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All The Care In The World
Sharon Kendrik


Mills & Boon are proud to present a thrilling digital collection of all Sharon Kendrick’s novels and novellas for us to celebrate the publication of her amazing 100th book! Many of these books are available as e books for the first time.What the heart wants…Transferring in the middle of her general practice training wasn’t easy for Dr Nancy Greenwood, but her husband had made things so awkward for her. Nancy knew in her heart that her marriage was long over, but she didn’t break promises easily.The attraction she feels for Dr Callum Hughes, her new trainer, only spurs her efforts to keep to her marriage. But between her husband’s hostility and Callum’s warmth and support, Nancy has a difficult decision to make…one that will take all the care in the world.







Callum had been watching her slow appraisal.

He waited until she had finished before saying with some amusement, ‘And do you like my surgery, young Dr Greenwood?’

Nancy raised her eyebrows at his terminology and as their eyes met—his rueful, hers questioning—she suddenly burst out laughing. ‘Young Dr Greenwood is fine, thank you very much,’ she told him gravely. ‘She adores your fish tank, and she’s just itching to get into that playpen!’

‘Did I sound very patronising?’ he asked her seriously.

‘No. You sounded—um—’

‘Paternal?’

No, certainly not paternal!


Dear Reader (#uffc0edae-139f-50f2-bc7c-ef875706a210),

One hundred. Doesn’t matter how many times I say it, I still can’t believe that’s how many books I’ve written. It’s a fabulous feeling but more fabulous still is the news that Mills & Boon are issuing every single one of my backlist as digital titles. Wow. I can’t wait to share all my stories with you - which are as vivid to me now as when I wrote them.

There’s BOUGHT FOR HER HUSBAND, with its outrageously macho Greek hero and A SCANDAL, A SECRET AND A BABY featuring a very sexy Tuscan. THE SHEIKH’S HEIR proved so popular with readers that it spent two weeks on the USA Today charts and…well, I could go on, but I’ll leave you to discover them for yourselves.

I remember the first line of my very first book: “So you’ve come to Australia looking for a husband?” Actually, the heroine had gone to Australia escape men, but guess what? She found a husband all the same! The man who inspired that book rang me up recently and when I told him I was beginning my 100th story and couldn’t decide what to write, he said, “Why don’t you go back to where it all started?”

So I did. And that’s how A ROYAL VOW OF CONVENIENCE was born. It opens in beautiful Queensland and moves to England and New York. It’s about a runaway princess and the enigmatic billionaire who is infuriated by her, yet who winds up rescuing her. But then, she goes and rescues him… Wouldn’t you know it?

I’ll end by saying how very grateful I am to have a career I love, and to thank each and every one of you who has supported me along the way. You really are very dear readers.

Love,

Sharon xxx


Mills & Boon are proud to present a thrilling digital collection of all Sharon Kendrick’s novels and novellas for us to celebrate the publication of her amazing and awesome 100th book! Sharon is known worldwide for her likeable, spirited heroines and her gorgeous, utterly masculine heroes.


SHARON KENDRICK once won a national writing competition, describing her ideal date: being flown to an exotic island by a gorgeous and powerful man. Little did she realise that she’d just wandered into her dream job! Today she writes for Mills & Boon, featuring her often stubborn but always to-die-for heroes and the women who bring them to their knees. She believes that the best books are those you never want to end. Just like life…




All the Care in the World

Sharon Kendrick







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


To the three greatest influences on my

nursing career...Mandy Gregory,

Ella Scott and Kingsley Lawrence.


Contents

Cover (#ud1b21241-043b-5cdb-a6b2-6a901d81e2a3)

Introduction (#u22e947c4-be8c-5cac-a04b-d75f9e5fa995)

Dear Reader (#u0cf55670-1aa9-5cb8-ac62-7740745dad72)

About the Author (#ubbae761e-5e54-5188-9383-25aa90c9741c)

Title Page (#u8c1d9b62-0140-514d-9d18-98b7b7630339)

Dedication (#ua4826fe0-e444-5516-8260-424408c66c0e)

CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_b1a9f4ce-1c76-5a39-893b-c9414a7ff2d8)

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_dc01d29b-e565-5964-b326-eb1ecb41ce0e)

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_31d6bd29-3535-5a74-aa31-3827b07f6626)

CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_a91cfd7c-dbd7-5a96-b759-b16f5edbea41)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_d9be9743-1c71-5fee-bbcd-0c2bd203284c)

THE paperwork which greeted the return of Callum Hughes from his skiing holiday was piled so high on his desk that he was seriously afraid it might collapse into a muddled heap all over his surgery floor.

