly uncomfortable. After some contemplation, he had settled on William Crady as his assumed name, reasoning that William was a common enough name to avoid the suspicion of Memorial's administration, and that Crady was a mere rearrangement of the letters that spelt out Darcy.

He had started watching a movie, Man on Fire, only to switch the channel in disgust. Having previously enjoyed watching Denzel Washington's performances, he was looking forward to watching his first movie in years. His disappointment at the film's gratuitous violence and coarse language was extreme, and it inadvertently tarnished the actor's esteem in William's eyes. If he could admit it, the movie had struck a nerve, hitting a little too close to home. The chronicling of the kidnapping of a young girl by a group of ransom-seeking mercenaries, brought back bitter memories of how close he had come to losing Georgiana a year ago. He pushed the memory away, unwilling to dwell upon it.

He had slept a little, reclining as far back as his seat would allow him. Upon awakening, a request made to the hovering stewardess produced a newspaper, accompanied by a suggestive brush of her leg against his. He had steered his attention towards the crossword, a luxury he had forgone years ago. The time had ticked by slowly, punctuated by constant offers of food, drinks and pillows. William desperately looked forward to a fresh meal, a proper bed and an invigorating shower, his patience wearing thin. The plane had finally landed at their first Australian destination, Sydney. In little more than an hour and a half, he would be in Melbourne. He peered out the tiny Perspex window, as passengers departed and boarded, baggage was unloaded and loaded, and the plane was refuelled. It was gloomy and overcast, nothing suggestive of the spectacularly irresistible country that Charles had proclaimed Australia to be. The flighty stewardess had just handed him a copy of the day's Sydney Morning Herald, a phone number inserted discreetly on page three. He eyed it temptingly, watching her as she sashayed away, hips swinging in rhythm with her swaying blonde ponytail, before flipping the page and studying the editorial industriously. William was evidence that, despite popular opinion, not all gentlemen preferred blondes.

Caught up in his reading, William barely noticed the stewardess return once again to usher someone to the vacant seat in front of him. He sniffed the air, as a sudden vision of a mountain of ripe strawberries flashed briefly through his mind, before he returned his attention to the newspaper pages.

With a soft sigh, Elizabeth collapsed into the plush leather seat and looked around her guardedly. She was conscious that she stuck out like a sore thumb, but was thankfully free of the vanity that would allow her to believe that the other occupants of business class had nothing better to do than eye her in disgust. None of the seated passengers had acknowledged her entrance, none had raise an eyebrow in silent enquiry as to her right to be there, and the Barbie-like stewardess had merely cast her a disinterested look as she had studied her boarding pass and ushered her to her seat. Elizabeth rubbed her aching eyes with the tips of her fingers. The lack of food and the pent-up stress was producing a headache of migraine proportions.

'Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking.' The captain's chirpy voice grated on Elizabeth's frazzled nerves. 'Unfortunately, there will be a slight delay on the runway. We should be off in twenty minutes time. We thank you for your patience, and hope you have a pleasant flight.'

Elizabeth rolled her eyes heavenward. 'Damn it,' she cursed in a low voice. Behind her, William voiced the same sentiment.

Her eyes smarting, she pressed for the stewardess. She appeared quickly, primly strutting down the aisle, coming to a stop before Elizabeth.

'Yes?' she asked, with fake enthusiasm

Elizabeth eyed her cautiously. 'I was hoping you would have some paracetamol or aspirin on board. I've been delayed at the airport for over five hours and, surprisingly, I seem to have developed quite a headache.'

The stewardess shook her head, blonde ponytail bobbing.

'Unfortunately, it's not airline policy to hand out medications on board, ma'am' she recited with the precision of an automaton.

Elizabeth gritted her teeth, filled with the primal urge to wipe the plastic smile off her insincere face. 'I understand it's not company policy, but I would appreciate it if you could make an exception just this once, please.'

The stewardess clucked sympathetically.

'Unfortunately, my hands are tied,' she simpered in honeyed tones. 'All staff are under clear instructions not to hand medication to passengers on board. I'm sorry.'

Before Elizabeth could argue her case, the stewardess strode purposely away.

Elizabeth groaned at the irony of her situation. As a doctor, she had the authority to prescribe the most addictive of drugs, and yet, at this point, she couldn't even secure basic non-prescription medication like aspirin.

Sitting in his seat, William heard the exchange. Despite his renowned aloofness, he was not an unfeeling man. Over the past few years, he had found that a cool and reserved demeanour was the only defence mechanism against those who, attracted to his wealth and prestige, wished to exploit his vulnerability for business and personal gain. Perhaps it was the beseeching tone, or the plaintive way in which the words were spoken; his medical training kicked in, and despite his fatigue and his reserve around strangers, he found himself drawn to help the woman seated directly ahead of him. This could be your first benevolent act as Dr William Crady. He folded his paper away precisely, and stood, stretching out his long frame. Peering casually over the seat in front of him, he was greeted by the sight of a curly head bowed down, nestled between two hands. He picked up his briefcase and opened it, deftly producing a small package. Replacing his case, he manoeuvred his way up the aisle to face the woman. With her petite figure dwarfed by her seat, and face obscured, she seemed both young and vulnerable.

'Excuse me, madam.' Deep British tones resonated in Elizabeth's ear. She lowered her hands from before her eyes, blinking in confusion. She turned her smarting eyes upwards, a pair of expensive leather shoes filling her vision. As her eyes ascended further, she took in the strong legs clad in designer denim, and the trim waist and broad shoulders decked in navy v-neck sweater, of the man who loomed before her. Her eyes skimmed past his cleft chin, full lips, aristocratic nose, and came to rest at the deepest, darkest pools of chocolate brown she had ever seen. The man was looking at her with an indecipherable expression on his handsome face, and she was drawn into his piercing Medusa gaze. She snapped out of her daze with the realisation the man had indeed been addressing her. 'I believe I could be of assistance.'

Elizabeth arched her brow in confusion as he handed her a small package. As he leaned towards her, the scent of his cologne wafted towards her. 'Azzaro,' she thought automatically. The scent was masculine, earthy and warm, accented with cedar, musk and sandalwood. Adam had always said she had a nose for men's cologne, and he had indulged her choices, trusted her talent. He had been an Issey Miyake man, exhilaratingly light and fresh. For the second time in the space of a minute, she shook off her reverie and looked at William with questioning eyes. 'It's paracetamol. For your headache,' he elaborated.

Elizabeth was overwhelmed with competing feelings of gratitude and caution. His designer clothing was definitely not the uniform of a flight attendant. 'He must be a fellow passenger who has overheard my conversation with the stewardess,' she concluded. She looked at the box briefly, filled with trepidation. Had she not been a member of the medical profession, Elizabeth was wise enough to know the danger involved in accepting medications from a stranger. Two years previously, the nightly news had been filled with reports of a serial rapist who frequented Melbourne's nightclubs, spiking women's drinks with Rohypnol before sexually assaulting them. She had flown to Longbourne with the express intent to lecture her sisters on the dangers of accepting beverages from strangers, or leaving drinks unattended where unsavoury types may tamper with them. It was advice that she had no intention of neglecting herself.

She held out the box towards him. 'Thank you, but my mother always taught me not to take lollies or drugs from strange men,' she attempted jokingly, trying to take the sting out of her rejection.

William threw her a forced smile, as he studied her now visible features. Pale and drawn despite her obvious tan, and dressed eccentrically for a business class passenger, she was certainly different to the polished women of his acquaintance. She was in violation of several of the codes governing feminine style and deportment, and Caroline would have had a field day assessing them. He could almost hear her indignant condemnation; 'Her hair, Louisa, did you see her hair? So frizzy, so blowsy!' As his critical eye swept over her, he concluded that her brilliant green eyes, framed by thick lashes, were the only redeeming feature in a generally tolerable face.

'Your mother is a smart woman,' he responded, at length. 'And although I am rather ill qualified at recommending myself to strangers, I guess under these circumstances an introduction is necessary. My name is William. As I am therefore technically no longer a stranger, now you have no excuse to reject my paracetamol.'

She looked him with uncertainty. 'What's the likelihood that a business class passenger would carry tampered paracetamol on the off chance that an unaccompanied female passenger would have a headache and need them?' she mused.

