St. Bartholomew’s research division occupied a set of restored buildings connected by glass corridors and modern labs that smelled of ethanol and coffee. My office overlooked a narrow lane where people in dark coats walked quickly and looked nobody in the eye. It was glorious. My new colleagues knew only that I had relocated quickly from California after accepting a delayed offer. They did not know why. No one asked with the hungry entitlement Americans sometimes mistake for warmth. They asked if I needed help finding decent coffee, where to buy linens, whether I preferred tea or coffee at meetings. Competence was the local love language. I responded well to it.
Sarah Pembroke introduced me to the team, and within forty-eight hours I was deep in work reviewing trial protocols, aligning data standards, and arguing pleasantly with a cardiologist from Leeds about dosage modeling. It saved me. Not because work can cure grief. Because it gave my mind somewhere to stand while the rest of my life reassembled.
Margaret Higgins sent updates by encrypted email. Formal, concise, devastating in their efficiency.
The lender had opened an internal fraud review.