He shouldn’t have cut it so fine, he thought. And if his flight from France hadn’t been delayed until the early hours of this morning then he might have been able to tackle all this before surgery began.

He dropped his briefcase on the floor and said something rather impolite underneath his breath as he quickly divided the pile into two.

‘Sorry?’ said Jenny McDavid, his practice manager, whose comfortable, plump appearance belied her briskly efficient manner. She had followed him into the room with a long list of telephone message for Purbrook Surgery’s most popular doctor. ‘What was that you said, Dr Hughes?’

‘Unrepeatable,’ growled Callum, his craggy face lighting up as one of the receptionists came into the surgery, bearing an enormous cup of steaming coffee. ‘Oh, thanks, Judy,’ he murmured gratefully. ‘Just what I need! I don’t suppose there’s any chance of a biscuit?’

‘I bought you a Danish from the bakery on my way into work,’ dimpled Judy, her expression as eager as a teenager’s instead of a grandmother of two. ‘In case you missed breakfast. As you so often do, Doctor!’ she remonstrated gently. ‘I’ll go and get it!’ And she sped out of the office to return minutes later with a succulent concoction, glistening with lemon syrup and studded with nuts and raisins.

‘Mmm,’ said Callum ecstatically, as he bit into it. ‘Thanks, Judy!’ he called after the receptionist’s retreating form.

Jenny shook her head with a look of mock bewilderment. ‘I just don’t know how you do it, Callum Hughes,’ she told him sternly. ‘I really don’t.’

‘Do what?’ he queried, an innocent smile lightening his face as he lowered his large frame into the chair with surprising grace for so tall a man.

‘Have every woman in this practice eating out of your hand—’

‘Surely it’s me eating out of her hand!’ he joked, holding the pastry aloft.

‘Running around after you,’ continued Jenny, trying her best to sound severe but failing spectacularly when confronted by the distracting dazzle of his green eyes. ‘Buying your meals and doing your shopping,’ she continued. ‘And collecting your shirts from the dry-cleaners—’

‘But I’m a busy man!’ he protested.

‘And they are busy women!’ she retorted. ‘With homes and families of their own to run.’

‘On what grounds are you objecting, Jenny?’ he asked mildly, as he fixed her with a stare from his narrowed green eyes. ‘Am I exploiting them? Well, am I?’

Jenny pursed her lips as she silently acknowledged the ridiculously over-generous bonuses he gave to each staff member every Christmas. She had to admit that most of them would have run round after him if he had just given them one of his heart-warming smiles! ‘No, you’re not exploiting them,’ she agreed reluctantly, ‘but...’

Callum’s green eyes twinkled mischievously. ‘But?’

‘It’s about time you found yourself a wife, Callum Hughes!’ Jenny declared boldly.

Callum clutched dramatically at his throat with an expression of horror. ‘Don’t allow anyone with feminist principles hear you say that, Mrs McDavid!’ he declared. ‘The implication being that the principal duty of a wife is to run around after her husband—’

‘And isn’t it?’ asked Jenny cynically.

He shook his dark head and overlong strands of hair tickled his suntanned neck, reminding him that he really should have found the time to have a haircut before coming back to work. ‘Not at all.’ He shook his dark head. ‘Marriage should be an equal partnership.’

‘You really believe that?’

‘I really do,’ he agreed solemnly, though that irrepressible glint was still lurking in the depths of his green eyes.

‘Then no wonder you’ve remained single all this time,’ sighed Jenny as she stared into his craggily handsome face, thinking that if ever Dr Hughes did get around to marrying the woman who finally won him over would be fortunate indeed. She glanced down at the list in her hand. ‘Here are your messages.’

