The Secret Path by Karen Swan (summer beach reads TXT) 📕

trying to hold yourself to that account. We are not superhumans. We do our best and then let it go. That’s all we can do.’

Tara stared into the darkness, finding no comfort in the words. She couldn’t just settle for ‘doing her best’. As far as she was concerned, surgeons had to be held to higher account. The stakes were too high for them to be slack or relaxed about what they did. ‘What if they take my licence?’ she whispered.

‘That won’t happen.’

‘It might. They could decide I was negligent. That I should have double-checked before I closed her back up.’

‘Ta, you are their show pony. Their flagship consultant. That’s not going to happen.’

Tara blinked in the darkness, feeling a sudden vibration in her bones at his words. ‘. . . What do you mean, show pony?’

There was a pause. ‘I mean that you’re the youngest ever consultant they’ve had in ICU. They believe in you. They wouldn’t let you go over something like this.’

She fell quiet, reading the subtext: no, he had meant that she was a Tremain. That was why she’d got so far, so fast, in her career. She’d always wondered if, deep down, he resented her greater success. Now she knew. He believed what she’d got, she’d got by favours, influence, prestige. She felt a profound loneliness whistle through her like a cold wind. ‘I can’t lose my career. It’s all I have.’ Her words were barely a whisper now.

‘No. You’ve got me.’

She stared into the dark room, into the void.

It was all she had.

Chapter Thirteen

She came to, in chunks of sensory processing: first she heard the rhythmic crash of the waves, then occasional voices passing by the huts, a distant shout. Opening one eye, through the gauzy haze of a tented mosquito net, she saw sunlight slanting through the cracks, striping the room. It was morning, then? She’d actually slept?

She sighed and reached for her phone. 11.09.

Eleven? She felt a wave of relief that she had slept through the night; she couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept so long, or so deeply. It made her feel strangely . . . well.

She stretched, feeling her muscles engage, sliding her legs across the sheet, looking for Rory . . .

She turned her head. The bed was empty.

She looked towards the bathroom: the door was ajar, no sounds coming from within. She pushed herself onto her elbows, leaning back with a general feeling of befuddlement. Sleep was still a shroud upon her and she let her gaze absorb – properly this time – the little red hut, her home for the next week. One of Rory’s shirts was hanging from a hook, his bag zipped up and standing on its end on the floor. A towel dangled over the bathroom door. He would be swimming, she knew.

With a sudden desire to join him, to start her day – her holiday! – by plunging herself into the Pacific, she threw the sheets back and got up, catching sight of her own outline sketchily drawn by sweatmarks through the night. The humidity was oppressive, making the air feel almost solid, and her skin was clammy. She walked naked through to the bathroom, catching sight of herself passing by the mirror. Had she lost weight? She stopped to examine herself more closely. Never as skinny as Holly, she was nonetheless a slim build, albeit soft and unathletic – her hours never left time for the gym, much less the energy. But now the nub of her shoulders looked polished and shiny, the upper curve of her hipbone pressing lightly against the skin as though trying to break through. Her face was definitely thinner, a newly sharp angle of her cheekbone throwing a shadow over the hollow of her cheek. But her eyes were puffy and almost slitted as sleep lay settled upon her still, like a little storm cloud. She sighed at her reflection, as she so often did. Usually she had bags from too little sleep but now it was puffiness from too much. Her face appeared to be a finely tuned instrument that had to be held in balance.

She still had her headache – obviously – but it was a dim, glowing pain this morning, rather than the usual full-wattage glare. The power of sleep, she supposed.

And to eat – that was the next wellness challenge to conquer. When had she last had a decent meal? She tried to think back, but everything felt woolly and indistinct. Too much travel, too many time zones.

She would eat first, then swim. If that didn’t clear her headache, nothing would.

She found an olive bikini in her bag, twisted her dark hair into a rough bun and stepped into a pair of denim cutoffs. She opened the door and blinked. It always took a moment to register that the sight before her was actually real – the charcoal black sand, cerulean sea, green macaws sitting in the palm trees, the sun-bleached striped hammocks slung between slanted trees. If it looked like a stock screensaver image, it was because in fact it was her screensaver image. If she was having a bad shift or a rough day, it always gave her a lift to be reassured that this place was real, to know that she could actually come here and escape. Like now.

She could see a couple of surfers sitting on their boards on the water. They appeared more interested in chatting than catching waves, legs astride as they bobbed on the surface. No sign of Rory though, that she could see. The doors to the other huts were closed and although she was tempted to knock, she didn’t. Everyone needed to recover from the journey.

She stepped onto the sand, feeling it crush between her toes as she began to walk slowly along the beach. The sunlight was dazzling, the sky unremittingly clear, and she kept to the shade, the sand already too hot for bare feet at this time of day. She watched the surfers bob, not a care between