'The packet is sealed,' he added further, nodding his head towards the box, answering her unspoken question. 'Any tampering to the contents would be clearly evident. Even if they were tampered with, which they certainly are not, you aren't alone and vulnerable with some strange man at a bar. You're surrounded by passengers in a very confined space.'

Elizabeth gave William a weak smile and returned the box to her lap, her pain overriding all her rational objections. 'I'm afraid I am in too much pain to refuse. Thank you.'

Good deed done, William returned to his seat as Elizabeth eagerly examined the package in her hand. The tamper-proof safety tabs and plastic wrap were still intact, a testament that the contents inside were untouched. Her smile of relief slowly turned to a frown as she studied the blue and white label. DarcyPharm Paracetamol, manufactured by Darcy Pharmaceuticals London. Biting on her lower lip, she breathed deeply before rotating to face William, as he sat quietly perusing his newspaper.

'Thank you' she said, handing him the package.

William frowned as he examined the unopened package. As a medical student, one of the less politically correct professors had taught him that female patients were more likely than men to demand a prescription following a consultation, regardless of how valid their ailments were. Common epidemiology studies confirmed the professor's statement, and during his residency, William had discovered first-hand the truth in his words. He was extremely puzzled that, despite the woman's obvious pain, she had once again refused his intervention.

'That's amazing. Either you've taken the pills out with Houdini-like skill, or you must have had the quickest spontaneous recovery from a headache I've ever seen,' he deadpanned dryly. 'Either way, I'm impressed.'

Elizabeth sighed audibly. Following everything that had happened earlier in the day, the last thing she wanted was to insult the one person who had been thoughtfully considerate of her plight.

'You've caught me out,' she admitted sheepishly. 'Obviously, the pack is unopened, and I still have my headache.'

'You do?' he asked with mock incredulity. 'Well, can't say I didn't try to help. It's your head after all. I'll try not to take it personally.' He instantly regretted his generosity in the face of such ungratefulness. Elizabeth couldn't miss the coldness of his manner as he opened his briefcase and placed the packet inside.

The seatbelt sign flashing prevented Elizabeth from responding. The pilot announced the impending take-off, and Elizabeth fixed her eyes on the front of the cabin as the stewardess ambled up the aisle. She paused coyly in front of William's seat.

'Do you need any help, sir?' she cooed. Elizabeth rolled her eyes at the woman's obvious overtures, as William politely declined her assistance. Within minutes, the plane ascended gracefully into the sky and Elizabeth released a deep sigh. The increased pressure bore heavily on her head, her ears popping painfully with the increased pressure, but her relief at finally leaving Sydney was palpable. The moment the seatbelt symbol blinked off, Elizabeth turned awkwardly to face William, who sat at ease with his eyes fixed on the window.

'I didn't mean to appear ungrateful,' she began apologetically. At her voice, his head snapped towards her, his gaze penetrating hers. 'I truly appreciate your generosity and apologise if I have offended you. Please believe me when I say it's nothing to do with you. It's the paracetamol.'

William's forehead creased in confusion. 'I'm sorry, but I don't follow your meaning. You have nothing against me, but something against paracetamol?'

For the first time in her life, Elizabeth felt inarticulate. It was a strange experience, one that she quickly put down to exhaustion, hunger and pain. 'Soon I will be sounding like the female equivalent of Mr Collins,' she thought to herself, 'and this man will be slipping me a card with a psychiatrists number plastered on it.'

'I seem to be making a mess of things. I don't have a personal vendetta against paracetamol,' she replied with growing embarrassment. 'It's more the manufacturer of this particular paracetamol that I have an objection to.'

A pause greeted her revelation.

'Darcy Pharmaceuticals?' William asked slowly, gazing at her with heightened interest

'Yes, so I hope you don't take it personally' she replied. She turned her back to recline deep into the seat, closing her eyes as her fingers massaged her temples.

William eyed her carefully as she deftly disengaged. As CEO of Darcy Pharmaceuticals, both his curiosity and indignation were raised at her revelation. Although he may have baulked from running the company, he couldn't help but take her statement personally. After all, Darcy Pharmaceuticals had been his father's baby, his pride and joy. Despite his misgivings as CEO, William firmly believed that the personal sacrifices he had made in order to continue his father's legacy had resulted in the continued growth and success of Darcy Pharmaceuticals. He was filled with a sudden desire to know exactly what objections this woman could have against his company.

'Do you mind if I ask why?' he asked suddenly, leaning forward to fill the space between them. Elizabeth slowly turned to face him, breathing laboured. At her silence, he continued, 'Darcy Pharmaceuticals is one of the leading pharmaceutical companies in the world, and their product is considered far superior to many….'

She raised her hand to silence him, as she breathed deeply to overcome the growing nausea she was experiencing. Throwing up at thirty thousand feet, surrounded by business class passengers, would be the ultimate mortification, and she struggled against the churnings of her empty stomach. William, oblivious to her struggles, sat stunned. Never before had a woman dismissed him so curtly, especially not some ungrateful Australian girl at that.

'What you're saying is true. I don't deny it,' she replied, her nausea under good regulation, unaware of his growing indignation. 'Their products are considered the gold standard of the pharmaceuticals industry. But I haven't used Darcy Pharmaceutical products in over a year. Having a headache is not going to force me into lowering my resolve.'

William looked at her with an indecipherable expression etched on his face. The intensity in his cold gaze was frightening.

'So,' he began with slow deliberation, crossing his arms subconsciously. 'Do you mind telling me why you haven't used their products in over a year? Did you have a bad reaction to one of their other drugs?'

Elizabeth released a frustrated titter that faded into a pained groan. The conversation was dragging on longer than she felt it should have, and she craved a moment of quiet solitude following the chaotic hours she had spend at the airport.

'No, it's nothing like that,' she stated tersely. 'It's more a matter of conscience.'

William blinked in confusion. 'Excuse me?'

Elizabeth sighed. 'A matter of conscience,' she repeated slowly, with thinly veiled impatience. 'A boycott, if you prefer.'

William digested her words slowly. A boycott! He would have been amused, had he not been so confused.

'But why?' William asked, brow knotted in bewilderment.

Elizabeth's head ached acutely; she was hungry and she was tired. She instinctively knew she should politely turn back into her own seat and end the conversation, but the man was opening up a can of worms she couldn't resist.

'If you must know, it's because I don't approve of their company policies,' she replied with finality, watching various emotions flit across his face. She dropped her head to the side, and raised her brow, challengingly. 'Are you done with the twenty questions?'

'Matter of conscience', 'boycott', 'didn't approve of company policy'. William's head spun with every inflammatory remark coming out of her mouth. Company policies? He engaged the services of the best legal teams in Britain to ensure the legal soundness of all Darcy Pharmaceutical's business transactions. He followed governmental guidelines down to the letter. His company delivered the most attractive salary packages in the industry, with provisions for health cover and childcare. It was no surprise that her insinuation, that his company's policies were objectionable, raised his ire.

'Which policies?' he demanded abruptly, his tone blunt.

Elizabeth breathed deeply in response to his tenacity.

'Well, their patenting policies, for one,' she revealed, face stern. 'I find it despicable that a company such as Darcy Pharmaceuticals believes that it has the right to patent life-saving drugs, inflate their prices so that they are unaffordable to those who need them the most, and then sues the pants off any company that attempts to produce cheaper generic versions. It's completely mercenary.'

William peered at her coldly, his face an impenetrable mask that belied his growing indignation.

'I find it hard to believe that a person who doesn't carry around their own supply of paracetamol could work for a pharmaceutical company,' he stated wryly, probingly.

'I don't….' Elizabeth began, rubbing her temples.

'Well then, that explains your naiveté.' William interrupted, smoothly. 'You are a consumer. Unfortunately, consumers rarely develop a true appreciation for the intricacies of the manufacturing process. They simply get to enjoy the end product without being privy to the difficulties and limitations associated with the creation of that end product. The fact of the matter is that drug development takes considerable time, and costs large amounts of money. The period between drug research and clinical trials can be lengthy. It's unfair to expect companies, that invest millions of dollars into drug development, to share their intellectual creativity with other companies, particularly those whose chief aim is to undercut them in price.'

'Unfair!' Elizabeth echoed, dropping her hands as her anger rose. She was nettled by his tone, at once patronising and chiding. 'Patenting intellectual creativity that has the potential to profoundly effect the human race, with the sole desire of being financially rewarded for that creativity, does not justify depriving mankind of the immediate benefits that sharing of that intellectual creativity can provide. Companies such as Darcy Pharmaceuticals exist merely to profit out of people's suffering, and are less interested in actually saving human lives. That is truly unfair.'