‘Anything urgent?’

She shook her head as she scanned the list. ‘Not really. We dealt with all the most pressing stuff. And—oh.’ Her face became slightly wary, as if she was the bearer of bad news. ‘Mr Petersham, the general surgeon from St Saviour’s, rang to say that he had operated on Emma Miles. He spoke to Dr Davenport—’

She halted in mid-flow as Callum lifted one hand for silence and with the other punched out the extension number of his partner. But she wasn’t offended by his occasionally peremptory approach—Callum Hughes was such a brilliant doctor that he could get away with murder, she thought.

‘David?’ said Callum. ‘Sorry to disturb you, but I’ve just got back and I believe you spoke to Mike Petersham at St Saviour’s?’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ came the voice of his partner.

‘And?’ But the strained quality of those three words told Callum that the prognosis was bleak, as he had feared.

‘He wanted you to know that your suspected diagnosis of carcinoma of the stomach was correct,’ said David reluctantly. ‘He has operated and done just about everything he can, but it doesn’t look very good. I’m terribly sorry, Callum. I know how close you are to Emma and her family.’

Callum went through the motions of thanking his colleague, then put the phone down and shook his dark head as if in denial. Two deep frown marks furrowed deep lines on his forehead. ‘Damn!’ he protested on a groan, reflecting—not for the first time—how fundamentally unfair life could be. ‘Damn and damn and damn!’

‘Bad?’ said Jenny.

The practice manager was too intelligent not to know everything that was going on in the various surgeries. She was also the soul of discretion. ‘Worse than bad,’ grated Callum, feeling raw with the pain of such unwelcome knowledge. ‘Emma is far too young and beautiful to have contracted something like this. Is she still in hospital?’

Jenny nodded. ‘She is—on Poplar Ward. Will you go and see her?’

‘Of course I will,’ he sighed, as he thought of Emma’s youth and determination and beauty. He felt like raging against an uncaring God, but that would do her no good. Nor him. Nor the rest of his patients, some of whom would infuriate him with their insignificant little problems which were nothing compared to what Emma was going to have to endure during the next however many months she had left to live.

He made a mental note to ask Judy or one of the other receptionists to buy him a bunch of flowers to take with him. Or maybe she would prefer a book?

‘That’s probably the most pressing thing,’ Jenny continued gently. ‘The library at the hospital rang to say that they’ve managed to trace that new paper on asthma you wanted. Oh, and your new registrar rang up to say that she’s looking forward to her first morning with you. That’s this morning,’ she added helpfully.

Callum narrowed his eyes, briefly disconcerted by hearing the hospital term which sounded so out of place in his surgery. ‘My new what?’ he demanded.

‘Your registrar,’ explained Jenny patiently. ‘Your new GP registrar—’

‘You mean my trainee?’

‘Oh, don’t be such a stick-in-the-mud, Callum! That’s their brand-new title! You must move with the times, you know!’ reprimanded Jenny tartly, until she realised that he was teasing her yet again. ‘Why did they chance the title from GP Trainee to GP Registrar?’ she asked him curiously. ‘Do you know?’

‘Patients thought that the word “trainee’ meant that they were still students,’ he answered, ‘instead of fully qualified doctors who were about to add another three years of experience while they trained to become general practitioners.’

Jenny nodded, something in the tone of his voice making her question him further. ‘And was that the only reason?’

Callum shrugged his massively broad shoulders as he began to pull the first pile of paperwork towards him. ‘I think a lot of junior doctors were also a little unhappy with the word “trainee”,’ he mused.

‘They said that it made them sound like a would-be chef or butcher, instead of a highly qualified individual with over seven years’ doctoring underneath their belts! This puts them on a par with their hospital colleagues and stops them feeling like the poor relations of medicine.’

‘And is that the case?’ asked Jenny in surprise.

Callum nodded. ‘Oh, undoubtedly. General practice has suffered from intellectual rubbishing by hospital staff for much too long now. And it’s time that we stood up and showed the world that we’re proud to be general practitioners.’

