In the UK, surgeons are never called doctor, a convention that harks back to the days when surgeons were butchers without medical degrees and were not considered worthy of the prefix. Americans get very confused.

‘The surgery was very successful,’ I say, gently extricating myself from his grasp. ‘We were able to—’

‘Is she all right? What about the baby?’

‘Your wife and baby are both doing well,’ I say.

‘She couldn’t be in better hands, Mr Sharp,’ the registrar adds.

He’s right. There’s a reason I became the country’s youngest Professor of Cardiac Surgery three years ago at just thirty-seven, leapfrogging surgeons with decades more experience. Since I joined the Princess Eugenie Hospital as a consultant I’ve performed more than two hundred Norwood operations and nearly three hundred arterial switch procedures. My outcomes are among the best in the world.

No one would describe me as a touchy-feely person: I’m aware my bedside manner leaves something to be desired. But if someone you love needs a miracle, I’m the one you want carving up their chest.

I try hard not to see my patients as people: it gets in the way of my clinical judgement. And I avoid their relatives at all costs for the same reason. But there’s something so desperate in this man’s expression, I can’t just walk away.

‘Mr Sharp, I’m not going to let your wife die,’ I say gently. ‘What happened to her was a freak accident, like a burst pipe. And I’ve just fixed it. She’s not sick or fragile. She’s a very healthy woman. They’re both going to be absolutely fine.’

He starts to sob.

I absolutely don’t do tears. I leave before he throws himself bodily at my feet in gratitude: it wouldn’t be the first time.

I’m walking down the ramp into the underground car park when my phone bleeps with an incoming text.

We got the Glass House.

chapter 10

millie

I toss my phone onto the passenger seat within easy reach and put on my sunglasses. Sunlight streams through the panoramic sunroof as I emerge from the car park. In its way, this vehicle is a work of art just as much as the Glass House. Every aspect of the cockpit is a masterclass in efficient simplicity.

An extravagance, yes: but I’m a connoisseur of beautiful things.

The traffic on the Brompton Road is heavy, but moving quickly. On impulse, I stop at the Flower Yard to pick up a bouquet of summer blooms: I’m in the mood to celebrate. Not only did we get the house, but Stacey Porter has just agreed to come to the upcoming hospital gala to raise funds for a new hybrid OR in the Emergency Department.

Even better: she thinks it was her idea.