'That is simply not true,' William replied with a dismissive air. 'I take it you're not a businesswoman either. If you were, you would realise that the success of any company lies not only in its ability to provide a product or service that the consumer needs, but also a product or service that works. If the drugs that Darcy Pharmaceuticals develops weren't saving human lives, then it would not be the successful, and profitable, company that it is today. I… work for Darcy Pharmaceuticals, and so perhaps I'm a little more informed on their policies than you are.'

Elizabeth laughed low, her soft peals increasing in intensity. William watched her, growing increasingly affronted with the realisation that she was laughing at him.

'Well, that's precious. So that's why you're so defensive of Darcy Pharmaceuticals,' she retorted scornfully. 'Well well, if nothing else, your bosses can at least be proud of their ability to buy the loyalty of their employees.'

'At least be proud?' William echoed in amazement, sitting up straight as his hands gripped the arms of his chair tightly. 'If you Australians were a little less obsessed about your sport and little more attentive to news and current affairs, I think you would quickly realise that Darcy Pharmaceuticals has achieved many things of which to be proud of.'

Elizabeth's brow creased with mock contemplation.

'Oh dear, I guess I've been too busy focusing on all the other important news coming out of mother England,' she slapped her forehead sarcastically, her headache forgotten in her passion. 'You know, the state of Posh and Beck's marriage, who Prince William is dating and what Kate Moss was seen not eating at the Ivy. It's so hard to keep up sometimes with all the riveting news.'

She curled her lip, his eyes momentarily widening at her ridicule.

'Many things to be proud of, you say?' she continued, eyes narrowed. 'Well, Darcy Pharmaceuticals should be sooooo proud that millions of people in Africa are dying of AIDS, just because they insist on dragging rival companies through the courts to prevent them from providing generic brand life-saving drugs at a fraction of the Darcy cost. How pleased the board of directors must be! That's definitely a statistic worthy of some serious back-slapping.'

Even after thirty hours of mind-numbing travel, William couldn't miss the thick sarcasm lacing her words. She had openly laughed at him, and had graduated to mocking him with surprising alacrity. William eyed her steadily, lips pursed in displeasure.

'Excuse me, would you like a hot towel?' The stewardess materialised in the aisle, brandishing her tongs at Elizabeth with cold hostility. As both William and Elizabeth refused her offer, she threw Elizabeth a haughty glare as she moved down the aisle. As she disappeared, William spoke again, coldly, and deliberately.

'Despite claims to the contrary, ignorance is not bliss. Blaming Darcy Pharmaceuticals for the current AIDS crisis is ignorant and naïve.' Elizabeth's eyes flashed with fire, momentarily distracting him with their brilliance. 'There are bigger problems to consider. People in Africa are contracting AIDS because of a lack of educational programs in place regarding safe sex practices and transmission. There's a lack of educational programs because there is no funding available for them. There is no funding available for educational programs because the African governments are up to their necks in debt paying off the interest from World Bank loans and burgeoning foreign debt. The true cause of the AIDS crisis is the state of the African economy, not Darcy Pharmaceuticals. As I said, bigger problems.'

Elizabeth glared at him, face flushed with fury. 'Well, maybe if companies like Darcy Pharmaceuticals invested more in the African economy, and profited less from the misery of its people, we could go along way towards getting those 'bigger problems' eliminated. But that will never happen, will it? Such charity would hardly be beneficial to Darcy Pharmaceuticals in any way. In the words of a wise Englishman, 'human benevolence is mingled with vanity, interest or some other motive.' As it stands, the 'bigger problem' is that twenty-five million African children have been orphaned by the AIDS crisis. As long as everyone is shirking accountability, the problem is only going to get worse.'

As her voice rose, the other passengers cast curious glances at the young lady leaning over her seat, glaring at the scowling, albeit handsome, man seated behind her.

'Your solutions to the problems of the world are too idealistic. You would benefit a lot more by being a little realistic.' William retorted with a smirk.

Elizabeth raised her index finger and pointed it emphatically at her chest. 'Idealistic, immature, ignorant, naïve; when you presume to know my character, you should really make up your mind about it. I've been to Africa, and I've experienced the 'reality' there. I've seen the suffering that companies, like the one you work for, cause with their greed and selfishness. If you have no qualms about working for a corporation with blood on its hands, that's your prerogative, just don't look down your nose at those of us who have a little something called a conscience.'

William looked at her coldly, his lips pressed in a thin line. Never, in all his thirty years had he endured such impertinence and open disrespect. The fact it was coming from a woman, no less, was equally shocking. Women loved William Darcy; they smiled, flirted and tittered around him. Men envied him, wanted to be him. As a doctor, his patients had treated him with reverence; as CEO of Darcy Pharmaceuticals, his staff idolised him. The obvious contempt etched on Elizabeth's face did not sit well with him. It was souring what was supposed to be an otherwise sweet experience.

'How old are you?' he asked suddenly, eyes narrowed as he studied her features.

She blinked at the unexpected question. 'That's not really any of your business, is it? Most women would consider that question extremely rude.'

'You can't be older than 21, so there's no reason to avoid the question,' he wheedled purposely.

'I'm 23,' she puffed in annoyance. 'What's your point?'

'Excuse me, would you like some peanuts?' the stewardess's voice smoothly interrupted. Elizabeth returned her cold glare, hunger forgotten in her growing irritation. After handing William several packets, she trotted off with obvious unwillingness. Elizabeth was struck by the sudden thought that the stewardess's territorial behaviour towards William and open hostility towards herself was stemming from a misapprehension that she was interested in him. 'As if I would ever, in a million years, entertain the notion of a relationship with anyone with such an arrogant, patronising, selfish...' William prised open a packet of peanuts, wrinkled his nose at the contents, and placed them aside.

'My point is, that I doubt that a person as young and naïve as you, no matter how articulate and passionate they are, would know anything about suffering,' he stated deliberately, watching her as she lifted her chin defiantly. 'Despite waxing lyrical on the issue, the most traumatic thing you have probably ever experienced in your life is finding out that the last pair of shoes you wanted in your size just got purchased by the lady standing in the line in front of you.'

Elizabeth flinched, anger coursing through her at his presumptuousness. With Adam's loss painfully fresh, and the death of her father still a defining event in her life, her rage grew with his next words.

'Don't get me wrong, I'm sure your trip to Africa was filled with suffering. Running out of bottled water, for instance, while visiting the local villages can be very distressing,' he mocked, cold eyes fixed squarely on hers. 'And, oh, God forbid you should ever endure the tragedy of your camera batteries running flat when you're going out on safari.'

William surprised himself at his own pettiness. He couldn't remember the last time he had verbally sparred with anyone. Richard often engaged him in light-hearted cousinly banter, but generally, people around him had always bowed down in deference. Had that been because of his wealth, his position in society? He couldn't say. All he knew was that the nameless woman with the flashing green eyes had riled him to a point whereby his normally calm, cool and collected demeanour had long spiralled into resentful meanness.

And he wasn't finished.

'What's more, I find it hypocritical that a young woman complaining about the woes of the third world and the injustices done against it by big bad Darcy Pharmaceuticals, can sit here so calmly in business class and judge others,' he concluded, waving his hands to indicate their surroundings. 'Haven't you heard that people in glass houses really shouldn't throw stones? How have you helped the situation in any way?'

Elizabeth's face grew warm, head pounding. She wanted to scream out, to boast of exactly what she had done for the past year to help the situation. She checked herself forcibly. Her journey, and the motivation behind it, was deeply personal. In that moment she felt that any attempt to justify herself, to glory in her benevolence, to this mere stranger whom she would likely never see again, would cheapen the significance of her actions.

'I don't have to justify myself to you,' she said calmly, eyes locked on his. 'And, unfortunately, I don't have the time nor the energy to invest in explaining concepts to someone who is obviously too narrow-minded to understand or appreciate them.'

'Excuse me, would you like…', began the stewardess, wheeling a trolley down the aisle.