‘Yes, Dr Hughes,’ said Jenny, hiding a smile which bordered on the wistful. It was such a waste, she thought fleetingly, that a man as good-looking and as gorgeous as Dr Callum Hughes should channel all his passion and his energy into his job!

‘Anyway, she’ll be here at about eleven,’ she continued equably. ‘I told her to arrive later than we would usually expect—explained that you were just back from holidays and that you’d have a lot of catching up to do. I said it was probably best to come after surgery on her first morning, rather than throwing her straight in at the deep end. I do hope that’s all right?’

Callum was frowning at a rather bolshie letter from a consultant who had recently moved into the area. Though his surgical reputation was good, he clearly wasn’t the world’s greatest diplomat! ‘Hmm? Yes, that’s fine, Jenny,’ he said absently, and then, as he heard the practice manager head towards the door, he lifted his head and said, ‘What’s her name, by the way?’

‘It’s Nancy,’ said Jenny. ‘Nancy Greenwood.’

‘Pretty name,’ he commented, with a smile.

‘Yes,’ agreed Jenny, wondering why fate didn’t lend a hand by sending Dr Hughes a single doctor instead of one who was married! ‘You met her when she asked to be transferred from the Southbury scheme. Remember?’

Callum looked up, screwing his green eyes up in such a way that even his cynical practice manager’s heart began to pound rather erratically.

He was relatively new at training prospective general practitioners, and he had interviewed so few that it didn’t take him long to recollect the female doctor who had come to him for an interview. He frowned.

Nancy Greenwood.

Yes, of course.

She had been on a training scheme in the picturesque cathedral city of Southbury, but there had been some kind of trouble and her trainer had rung Callum to ask if she could transfer to him. Dr Farrow, her trainer, had been reluctant to discuss her desire to change her training practice, other than to reassure Callum that she was an excellent doctor and that her reasons for wanting to move were personal, beyond her control and rather distressing.

That had been enough for Callum—he wasn’t the kind of man to intrude, unasked, into someone’s private life. He liked and respected Dr Farrow, both personally and professionally. An endorsement from such a man was all he needed to agree to see Dr Nancy Greenwood.

And the only fact which swam to the forefront of his memory of that meeting was that she had been so small! But, then, at an impressive six feet and three inches comparative lack of stature was something that Callum was well used to!

And young, he reminded himself suddenly. She had looked much too young to be a doctor. He remembered thinking that at the time and had seen that as a reflection on just how ancient he must be getting. Thirty-three next birthday—just where did the time go? he wondered fleetingly.

Jenny saw him frown. ‘Her CV is on the top of that other pile if you want to look over it again before she arrives.’

‘Thanks,’ said Callum, but he was so engrossed in a leader from last week’s BMJ that he didn’t take in a word of Jenny’s last sentence and the CV remained, sitting unread, on top of the pile.

The flame-red sports car slid to a halt outside Purbrook Surgery, drawing the usual mixture of admiring and envious glances.

Switching off the ignition to the accompaniment of interested stares, Nancy found herself wishing that she could trade it in for a more discreet and ordinary car—not one that risked alienating the patients because it looked so flashy! But she couldn’t trade it in, not yet, anyway, because the car in question had been a present, and everyone knew that you should never look a gift horse in the mouth...

She got out of the car slowly, delaying walking into the surgery for as long as possible for she realised that her hands were still shaking like mad. The gold wedding band on her finger gleamed mockingly up at her as she tried to block this morning’s row out of her memory and settle herself into a more receptive frame of mind for her first day as a trainee in general practice. A few deep breaths should help settle her equilibrium.

Nancy filled her lungs with air and expelled it slowly, vague memories from a distant yoga class coming to her aid as she pushed open the surgery door, determined that her face should not register her reaction to the ugly, biting taunts that she’d been forced to endure before she’d left for work this morning.

Shaking her head to dispel the all-too-vivid images of her husband’s face distorted with a cold and untouchable anger, Nancy walked into the surgery—straight into the muted clatter of the main reception area.

Behind a desk sat the receptionists, some speaking into telephones as they made appointments and answered queries and others pulling patients’ notes out of the grey filing cabinets which had mushroomed to fill all the available space behind them. A computer terminal hummed quietly in a corner and a fax machine began to spew out paper as a message came through.

