Lucy was used to speaking her mind, especially in recent months. It was a 'speak or be spoken down to/around/be shot/erased from time' kind of profession she'd found herself in, so she'd learned to make the best of it. Sometimes, that meant just saying what was there.

Also, she'd met Ian Fleming and knew how the man got his ideas.

"No, I suppose we're all stuck with what our parents give us." Another sore point, actually, so she changes the subject. "What kind of doctor?"