'No, no, no!' Elizabeth snapped, turning on the stewardess in frustration. 'I don't want a hot towel. I don't want peanuts. And I don't want a drink.' The stewardess stared at her, mouth agape before quickly directing her trolley down the aisle. Elizabeth breathed deeply, struggling with composure before she turned to William and offered him a glacial smirk. 'And most of all, I don't want your drugs. I wouldn't take them if they were the last ones on earth.'

William took in Elizabeth's flushed cheeks and cold glittering eyes. 'Australian women are pretty passionate…' Richard had joked. If looks could kill, the venom in her face would have sent him long ago to an early grave.

'Suit yourself' he replied coldly. 'Shrew!' he added silently. He gave her one last penetrating stare before he opened up his paper, and buried his face behind it, mind buzzing.

'Jerk', Elizabeth muttered to herself, sliding into her seat. She knew tomorrow she would probably reflect on her behaviour with embarrassment, but for now, she had no desire to do anything other than wallow in self-pity. She was running six hours behind schedule, suffering a mammoth headache, had instigated an argument with a total stranger and terrorised an innocent stewardess. She groaned as she cradled her face in her hands. Her instincts had definitely been spot on when she awoke that morning. It had been a rough day indeed.

Chapter Six: Melbourne

Posted on Sunday, 25 March 2007

'Feeling better?'

Elizabeth nodded at Charlotte, sighing in content. The events that passed between landing at Melbourne and arriving to her Williamstown home were a blur. She vaguely recalled rushing out of the plane, brushing silently past the self-centred Darcy employee who had raised her ire. She remembered impatiently queuing through customs, and tugging her luggage off the carousel, passing through the frosted glass of the arrival lounge to find Charlotte waiting for her, a huge grin lighting her face. Despite the haze of pain, exhaustion and irritation, Elizabeth had never been so glad to see her friend, and her oversized handbag, in her life. Although the size of Charlotte's handbag had long been a running joke between the girls, with Elizabeth teasingly declaring that it contained everything, including the kitchen sink, the bag proved to be a goldmine, and upon discovery of her friends' discomfort, Charlotte was able to provide the relief that Elizabeth desperately craved.

The thirty-minute drive from Tullamarine to the exclusive seaside suburb where she resided passed quickly, with Charlotte providing detailed commentary on a years' worth of local gossip and news as Elizabeth sat back in companionable silence, randomly inserting exclamations of surprise, interest or disbelief. When she laid her eyes on her sweeping home she felt the same familiar pang, a sensation that had first emerged the night that Adam had died. Then, she had been too overwhelmed with grief to define the precise nature of her feelings. Now, as Charlotte manoeuvred her zippy little Ford up the driveway, Elizabeth finally understood what she had been feeling since that fateful night, what she still felt over a year later, though diminished in intensity. It was desolation and loneliness, springing from the bitter realisation that the house where they had laughed, fought and loved, was no longer their home. Now it was her house, and he would never again greet her as she came through the door after an excruciating day at the hospital. Elizabeth sighed deeply. Even after a year had passed, even after the sunset vow to live anew and the removal of her rings, the hurt remained, and all it took to surface was returning to their haven of wedded bliss.

Finally entering into the house, she had been bombarded with memories that she had little time to dwell over, for Charlotte had ushered her into the shower with almost motherly fuss. The hot shower went a long way towards washing away the frustrations she had suffered during the day, and she emerged relaxed and refreshed. She vigorously rubbed a towel through her newly conditioned hair, luxuriating in the softness of her white terry towel robe. Locating Charlotte in the kitchen, she perched herself atop one of the stools lined against the granite kitchen bench, watching her friend as she diligently chopped up cucumbers and tomatoes into a large salad bowl. Upon her entrance, Charlotte looked up at her with a grin of satisfaction. Elizabeth threw her a grateful smile. 'Thanks Char, I really, really needed that.'

'And I'm sure you need this, too,' Charlotte announced speculatively, dropping the knife gently. Moving to open the oven door, she produced a foil-covered dish with gloved hands and placed it onto the granite bench. 'I could hear your stomach grumbling non-stop the entire drive home.'

'I'm sorry about that, but I guess I was too busy focusing on the thumping in my head to pay attention to the grumbling of my stomach,' Elizabeth replied, eyeing the dish hungrily as the scent of spicy tomatoes and beef wafted through the air. 'Now that I have attended to my head, it's only right that I pay attention to the rest of my body. I'm positively starving.'

Charlotte whipped off the foil with a flourish, revealing a steaming dish of lasagne. A second trip to the oven produced a large roll of garlic bread. Quickly dressing the salad, she spooned a generous amount of everything on two plates and passed one to Elizabeth, who eagerly picked up her fork.

'Wow, this is really, really good,' Elizabeth murmured enthusiastically between mouthfuls. 'This sauce is amazing. It's like manna from heaven!'

'Well, that's the first piece of evidence proving that I had absolutely nothing to do with its preparation.' Charlotte replied with an impish grin, raising her fork to her lips. 'If I had, you would be eating a lump of coal. There is a reason I'm nicknamed Char, you know! Mum made it for you! She's thrilled that her pet is finally home.'

'Hey, just because I've always enjoyed your mother's food, and bothered to tell her so, does not make me her pet.' Elizabeth replied, spearing a cucumber. 'You're obviously immune to the fact your mum is an excellent cook, so I guess she gets a thrill from being complimented for her efforts, instead of hearing your usual bitching and moaning about how fattening her food is.'

'Well, when I have your metabolism, I'll rave on about her food too.' Charlotte replied, casting an appraising glance over Elizabeth. 'As it is, all I have to do is smell a TimTam, and it suddenly materialises on my thighs.'

'You sound like Lydia, and you know what a queen of exaggeration she is.' Elizabeth replied with a smile, ducking to avoid the tea towel Charlotte playfully flung towards her. 'This is absolutely delicious. Thank your Mum for me.'

'You can thank her yourself.' Charlotte returned, covering her mouth with her hand as she chewed. 'I've been issued with strict instructions to invite you to dinner tomorrow night, and to accept nothing but a yes, on pain of being disowned.'

'Your mother is such a sweetheart.' Elizabeth looked around the spotless room, noticing for the first time the colourful flowers scattered in crystal vases. 'As are you. You really outdid yourself Charlotte. You shouldn't have gone to so much trouble.'

'It's the least I could do,' Charlotte said, as she produced two glasses from the overhead cabinet. She opened the fridge and poured Elizabeth a glass of apple juice. 'How many people would allow their friend to live rent-free in their home, for an entire year?'

'On the contrary, you did me a favour by staying here and scaring away the thieves with your singing in the shower,' Elizabeth grinned, as Charlotte pouted in mock offence.

'And it would be pretty lousy if I charged you rent considering I didn't pay one cent for this house,' Elizabeth confessed lightly, mopping the last of the rich sauce with her garlic bread.

'Well, it's a beautiful home, and I've had a wonderful time staying here. But now that you're back, it's time to move back home with the folks.' Charlotte scowled playfully. 'Actually Lizzy, why am I thanking you? Damn you for showing me how great independence tastes.'

Elizabeth watched her friend fondly. They had befriended one another five years earlier, during her first year at Melbourne Memorial. Charlotte had been one of the nurses in the cardiology wards when Elizabeth had first embarked upon her gruelling internship, and they had clicked together almost instantly. Charlotte had welcomed the eighteen-year-old Elizabeth's vivacity and total unpretentiousness in a place where most doctors seemed afflicted with a superiority complex, and Elizabeth felt completely at ease with Charlotte, noticing that her dry wit masked a deeply compassionate nature. It was little wonder that patients felt so at ease whenever Nurse Lucas was in charge. It had come as a surprise to Elizabeth that Charlotte was the daughter of the formidable Professor Lucas, the Melbourne Memorial chief of staff. Elizabeth had been shocked when she had first visited her friend at home, in preparation for a trip to the movies, to find her boss looking totally at ease, sitting comfortably on the couch with feet propped up on the ottoman, balancing a newspaper in his lap. Always independent, it had come as a surprise to Elizabeth that her then twenty-four year old friend still chose to live at home instead of branching out. Charlotte explained that she was one of the growing 'boomerang generation'; adult children who moved out of home only to find it financially impossible to maintain their independence, and hence returned to the family nest for cheap board, home-cooked meals, and free laundry thrown in.