One of the receptionists looked up questioningly at Nancy as she stood slightly hesitantly before the desk.

‘Do you have an appointment?’ she asked Nancy, without preamble, her eyes flickering over her with interest.

Nancy shook her dark head. ‘No, I haven’t,’ she began. ‘You see, I—’

‘I’m afraid that the doctor won’t see you without an appointment,’ said the woman automatically, though not quite as kindly as she might have done if Nancy hadn’t been wearing a suit which probably cost as much as her entire month’s salary!

Nancy, who had spent a sleepless night in the spare room and taken part in renewed hostilities at breakfast this morning, was not best pleased at being mistaken for a patient! Looking like a patient implied that you looked unwell or out of sorts. And that implication was a little too close for comfort!

‘Do you always jump to conclusions?’ she enquired mildly.

The receptionist bristled. ‘I beg your pardon?’ she queried frostily.

Nancy bit her lip. She really mustn’t take all her impotent frustration out on a woman who was, after all, only doing her job. ‘It’s just that I’m Dr Hughes’s new registrar, not a patient,’ she explained helpfully. ‘If you had simply asked whether you could help me, rather than whether or not I had an appointment...’

Her voice tailed off as the other woman glared at her, and she realised that she had put her foot right in it. Maybe Steve was right, she thought distractedly. Maybe she was impossible to live with.

‘I have worked at this practice since it first opened ten years ago,’ the receptionist informed her rather coldly, ‘and I really think I am past the stage of being taught how to do my job properly—particularly by a newcomer!’

Nancy tried one more time. She managed a watery, apologetic smile. ‘I’m terribly sorry. I honestly didn’t mean to offend you,’ she told the woman truthfully. ‘It’s just that at the moment I’m learning all about asking open-ended questions instead of closed questions, and I—’

‘Please excuse me for a moment,’ the woman said, looking slightly mollified as the telephone in front of her began to ring and she picked it up like a lifeline. ‘Good morning!’ she trilled brightly. ‘Purbrook Surgery!’

Resisting the urge to ask someone else where she might find Dr Hughes—she didn’t want to offend the receptionist still further—Nancy was forced to endure a tedious wait while the woman conducted her conversation.

Nancy waited until the receptionist had finished scribbling down what were obviously blood results from the local hospital and had replaced the receiver before fixing an inoffensive smile onto her face. ‘I’m Dr Hughes’s new GP registrar,’ she said for the second time. ‘Nancy Greenwood.’

The woman blinked. ‘Registrar?’ she queried blankly. ‘Oh! You mean you’re the new trainee?’

Nancy shook her smooth, dark head. ‘Not any more. We have a new name,’ she answered with a rueful smile. ‘I’m surprised that nobody bothered to tell you.’

‘Oh, they probably did,’ said the woman airily, ‘but maybe you haven’t worked in a doctors’ surgery very much before—I’m afraid that the staff are much too busy with keeping everything running to learn new courtesy titles!’

Nancy was well practised in the art of keeping her face poker-straight. ‘I’m sure you are,’ she answered soothingly. ‘And if you could just point me in the direction of Dr Hughes’s consulting room I promise not to hold you up any longer.’

The woman hesitated, dying for the opportunity to witness Callum Hughes’s reaction to this slimly built but rather opinionated young woman, but then the telephone shrilled into life again and she reluctantly indicated a big notice at the end of the corridor. ‘Turn left at the end and just follow the signs to Dr Hughes’s consulting room—you can’t miss it!’ she said quickly as she picked up the phone. ‘Good morning! Purbrook Surgery!’

Nancy had to pick her way across the waiting room and every pair of eyes followed her—as they did all new arrivals—with an interest which bordered on the hypnotic.

There were very few people left, but it was almost eleven and consultations began at around eight-thirty. Nancy suspected that the waiting room would be full to bursting first thing in the morning.

