Sometimes it feels like everything has finally settled – the work flows, the colleagues respect me, the patients call me by name. Then life throws a fresh twist that makes me sigh: “Why again?”

After the “Externship” where Blythe takes her first steps in British medicine and the “Doctor, I feel sick!” saga that turns daily rounds into a mix of absurdity and exhaustion, a new chapter arrives – “The Contract Queen.” Ahead lies the “Residency” where medicine has its own rules: tough but fair, occasionally amusing.

“This story can stand alone – you can start here even if you haven’t read the earlier parts.”

THE CONTRACT QUEEN
“In films everything is simple: the lawyer sees it through, the judge is wise and just, good triumphs. In real life – not so.” Bitter memories flood Blythe after a late‑night viewing of another Hollywood blockbuster with her husband.

After several years working as a GP at the Health Centre in Cambridge, Blythe finally feels she belongs. Patients know her name, colleagues respect her, benefits by British standards are excellent. Then the director, hurrying past, drops a line:

— “They’re selling us out. Things will get a lot worse. You’d better start looking for another job.”

A couple of hours later her friend Emma hands her an invitation to a lecture at Dr. Ashcroft’s centre – the renowned cardiologist who owns half the buildings on the High Street. The event takes place in his French restaurant in Chelsea, with a harpist, wine and dinner.

— “He’s always scouting fresh doctors,” Emma winks. — “And he writes off all the taxes.”

The evening is flawless: a high‑level talk, refined food, soft music. Then an introduction – a sharp suit, gold‑rimmed glasses, a confident smile, and an offer for an interview.

— “The salary isn’t huge, but the bonuses are generous,” he says, waving a cheque for £40,000. — “Two weeks’ holiday, occasional Saturdays. We’re a close‑knit team. You’ll be my queen.”

The only odd clause in the contract is a non‑competition clause: five years and fifteen miles.

— “Standard,” he shrugs over the phone. — “We’ll cut it to ten. You won’t want to leave anyway.”

Blythe believes him. She believes the panoramic windows, the fireplace in his office, the aromatic coffee brewed in a Turkish pot by the friendly secretary. She believes the paper with that impressive figure because she desperately wants a fairytale ending.

The first months feel like a dream: her own consulting room, a green courtyard outside the window, a personal medical assistant, colleagues with whom she can discuss tough cases. Soon, however, she discovers that Ashcroft uses GPs as machines to generate referrals to his own clinics. Bonuses depend not on treatment quality but on the number of tests ordered.

The climax arrives when she is ordered to send a sixteen‑year‑

old teenager for a full cardiac work‑up, even though Blythe thinks he merely pulled a muscle. His mother, seeing the suggested diagnosis on the referral, nearly faints.

A constant sense of surveillance, sudden firings, and tight control hangs in the air. One day, like a lifeline, Helen – a friend from residency – proposes they open a practice together.

— “I know an elderly doctor selling her business cheap. We’ll bring our own patients.”
— “But the non‑competition clause… ”
— “They say the courts won’t enforce it,” Helen replies confidently.

For the first time in ages Blythe tastes freedom. She would never have dared alone. They start planning, until Helen vanishes. She returns to Ashcroft’s office with an offer she can’t refuse: her own consulting room, her own patients, on one condition – Blythe must stay away.

— “Want an extra ten grand?” Ashcroft asks in the same smooth tone, still calling her “queen.”
— “I’m leaving,” Blythe replies, barely holding back anger and hurt.
— “You’ll regret it. I’ll sue if needed!” he snaps, his lips pressed tight.

A security guard escorts her‑self out as if she were a criminal. The office stays behind: shelves of reference books, a painting his husband made, a desk lamp from home. She can only grab what fits in her hands. In the car she breaks down.

What follows are long searches for premises, meetings with landlords, endless equipment lists. When everything seems to collapse, former assistants call:

— “Dr. B., we’re with you.”

With their help the new clinic opens. Patients find her despite rumours that she “died” or “fled to Russia.” The old office is only 9.5 miles away – a half‑mile is nothing, right? Soon a letter arrives from Ashcroft’s lawyers.

The court drags on like a lingering flu: hundreds of pounds per phone call, piles of paperwork, patient witnesses. After each meeting with solicitors Blythe feels wrung out like a dishcloth, and she begins to believe that Ashcroft’s fairy‑tale could end in total ruin.

Finally the verdict is read. The judge, yawning and shuffling papers, says:

— “I see no problem. Reduce the radius, shorten the term to one year.”

That’s it. All the months of fighting, the thousands spent, sleepless nights – reduced to a brief “no problem.”

She reopens in a new location, far from the oversaturated districts. Patients increase. Just as she thinks the past is finally behind her, the phone rings.

— “It’s Dr. Ashcroft. How’s my queen? Hope you’re not holding a grudge. Could you sign the paperwork for a new MRI? I need doctors’ signatures.”

For a heartbeat her heart tightens. She wants to hang up, to unleash everything she thinks of him. She takes a deep breath and answers evenly, almost smiling:

— “All good, Dr. Ashcroft. Thank you. You’ve made me stronger.”

She hangs up and realises: yes, he’s made her stronger. So strong that she no longer needs a crown.