Since that first unexpected and uncomfortable encounter with Professor Lucas, Elizabeth had learnt to relax in his presence, and she considered his wife, Lily, almost like a second mother. They had been pleased to encourage the friendship between their daughter and Memorial's brightest new doctor. Charlotte was kind and funny, and what she lacked in looks, she more than made up with natural charm, but she had fallen in with the wrong crowd of friends during her university years, and her parents welcomed Elizabeth's calming influence in her life. Charlotte had been the only person who represented Elizabeth at the registry office in Spring Street for her low-key marriage to Adam. She had also become her light during the darkness that enveloped her after his death, taking on the role of both friend and sister in the absence of Jane and Mary.

'So, how does it feel to be back?' Charlotte prompted.

'It might sound strange to you, but despite the hunger, poverty and disease, I really felt at peace. It feels so strange being back here,' Elizabeth mused, looking around. 'It's like the past year was some fleeting dream. Now that I'm back, it feels like I never left.'

'Well, I'll be out of your hair soon,' Charlotte said, as she gathered the empty plates and cutlery, rinsing them before placing them into the dishwasher. 'Come Monday, I'll be officially back with the folks.'

'After everything you've done for me today, I don't want you doing the dishes too,' Elizabeth pressed, standing up and moving to the sink. 'And I especially don't want you to move, either. It's a big house. I can honestly use the company.'

'Come on, after two weeks of living in a household with five other women, I'm sure you're just dying to have some peace and quiet.' Charlotte speculated.

'Don't even remind me of Longbourne,' Elizabeth winced, rolling her eyes. 'I'm sure that I could still get some peace and quiet, even with you staying here?'

'You say that now, but it would be a different story once I have all my drunken mates over for a slosh-fest,' Charlotte quipped.

'Oh, I don't think your imaginary pals would cause too much damage.' Elizabeth replied with a grin.

'That hurts,' cried Charlotte, clutching her chest mockingly. 'Okay, I admit it. Without you I'm a Nigel Nomates, a Scott Nofriends*. But I still think I should leave before I get too attached to the place and decide to chain myself to the furniture.'

'Hey, I wouldn't mind,' Elizabeth replied with a smile. 'I want you to stay, remember.'

Charlotte looked at her with narrowed eyes, as Elizabeth busied herself with the cutlery.

'I'm honoured you would want me around, really I am,' she began tentatively. 'But, honestly Lizzy, it's time for me to go. You and Adam built a life here, and since the day he died you haven't spent one night alone in the place you both called home.'

Elizabeth paused, cutlery in hand. Casting Charlotte a conscious look, she gently placed the silverware onto the bench and slowly walked towards the lounge room. Charlotte followed her quietly, as she looked around. Once upon a time, the house had been a home. That had been when there were photographs gracing the mantelpiece, well-worn books lying haphazardly on tabletops, mugs with 'World's Best Surgeon' drying next to the sink. Before leaving for Africa, she had packed up all mementos of their life into boxes, and stored them in the study. It had been part of the coping mechanism that kicked in the day Adam was laid into the earth. As she took into the fashionable sterile surroundings that could have come straight off the pages of an architectural magazine, devoid of any of the personal clutter that transformed a house into a home, she sighed and sat down onto the plush white leather couch.

'It's great that you were able to find some peace in Kenya,' Charlotte continued, eyes studying Elizabeth's face. 'But your back here now, and I really think this is what you really need to finally feel closure. You need this time, alone in this house.'

'Why, Char? I know that Adam is not coming back,' Elizabeth replied, passing a hand over her eyes. 'I don't need to be alone in this house to realise that! I've had over a year to become accustomed to that reality, and believe me, I am.'

'Then why do you want me to stay?' Charlotte challenged.

Elizabeth breathed deeply. 'Please Charlotte. I can't stay here alone. Not right now.'

'Elizabeth, you need this,' Charlotte's tone softened.

'He proposed right here, you know,' Elizabeth said softly, biting down on her lip. 'I can almost hear his voice.'

'You are an emerald in the rough.'

She looked up at Charlotte.

'I can't explain what it is, but I'm feeling all these sensations as I look around this room, emotions that I was able to block out of my mind for the past year because I wasn't here to face them.' Elizabeth's voice was barely a whisper. 'It feels like the floodgates to my memory are opening. Charlotte, I need you to stay, just until I become used to the idea of being alone with those memories. Please.'

Charlotte sat next to her and placed her arm around her friend. 'I'll stay. I promised that I would be here for you, and I am, for however long you need me.'

Elizabeth smiled tightly in gratitude. 'Thank you.'

'But hey, no sad stuff tonight Lizzy,' Charlotte brightened, jumping up from the couch and dragging Elizabeth by the hand. 'Come on, lazy bones. Wait until you see the chocolate mousse Mum made you. It's to die for!'

Seated once again at the kitchen bench, each scooping decadent chocolate into waiting mouths, Charlotte continued to apprise Elizabeth of the Memorial gossip.

'…and you'll never guess! Dr Wentworth and Anne are engaged.' Charlotte announced.

'Anne? Sweet, shy Anne from radiology? Wow, I never would have seen that one coming.' Elizabeth replied. 'Wasn't he involved with that orthopaedic surgeon, Louisa Musgrove?'

'Was, Lizzy, was.' Charlotte replied, licking her spoon. 'Apparently, Rick Wentworth and Anne go way back. They were involved back at university, eight years ago. They were quite serious about each other too, until Rick won that Rhodes scholarship and moved to London for a couple of years. He wanted to marry her and take her with him, but she insisted that it wasn't the right time for them to enter into a marriage being students as such.'

'Well, that was very prudent of her.' Elizabeth replied.

'Prudent, schmudent!' Charlotte puffed. 'She could have saved herself eight years of pining, and the misery of seeing the love of her life become involved with another woman. Oh, did I tell you Cathy, up in pathology, had a baby girl?'

'No you didn't but I'm really pleased for her.' Elizabeth replied with a smile. 'It took a lot out of her and Henry, having to go through IVF. I'm so happy that it all paid off in the end.'

'Last one is a bombshell.' Charlotte announced. 'Marianne and John broke up.'

'No!' Elizabeth exclaimed in shock. 'I never thought that would ever happen. They seemed so in love!'

'The bastard cheated on her. Didn't even have the decency to hire a motel.' Charlotte stated grimly. 'She came home early from the nightshift and found another woman sleeping in their bed. She was devastated for months.'

'Maybe now she'll notice Brandon's got a thing for her,' Elizabeth suggested.

'I don't know, Lizzy.' Charlotte began doubtfully. 'He's quite a lot older than her!'

'As was Adam.' Elizabeth replied defensively. 'But that didn't make a difference. You're forgetting that women mature faster than men, anyway.'

'Why is it that relationships between older men and younger women appear more successful?' Charlotte wondered out loud.

'I wouldn't say that.' Elizabeth replied nonchalantly. 'Any relationship that isn't founded on love and respect is doomed to fail eventually, no matter the age of the partners.'

'Come on, you know what I mean,' Charlotte wheedled. 'I'm not talking about the sugar daddies getting involved with money grabbing bimbos younger than their children. At the hospital, I've seen heaps of pretty twenty-something year old women involved with average thirty or forty-something year old men who aren't millionaires or look like Fabio. What's the appeal?'

'Well maybe women aren't as shallow as you think. Ever heard of love?' Elizabeth replied, rolling her eyes. 'Maybe women prefer older men because they have more confidence, or experience in the bedroom. Or perhaps we are a wily sex after all, purposely ensnaring such men because we know that they'll treat us like goddesses because they can't believe how lucky they were to become involved with us in the first place.'

'That's funny!' Charlotte giggled.

'Enough of the hypotheticals! How about you?' Elizabeth turned a critical eye to her friend. 'Normally, by this stage in the conversation, you're lamenting your own lack of a love life. Who is he?'

'There is someone I'm interested in,' Charlotte replied coyly. 'But it's still in that awkward beginning stage and I don't want to jinx it. I'll keep my cards to my chest until I decide whether he is worthy fodder for the girlfriend gossip mill.'

'Is there something in the water?' Elizabeth wondered. 'First Jane, and now you!'

'Well, I strongly doubt that whatever 'it' is, that it's in the water.' Charlotte replied flippantly. 'We're in the midst of the worst drought in centuries. Everyone in Melbourne is about to be slapped with level four water restrictions. That means five-minute showers, and no watering of gardens, period. Please keep that in mind when you see the shrivelled up flower beds in the back yard.'**

Elizabeth nodded, thoughtfully. 'I noticed at Longbourne everything seemed drier. It's amazing how different groups could have different perspectives of the same thing.'