The patients left were the usual mixed bunch—a hot-looking baby, grizzling in his frazzled mother’s arms, a pale and sulky-looking boy of about ten who kicked listlessly at the leg of his chair and two people who appeared to be in the best of health, though sniffing loudly and intermittently. They looked ideal candidates for the diagnosis of heavy colds, though Nancy, but you never could tell. She knew that one of the cardinal rules of diagnosis was that you should never even think about making one before being cognisant with all the facts!

Nancy glanced around her as she walked towards the corridor where Dr Hughes had his office. Most of the waiting room, whilst decorated in the usual bland, pale shades, had a distinctively homely feel to it. Glossy magazines were stacked everywhere and brightly coloured toys were littered in one corner of the blue-grey carpet, where a small child was playing quite happily.

Nice to see that patient care had won over tidiness, thought Nancy approvingly. Though it was a bit like walking through a minefield, she decided with some amusement as her elegant navy court shoe only narrowly missed landing on a teddy bear’s plump abdomen!

Dr Hughes’s consulting room was at the far end of the corridor, and as she drew to a halt in front of it she noted that his brass name-plate was much longer than those of his two partners—for the simple reason that he seemed to have twice as many letters after his name as they did!

She rapped smartly on the door, and heard the equally smart response, ‘Come!’

Nancy walked straight into the surgery and her veneer of composure was shattered like the breaking of a glass as she stared into the piercing green eyes of the broad-shouldered man, sitting behind the desk


CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_368d8131-f887-50b6-9e91-9d102bfc47c5)

WHEN Nancy Greenwood’s name had been brought up earlier by Jenny, Callum’s first thought had been that he remembered her only briefly and vaguely—but now he discovered he was wrong. Completely wrong.

Because when the door opened and the woman in the navy blue suit stood on its threshold, staring into his eyes, he was aware of nothing more than a bone-shaking familiarity about her. As if that earlier brief and apparently vague glimpse of her been enough to commit every line of her to everlasting and glorious memory.

She was as small as he remembered—a tiny, wee thing with soft, pale skin and clear brown eyes which were shaped like pebbles. Her hair was dark and shiny and clipped back rather severely from her face, though, in Callum’s opinion, such restriction was unnecessary for he found he could imagine it, hanging in a glossy curtain to her shoulders, the way it had been when he’d interviewed her before.

He cleared his throat but, even so, his voice sounded even deeper than usual as he said, ‘Come in, Dr Greenwood, though perhaps I’d better call you Nancy. You don’t mind me calling you by your first name, do you?’

He raised his dark eyebrows enquiringly and Nancy shook her head automatically, both bemused and charmed by his obvious friendliness. At that precise moment he could have called her anything he darned well pleased!

‘I’m Callum Hughes,’ he continued. ‘And you must, of course, call me Callum. We’re very informal here.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Nancy, forcing herself to step forward on legs which threatened to tremble and wondering what it was that had changed.

Why did Dr Callum Hughes suddenly look like the most vital person she had ever seen? More real and more of a man than any man had a right to be? She found that her chest was tight as she looked at him, her breathing was rapid and shallow and her normally cool skin was feeling oddly clammy.

Had he changed? she wondered frantically. Or had she?

‘How delightful to see you again,’ Callum said, and extended a hand with strong, square fingers, experiencing such a disconcerting flare of disappointment as he noticed the shiny gold wedding band which circled her finger. Had she been wearing one before? he wondered.

Nancy allowed her hand to be firmly taken and shaken by his and tried to dampen the panicky feeling which was welling up inside her. Sucking in a deep breath, she forced herself to examine instead the man who seemed to be the cause of it.

From beneath the silky black cover of her eyelashes she allowed herself a brief but thorough scrutiny of the man with whom she would be working so closely for the next year.

Quite the most distinctive thing about him was his size, she decided immediately. He was well over six feet tall, with a powerfully muscular frame to match—more of a farmer’s physique than a physician’s, in Nancy’s opinion, with those strong, solid limbs and rugged features. He had a healthy looking energy about him that suggested a life spent mainly in the fresh air, rather than in the dark and smoky atmosphere of a nightclub.

