Ben pauses, twisting his ring again. Usually, a tell like that would annoy me—it’s a giveaway of nerves—but he doesn’t seem nervous. It’s more like a habit or a reassurance that it’s still there.
“You understand the constraints of the medical world.” He squares himself. “We’ve both seen patients lose their lives because medicine can’t be accessed.”
“I don’t see how that’s relevant.”
Clara jots down notes as we speak. I have no idea what she’s writing, but she seems enthralled.
“This isn’t about treatment,” he says. “We lose some. Not everyone can be saved. This is about how families live between diagnosis and death. And both of us have seen how hard that is in our professional careers. I was hoping this would be a project Opengate could understand.”
“We do,” Clara blurts. I narrow my eyes at her outburst.
“And being connected to ourselves with the current media fiasco doesn’t bother you?” I ask him. He cocks his head to one side, as shrewd eyes run over my face. For once, I feel under scrutiny. He’s not rude; he’s curious.
“Let me be frank. I need funding to unlock a land grant.” He gestures to the proposal on my desk. “All the figures are in there. What the retreat will do, how it will operate. You’re lookingfor something to brighten your public profile. I’m happy for Opengate to bleed every last drop of PR from this if you fund it.”
He’s direct. I like that. That’s the kind of person I can work with. “Okay, any stipulations?”
“I won’t deviate from the name or the purpose.” He rises to his feet. “Other than that, I’ll discuss whatever you want to.”
I’m up out of my seat, hand outstretched before I realize it. Clara steps up by my side, notebook clutched to her chest, a wide grin on her lips.
“I think it sounds wonderful,” she says turning to me. “If this existed back then, would it have changed anything for you?”
Silence falls.
For a split second, I’m not in my office. I’m back in the consultant’s room as he closed the treatment file. As he told me there was no more they could do. We’d reached the end of the treatment pathway.
I remember signing the forms without reading them. I remember thinking if one more person said, “I’m sorry,” I’d burn the whole damn hospital down.
The memory recedes as quickly as it came.
My jaw snaps shut. “That’s not up for discussion.”
Ben clears his throat.
“Thank you,” he says again. “Do let me know if you need any further information. I’ll let you get on with your day.”
He shakes my hand again, then Clara’s. She visibly wilts.
“I’ll be in touch,” I tell him. And with a small nod, Dr. Ben Jones walks out of my office as calmly as he arrived. And I look at the empty doorway for a few seconds longer than I should.
Later, after two further demoralizing pitches, I’m sitting at my desk, every proposal obliterated by red lines except one. Clara appears as she always does, once the day is near done. She places another cup of coffee next to me. She knows I’m not going home yet, and I’m not in the mood to be told otherwise.
“You liked him,” she says quietly.
“He was believable.”
She nods, her lips thin but turned upward. “Good night, Antonia.”
After she’s gone, I return to the Bex Corrigan-Jones Retreat proposal. The meeting didn’t go the way I expected. There was no begging, no theatrics. It was simple, clear fact-finding and honest answers.
I hadn’t controlled that meeting. Every challenge thrown at him was absorbed, redirected, then answered. It was nice to speak to someone who knows what they want and understands the industry limitations.
When Ben stepped through my door, he wasn’t looking for sympathy. He was looking for fuel. I can respect that. That was me two decades ago, outside pharmaceutical offices demanding to speak to the CEO.
I’d forgotten what that felt like.
My goal was clear; I just wasn’t sure how to get there.
I circle one figure on his proposal.
It’s not the funding total. The capacity limit.
Six families at a time.
He isn’t trying to save everyone. Just some.
Just offering what he can in a world where not everyone who should survive does.