'Please, I beg you, no nerdy philosophical mumbo-jumbo,' Charlotte pleaded.

'Ask the environmentalists and they say it's due to global warming.' Elizabeth pointedly ignored Charlotte's groan. 'Ask the Muslims, and they say it's due to the followers of their faith not paying their compulsory charity to the poor.'

'Fascinating,' Charlotte responded sarcastically.

'You know, Char, the tribal clans in Kenya often gather together to perform rain-dances in times of drought. It's their age-old way of supplicating for rain. Do you think we could start a petition to get the Prime Minister and his federal ministers to line up in toga's and do one for the sake of Australia?'

As they pictured such a spectacle, both girls erupted into laughter. The image of the stocky knobbly-kneed John Howard prancing half-naked with face paint dotted over his prominent bushy eyebrows was just too hilarious.*** The laughter quickly became hysterical, as they clutched their sides, tears streaming down their faces.

'It's great to have you back, Lizzy,' Charlotte gasped, wiping her eyes. 'So, can we expect you to be gracing the corridors of Memorial come Monday?'

'That's the plan. Believe it or not, I'm actually eager to throw myself back into work.' Elizabeth replied, drying her nose on a tissue. 'I need to get some winter clothes though. Nothing in my closet will fit me.'

'Yeah, because you lost even more weight, damn you!' Charlotte eyed her enviably. 'With your tan, you look like some surfer chick.'

'Well, I looked like some feral beast on my flight. You saw how horrible I looked coming off that plane.' Elizabeth grimaced. 'Well, are you free to go shopping on Sunday?'

'Wait a minute, while I think about that one! Hmmm, me, spending your money? I'm definitely there!' Charlotte grinned. 'But why not tomorrow?'

'I've got an appointment with my lawyer over some of Adam's estate business,' she replied tightly.

'No problems,' Charlotte replied enthusiastically. 'All I ask in return for my services is that you take a solemn oath, that, for the next ten years, you won't not dump me to go gallivanting around the world!'

'I have definitely had enough travel for now. After the delays and the run-ins I've had on my way back here, I have absolutely no desire to set foot on any plane.' Elizabeth replied, carrying her plate to the sink.

'Ah, the infamous Mr Collins!' breathed Charlotte.

'And the jerk I met today on my flight!' Elizabeth shook her head in remembrance.

'Another confrontation?' Charlotte clapped gleefully. 'I wish I was there. I love seeing you in your element, with your eyes all fired up and your tongue ready to lash out. What did this 'jerk' do to get your cylinders firing?'

As Elizabeth replayed the scene from the plane in detail, an incredulous expression swept over Charlotte's features.

'He sounds so arrogant,' she fumed. 'And that thing he said about the type of suffering you experienced in Africa! How presumptuous was he? I'm glad you gave it to him.'

'I just wish I could have done it without losing my temper.' Elizabeth mused. ' I remember my father used to always say 'Lizzy, anger is one letter short of danger.'

'Don't feel too bad, it sounds like he deserved it,' Charlotte insisted.

'I doubt the poor stewardess deserved being yelled at for doing her job. I swear she actually flinched when I walked past her to exit the plane. She obviously thought I was crazy.' Elizabeth shook her head ruefully.

'There is one thing that you haven't explained.' Charlotte added after a moment's contemplation. 'How did this boycott of Darcy Pharmaceutical's products come about? I've never heard you mention it before.'

'It's something relatively new. Started during my first month in Africa.' Elizabeth sighed in recollection. 'News broke out that two pharmaceutical giants, Darcy and Novartis****, had taken the Indian and South African governments to court for allowing breach of pharmaceutical patents by state-owned companies producing generic copies of their drugs.'

'I guess that didn't go to well with the medical teams out there trying to battle the AIDS crisis with a limited budget?' Charlotte guessed.

'No, it didn't.' Elizabeth replied, face dark. 'Unfortunately, the South African government lost their case, and as a result the production of the generic brands was brought to a halt. As a result, the medical relief organizations working in Africa were faced with the problem of finding more funding to afford the more expensive Darcy and Novartis brands of anti-retroviral drugs.'

'That must have been pretty difficult for the organizations.' Charlotte sympathised.

'You have no idea, Char.' Elizabeth raked her hand through her curly mane in frustration. 'Funding is pretty tight as it is, you know, and suddenly, we were faced with the heartbreaking task of choosing which patients would continue to receive treatment, and which ones would not. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to make a decision as to who lives and who dies?'

'I can only imagine,' Charlotte replied sombrely.

'Well, for every extra cent we had to fork out to Darcy and Novartis, that was one less cent spent on immunisations and other preventative medicines.' Elizabeth shook her head in disgust. 'The scary thing is, that if the Indian government also loses its court case, there will be even less people receiving treatment, because India is the main producer of the generic brand of retro-viral drugs we need. Eighty percent of the drugs the MSF uses to treat AIDS come from India The MSF started a worldwide petition calling for the companies to withdraw their legal action in India. Until that happens, the medical staff in my team took a vow to boycott their products.'

'So now you're on a vendetta against a multinational conglomerate?' Charlotte asked with a small smile. 'Can I expect to be fielding Hollywood offers for your story?'

Elizabeth threw the towel playfully at her friend. 'No, nothing so dramatic, I assure you. The reasoning behind the boycott is sensible. The fact of the matter is that drug companies like Darcy Pharmaceuticals need doctors to prescribe their medications, in order for their companies to become profitable. Why else do you think the pharmaceutical companies always host lavish two-hundred-dollars-a-head lunches for doctors? They are trying to win our favour so that we can prescribe their brands!'

'And so you believe that a boycott of Darcy's products will persuade them to drop their lawsuit? That's a pretty ambitious idea.' Charlotte replied tentatively.

'Believe me, companies like Darcy understand only one language, the language of money,' Elizabeth stated confidently. 'Why else do you think they have filed all these lawsuits? Hit them in the hip pocket, affect their profitability, and suddenly they move into action. By getting doctors to boycott their products, hopefully this will make them a little more receptive of the message we're trying to send them: that when it comes to averting a huge humanitarian disaster such as the one that is unfolding in Africa, profits need to take a backseat.'

'I agree with your rationale, but there are millions of doctors, Lizzy,' Charlotte emphasised. 'You, and your colleagues at the MSF, are only small fish in a big medical pond. How can you effect a change large enough for Darcy Pharmaceuticals to take notice?'

'Well, that's why we need to spread this message. The more doctors on board, the greater the pressure on Darcy Pharmaceuticals and the like,' Elizabeth returned passionately. 'My aim is to ensure that as many of the doctors at Memorial are aware of these facts. I'm going to encourage as many of them to boycott prescribing their medications.'

'Steady on, Lizzy,' Charlotte sighed deeply. 'I would tread very carefully if I were you.'

'Whatever for, Char?' Elizabeth retorted indignantly. 'These mercenary lawsuits aren't a figment of my imagination. I'm not defaming them if I'm quoting the facts.'

'I'm not worried about you being sued by Darcy Pharmaceuticals for libel,' Charlotte replied, folding her arms across her chest. 'I'm worried about you getting the knickers of Memorial's administration in a twist.'

Elizabeth's brow creased in confusion. 'Why would they care?'

'Oh, I don't know,' Charlotte began, sarcastically, scratching the side of her head in mock contemplation. 'Perhaps the fact that Darcy Pharmaceuticals is one of Memorial's main shareholders may have something to do with it.'

Elizabeth gazed at Charlotte, stunned. 'Shareholder. You're joking, right?'

Charlotte shook her head regretfully. 'Sorry, Lizzy, but it's true. I found out that little fact from my dad, only a couple of days ago. Mum said he had been silently fuming over something hospital-related, and charged me with finding out what it was. Turns out he's really upset that Darcy Pharmaceuticals has used its position as shareholder to start clinical trials of a new heart drug at Memorial. Dad has no say in the matter. They are sending the trial supervisor down from England. He starts at Memorial in one weeks' time.'

'I don't believe it.' Elizabeth fumed. 'That is just typical. This proves my point that pharmaceutical companies are just interested in their own profits. What other reason would they have for buying into a hospital, other than to take advantage of patients for their clinical trials and create a setting where they can enjoy a monopoly on the prescriptions and treatments given?'