And, although it was January, he was more tanned than last time she’d seen him. His skin was the deep, glowing colour produced by the sun on the ski-slopes, rather than the even tan of the dedicated sun-worshipper. His shoulders and arms certainly looked powerful enough to make light of the blackest of black runs, Nancy found herself thinking. Then she drew herself up, appalled at the forbidden paths her mind was taking. And she a married woman, too!

His deep voice interrupted her confused thoughts. ‘Do sit down. I’ll ring for coffee—’

‘Oh, please don’t, not just on my account,’ Nancy protested.

‘I’m not. It’s on mine. And don’t worry,’ he added, with the glimmer of a smile, ‘I won’t feel at all inhibited or put out by the fact that you don’t wish to join me—’

‘Actually, I’d love some coffee,’ said Nancy with sudden fervour, sinking into the chair he had indicated. She briefly closed her eyes and relaxed for the first time in days.

His eyes narrowed as he saw some of the tension ease out of her petite frame. Then he lifted the telephone on his desk to ask for coffee while Nancy cast her eyes quickly round his consulting room, wondering just how much she would be able to tell about Callum Hughes from his working environment.

His was a large, pale surgery with one huge window, the bottom half of which was glazed in frosted glass—presumably to allow for patient privacy, Nancy decided. The top of the window allowed a view of the still-bare branches of trees, etched like broomsticks against the bright blue of the winter sky.

An old-fashioned wooden playpen, standing on one comer, was filled with a variety of toys, and on a brightly painted shelf above it was an impressive line of story-books for all different ages.

So he was considerate with children, too, thought Nancy, and a funny little lurch in her chest made her feel momentarily rather uncomfortable...

In one corner of the room stood a large fish tank full of rainbow-coloured shapes that darted around plants which swayed in the bubbles of the illuminated green water.

Callum had been watching her slow appraisal, and he waited until she had finished before saying with some amusement, ‘And do you like my surgery, young Dr Greenwood?’

And then he wondered why he had said something as archaic as ‘young’! Not something he normally did. So, was his subconscious, he asked himself critically, simply using a word designed to create some kind of distance between them? And, if so, was that really necessary at this stage?

Nancy had raised her eyebrows at his terminology and as their eyes met—his rueful, hers questioning—she suddenly burst out laughing, the spontaneous sound surprising both of them. To his astonishment, he found himself joining in.

‘Young Dr Greenwood is fine, thank you very much,’ she told him gravely. ‘She adores your fish tank, and she’s just itching to get into that playpen!’

‘Did I sound very patronising?’ he asked her seriously.

‘No.’ Nancy shook her glossy head thoughtfully. ‘Not at all. You sounded—um—’

‘Paternal?’

No, certainly not paternal! ‘More avuncular,’ she prevaricated, looking up gratefully as the door of the surgery opened and in walked one of the receptionists with a tray of coffee.

Callum immediately took the tray from the receptionist and cleared a space for it on his desk, before introducing them. ‘Margaret, this is Nancy Greenwood, my new GP registrar.’

‘Hello, Dr Greenwood,’ said Margaret, giving Nancy a wide and friendly smile. ‘I hope you’ll be very happy during your time with us.’

‘And why wouldn’t she be?’ queried Callum teasingly. ‘We’ve a very happy practice.’

Margaret pulled an expressive he-must-be-joking sort of face, exclusively for Nancy’s benefit, and left them to it.

Callum poured their coffee. ‘How do you take it?’ he asked, glancing up.’

‘As it comes, please,’ answered Nancy.

He handed her a steaming cup of black and unsugared coffee. ‘No wonder you’re so tiny,’ he commented, as he added both cream and sugar to his own and offered her a biscuit.

And he didn’t look at all bad on cream and sugar, Nancy found herself thinking, accepting a chocolate digestive as her stomach reminded her that she had rushed out of the house without eating any breakfast. Not an ounce of surplus fat anywhere, by the look of him. ‘I’m strong for my size,’ she defended.

‘I’m sure you are.’ Callum drank his coffee, then put down his empty cup and leaned back in his chair to look at her, trying to view her simply as a colleague—and a married colleague, to boot—instead of as a very attractive young woman. And it wasn’t easy, he discovered, but he was at a loss to understand why. Not easy at all. ‘So, where do we begin, Nancy Greenwood?’ he asked gruffly.