'I don't know about that, Lizzy,' Charlotte speculated thoughtfully. 'The acquisition of Memorial is not exactly new. Apparently, they purchased a forty-nine percent share back in your first year at Memorial. Even if their aim was to hold a monopoly on Memorial's pharmaceuticals, the government, as majority shareholder, couldn't allow it. It goes against all those fair-trading acts they've got in place.'

'Well, I don't recall ever being ordered during orientation to prescribe Darcy medications exclusively,' Elizabeth muttered begrudgingly. 'My first year! How did I not hear about that?'

'Well, I never knew either, and my dad is the chief of staff. It must have been a pretty low-key acquisition.' Charlotte reassured her. Smiling cheekily, she added, 'I strongly doubt you can recall anything from that year; you were too smitten with a certain surgeon to pay attention to much else going on.'

Elizabeth placed her hands over her face, sighing deeply, as she rubbed her eyebrows.

'Ugggh!' she exclaimed at length in frustration. 'After all those things I said to that jerk, about him working for a company that had blood on its hands, you're now telling me that I'm one of the denizens of hell?'

'Come on, Lizzy, stop being dramatic.' Charlotte soothed. 'If it makes you feel better, I work for the devil too. And you know what they say: better the devil you know!'

'For goodness sake, Char, I struggled for over two hours with a splitting migraine so I wouldn't have to use their paracetamol, and now I realise that they pay my wages.' Elizabeth muttered.

'Lizzy, if you're so worried, you could always live off Adam's trust fund and donate your wage to the 'Buy Charlotte a House' fund,' her friend joked. 'I'll even name the guest room the 'Elizabeth Bennet' suite.'

'That's just fantastic.' Elizabeth returned, seemingly oblivious to Charlotte's joke. 'How can I reconcile getting my money from these mercenaries?'

'Relax, Lizzy.' Charlotte soothed. 'Despite what you and I know, there are some people in the world who might think that doctors are also making money out of peoples pain and suffering. You're in an honest profession, providing an important service to humanity, and how Darcy Pharmaceuticals earns the money in order to pay you is not your problem.'

'Come on, Char, that's morally irresponsible.' Elizabeth exclaimed. 'It is not sound logic, you know it is not.'

'Let me put it another way. Do you believe that a taxi driver, hired to drive a known prostitute home from a long day turning tricks at the local brothel, should refuse the fare she gives him just because she probably earned the money in a less than scrupulous way?' Charlotte wheedled.

Elizabeth contemplated the question. 'Of course not.'

'There you go, I prove my point.' Charlotte replied with satisfaction. 'The taxi driver provided an independent service and he is getting paid for that service. The source of her money is not relevant. Now, if she had decided to pay him with sex that would be morally irresponsible.'

'That's a completely different situation, Charlotte!' Elizabeth exclaimed.

'I'm just drawing an analogy similar to your own circumstances.' Charlotte insisted. 'The moral police could probably find fault with every single organisation out there. Should we stop buying our groceries at supermarket chains that sell alcohol because they are profiting from someone's alcoholism? Should we stop putting our money in banks because the majority of their profits are from slapping high interest rates on mortgages and personal loans? You have to remember that Darcy Pharmaceuticals, although morally contemptible in your eyes, is a law-abiding, tax-paying corporation. They do their job, and you are doing yours.'

'As much as I hate it, you do sound like you're making some sense. Or maybe it's just my sleep deprivation.' Elizabeth shrugged. 'Well, just because they own part of Memorial, that doesn't mean that I have to agree with their policies. Nothing is going to make me change my views on that!'

'Good for you!' Charlotte responded enthusiastically. 'But if you're going to create waves, make sure you don't get swept away in them yourself, okay!'

Elizabeth sat petulantly, drumming her fingers on the bench top, and snorted.

'Thank God I'll never see that Darcy employee again,' she exclaimed, frowning. 'How would I face him, knowing what I do now?'

'That's not something you'll ever have to worry about.' Charlotte reminded her. As Elizabeth stifled a yawn, Charlotte jumped off the stool. 'It's past ten. After the day you've had, it's to bed with you.'

'Yes, Mummy,' Elizabeth grinned. Stifling another yawn, she looked at Charlotte sheepishly. 'Actually, I am pretty exhausted.'

'Well, that's the only reason I'm not demanding to see all of your photos and hear all about your travels in detail,' Charlotte retorted, as she placed the empty mousse bowls into the sink. 'Tomorrow, I wont be so forgiving.'

Elizabeth hopped off her stool and gave Charlotte a friendly hug, before she was shooed down the hall towards the master suite. She turned into her bedroom, looking around at the sea of chocolate brown and polished walnut that provided a striking contrast to the soft billowing whiteness of the comforter set. Moving into the ensuite, she quickly brushed her hair and teeth. Returning to the bedroom, she rolled opened the closet door and grabbed a pair of yoga pants and top, a sock tumbling out from amongst the folded items she did so. She slowly bent to the ground, and picked it up, gazing at it in wistful recognition. Before leaving for Africa, she had removed all of Adam's clothing and packed them into boxes. She had stored them in the study, with the intention of donating them to the Salvation Army, but found that as the time came closer to her departure, she could not bring herself to do so. The sock must have escaped her frenzied purging. As her fingers caressed the soft cotton, she held it to her nose and smelt nothing but the lavender that seeped from the lavender-scented cedar balls that lined her drawers.

Elizabeth fell onto the bed, clutching the sock to her chest, and closed her eyes momentarily in reflection. When she next opened them, the clock read one am. Disoriented and bleary eyed, she rose up, removing her robe to wriggle into her yoga pants and top. Gently grabbing the sock that lay upon her bed, she slowly ambled into to the kitchen to pour herself a glass of water. Sipping it distractedly, she placed the glass in the sink, as her feet slowly dragged her down the hall, towards the study. She stood before the door, heart beating wildly. Opening the door gingerly, so as not to alarm the sleeping Charlotte, she flicked on the light and stepped inside, closing the door behind her. She peered at the mountain of cardboard boxes that loomed before her through light sensitive eyes, boxes of clothing, boxes of memories. Moving speedily to the largest and nearest of the boxes, she tugged it open to reveal a neatly folded stack of clothing. Folding the sock, she kissed it softly and placed it atop the pile, before replacing the lid firmly.

Looking around the room, she was flooded with a sense of overwhelming loss tinged with anger, comparable to that which she had experienced in the first days after Adam had died. He had been a loving, living individual, and the only reminder of his existence, spent saving countless lives, was contained in twenty cardboard boxes. Swept away in a pain she believed she had overcome, she moved to the door with alacrity, wanting to be as far away as possible. As she did, she felt an invisible pull towards a smaller box that lay solitarily atop the desk, seemingly calling to her. She slowly changed course, and moved to stand behind the desk. Tentatively easing herself into the leather chair, she lightly ran her fingers over the inscription written upon the top of the box. She couldn't recall writing it, but deep in the recesses of her mind, she knew that she had done so when she had last entered the room, the day she left for Africa. 'Change is the law of life. And those who look only to the past or present are certain to miss the future'. What bitterness of spirit had induced her to write that?

Slowly, with trembling fingers she prised open the box, the scent of Issey Miyake pervading her senses as pulled out a leather album. Tucking her legs beneath her, she smiled gently as she turned the pages and read the captions next to each photo. 'Memorial Ball, 2003'. Adam had been so nervous when he had asked her to accompany him, knowing that such a bold step would make them fair game for Memorial's grapevine. He had gone to so much effort that night, dressed in his dark grey suit. He was not a classically handsome man; a Grecian profile he possessed not, his nose a little large, his build was a little thin, but his charisma and confidence had compensated for that. The expression on his face had been one of awe, when her first lay eyes on her in her flowing black gown. Charlotte had snapped the picture at the ballroom, as he had stretched out his hand to lead her to the dance floor. Elizabeth sighed deeply, as her fingertips gently traced his outstretched hand. Like most surgeons, he had had beautiful hands, soft, gentle and smooth. Next to the photo, a small dried flower was pressed into the pages. He had presented it to her at the conclusion of that night, after he had driven her home.

She turned the page. 'The Cardiology Conference, Lorne 2003'. On the heel of 6 months of dating, it had been their first trip away together. 'Our Wedding, 2004.' They had been so happy as they stood hand in hand at the registry, she looking resplendent in simple flowing white dress, he so suave in a black suit. Tears coursed down her face, as she bit on her hand to prevent the light sleeping Charlotte from hearing her cries. Page after page, memory after memory flooded her mind. She kissed her fingertip and passed it gently over the image of his smiling face, and closed the album, clutching it possessively to her chest before placing it on the desk. She rummaged further into the box, past Adam's framed university degrees and various scholarly awards. The contents got increasingly more personal as she dug through: his beeper, his favourite Thai silk tie, his set of keys, and his wedding ring. She breathed deeply as she held the simple band of platinum in her hand, and saw her own name etched on the inside. She dug further, like an archaeologist discovering a long forgotten treasure. Her hand wrapped around a rectangular velvet case, her heart beating faster; her breath growing more ragged, as she lifted it out. She placed it gingerly on the desk as though it burnt her flesh to touch it, and sat staring at, transfixed.

It was 'The Case'. A thin oblong box, deceptively innocent to the eye, yet inside it was the reason she had become a widow. Suddenly, she was transported back to that day; a surprise, a kiss, a plea, then pain and guilt. Breathing shakily, she replaced 'The Case' into the cardboard box, unopened. Roused out of her reverie, she quickly returned the rest of the contents, closed the box and hurried out of the room haunted by ghostly memories. She knew not how she made it to her room through the darkness and her own blinding tears, but mercifully, sleep came quickly to an exhausted body and emotionally exhausted mind.

It was one am, and despite over thirty hours of continuous travel, William was wide-awake. He had crossed so many time zones on his flight from London that it was wreaking havoc with his circadian rhythm. With his body and his brain at loggerheads with one another, he had long abandoned his futile attempts to sleep. He remembered his mother's remedy for insomnia, a steaming mug of warm milk. As a doctor, he knew that the remedy was one popularised by old wives tales and held little scientific merit, but suddenly, he had a strong craving for it. It was something familiar in an unfamiliar place. He padded into the kitchen, and searched the fully stocked refrigerator for a carton of milk. Pouring some into a mug, he inserted it into the microwave, struggling briefly with the multitude of buttons before turning the appliance on. As he watched the mug spinning around like a carousel, he cursed loudly as the frothy contents foamed over. He sighed as he searched the cupboards for something to sop up the mess. Dr Hotloins he may be, domesticated he certainly was not.

Half-heartedly cleaning his mess, he grabbed the mug and moved to the lounge room, standing before the sprawling floor to ceiling windows leading to the balcony. When he had arrived earlier in the afternoon, he had been pleasantly surprised with the location of the apartment Richard had secured. The penthouse of a high-rise complex situated on Beacon Cove's shorefront, he had stood on the balcony, gazing out with awe at the sparkling sea spread before him, embraced in the golden glow of a setting sun. Although the icy sea breezes had quickly driven him indoors to enjoy the view behind the glass window, William could imagine that in the summer it would be a perfectly wonderful place to have his breakfast. Now, in the darkness of the night, all he could see was the flashing light of a faraway vessel bobbing on the waves.

Sipping the milk contentedly, he sat down on the suede couch. Clutching the remote control, he clicked through the local channels, and quickly came to the conclusion that Australian late night television was greatly lacking in substance. He refused to subject himself to the pay-per-call quiz show asking viewers to guess the right suffix for the word 'sun', nor did he desire the evangelistic preaching of a laidback coffee-swilling priest. Switching the television off, William reached for the phone. It would be a little after one pm in London, and he needed to touch base with Richard. Following the detailed instructions printed on the manual next to it, he finally succeeding in dialling Richard's mobile number, and sat back, scratching his head as the phone rang and rang.

'Richard speaking.' His cousin's smooth tones stretched across the distance.

'Richard, it's me,' William replied.

'Ah, the prodigal CEO makes contact,' Richard exclaimed warmly.

'I arrived a few hours ago and thought I should make sure the company is still operational.' William returned.

'Just give me a moment while I send home all the strippers dancing around the office, Fitz, then I'll be free to answer all your questions.' Richard replied jokingly.

'So I take it everything's okay, then?' William asked, sipping his milk.

'Last time I checked, Fitz, your absence has not caused the world to spin off its axis.' Richard replied, smoothly. 'You're going to get absolutely no work done in Australia if you're going to worry about the company the entire time.'

'If I didn't trust your ability to do a great job, I wouldn't have put you in charge.' William reminded him.

'Thanks for the vote of confidence,' Richard replied. 'So, has everything proved to be up to your rigorous standards?'

'The apartment is beautiful,' William admitted. 'The chauffeured car was reliable, waiting outside the terminal as arranged. If only the flight itself wasn't such a pain in the behind, everything would have been perfect.'

'Hey, if you want to associate with the masses, you have to travel like the masses.' Richard reminded him. 'You have to remember that Dr William Crady, humble physician and pharmaceutical researcher, can't afford the private jets of Fitzwilliam Darcy.'

'And yet I'm staying in a multimillion dollar penthouse on the beach,' William mused.

'Well, that's because your employer, Darcy Pharmaceuticals, has generously offered to provide you with accommodation during your tenure at Memorial, remember?' Richard reminded him.

'Well, the flight was a necessary sacrifice.' William sighed. 'I only wish the company on board was a little more bearable.'

'God, you sound like a snob.' Richard laughed. 'What, did they seat you next to someone who didn't measure up to your high standards?'

'Don't put words in my mouth, Richard,' William replied, tiredly. 'I had a minor altercation with one of the women on the Sydney to Melbourne leg. She was terribly rude.'

Richard chuckled.

'Wow, are you telling me there is a woman out there, older than ten and younger than seventy, who hasn't swooned at your feet and come to worship at the altar of Darcy?' he asked, incredulously.

'Believe me, she definitely wasn't my type.' William replied nonchalantly. 'She looked and sounded like a woman who had been raised by a band of socialist gypsies.'

'I think you've lost your charm, Fitz.' Richard taunted.

'For your information Richard, I had the stewardesses eating out of the palm of my hand the entire flight, and I wasn't even trying.' William bragged.

'So, did you get inducted into the Mile High Club?' Richard teased.

'Firstly, I own a jet, remember? I'm a member from way back!' William retorted. 'Secondly, I'm not seeking an Australian affair. I'm here purely for business. I'm not available for anything more.'

'Yes, well, I can see my duties as CEO will require extensive air travel in the very near future,' Richard replied. 'I might fly down to the Spanish coast for a few days of research and development.'

'I swear, Richard, pollute my jet and I'll fire your sorry behind,' William started menacingly.

'Well, you've left me with enough work here so I won't have time to do anything else.' Richard huffed. 'I can't even spare the time to talk to you at the moment. I've got products to develop, and patents to file.'

'Well, I don't want to stand in the way of you selfishly patenting intellectual creativity that has the potential to profoundly effect the human race' he paraphrased sarcastically, recalling the angry words thrown at him by the fiery eyed woman on the flight.

'Huh?'

'Don't worry about it. I just remembered something stupid.'

'Okay, I'll leave you to your sleep-deprived ramblings' Richard replied, slightly puzzled. 'Keep in touch, and let me know if you need anything from this end.'

William replaced the receiver, and stretched his arms over his head. Placing his mug into the sink, he walked into the bedroom and climbed onto the bed, plumping the pillows fussily. Sinking his head into the downy depths, he planned his strategy for the following week. Tomorrow he would unpack and rest, perhaps persuade Charles to fly down from Perth for a catchup. On Monday he would contact Professor Lucas and smooth the path for his start at Memorial the following week. His mind abuzz with activity, it was near dawn before William finally drifted to the land of Nod.

* In Aussie slang, a Nigel No Mate or a Scott No Friends is the name given to someone with no friends.

** We expect to be slapped with these restrictions soon, our lawns are dustbowls and our cars are dusty, and yet the Victorian government could still justify pumping 6 million litres of fresh drinking water into a temporary pool at Rod Laver arena (the home of the Aussie Open Tennis) for the FINA World Championships. Go figure!

*** John Howard, PM of Australia is always mocked in Australian newspaper cartoons because he is a stocky, short politician with impossibly bushy eyebrows and a distinctive Aussie drawl.

****Novartis is currently suing the Indian government, and the MSF has circulated a petition demanding this action be terminated.

Continue on to Next Section