‘At the beginning?’ she joked, wondering just what had made his green eyes grow so serious.

He nodded. ‘OK. The beginning it is. We’d better begin with the district itself. How much to you know about Purbrook and the surrounding area?’

‘Very little,’ responded Nancy truthfully. ‘We only moved into the area a month ago.’

We. The possessive word produced an inexplicably sour taste in Callum’s mouth but he hoped that his reaction didn’t show on his face. ‘Yes, of course. You’re married, aren’t you?’

For some absurd reason the question caught her off guard. ‘Yes, I am,’ she answered in a low voice.

‘And where do you live?

‘In Tenterdon,’ she answered, mentioning the picturesque market town which was approximately seven miles away.

He saw her look of bemusement and correctly interpreted it. ‘Don’t worry, Nancy,’ he remarked drily, ‘I’m not planning to turn up on your doorstep at odd times for surprise tutorials!’

‘I’m very pleased to hear it!’ Nancy blanched as she tried to imagine her husband’s reaction if he did!

‘Are you registered with a doctor in Tenterdon, or were you planning to sign on with this practice?’

And risk Callum Hughes ministering to her if she should happen to fall ill? No fear! Nancy shook her head vigorously and stared steadily at the man in front of her. ‘I wasn’t going to, no. I’m perfectly happy where I am.’

Glad to divert his attention from the rather absorbing tawny-brown colour of her eyes, Callum slid open one of the desk drawers, took out a shiny clutch of leaflets and handed them to her.

‘Then you won’t have seen our practice brochure,’ he explained, smiling as he pointed to the stick-like drawing on the front cover of a man covered in lurid red spots. ‘We had a competition amongst all our younger patients for the cover design. The winner had all the delight of seeing her work in print—’

‘Oh, but it’s brilliant!’ she enthused as she took the leaflet from him and stared down to admire the youthful artistry. ‘Absolutely brilliant!’

His eyes crinkled at the corners. ‘It is rather good, isn’t it?’

‘And can I keep this?’

‘Of course you can. I sincerely hope you’ll refer to it frequently!’ Callum found himself smiling again as he watched her tuck the papers into a slim leather briefcase.

‘Oh, day and night,’ she promised, and clipped the case shut. ‘It will never leave my side!’

Callum’s eyes twinkled. In his opinion, a sense of humour applied to the working day wasn’t just preferable but necessary. ‘Most of the information given in the brochure about the practice is self-explanatory,’ he told her. ‘We are a semi-rural practice with a list size of just over five thousand patients. You really should become familiar with the geography and social class ecology of the practice area as soon as possible.’

‘Right.’ Nancy made a mental note to do that this very weekend.

‘It’s sensible to have a map of the practice with you at all times,’ he continued, ‘and to begin to become familiar with traffic flow dining weekdays, and in particular at rush hours—although our rush hours are pretty small stuff compared to what inner-city doctors have to contend with.’

‘I bought a map at the weekend,’ said Nancy eagerly.

He smiled at her obvious enthusiasm. ‘Good,’ he murmured. ‘As for the other members of the practice, I have two partners whom you’ll meet later on. One is male and one female and I’ll stagger the introductions as it’s your first day, otherwise you won’t remember anybody! We have a full complement of staff here, with a practice nurse, a district nurse, health visitor, midwife and community psychiatric nurse.’

Nancy nodded. ‘As well as all the usual ancillary staff of receptionists, typists, a bookkeeper and filing clerk, I suppose?’

Callum smiled. ‘For “ancillary” substitute “indispensable”! We would simply be unable to function without efficient receptionists who were firmly on our side. And we’re very much a team here,’ he added quickly.

Now was that an admonishment? Nancy wondered fleetingly. Had word reached him that within seconds of walking into the building she had clumsily been trying to explain an open-ended sentence to one of the receptionists and getting a rather stony-faced response?

But his face was resolutely non-judgemental, and Nancy inwardly reprimanded herself. She was getting paranoid, that was all. Too much criticism at home was making her normally strong sense of self-worth begin to crumble.

‘And a team is what I want to be part of,’ she told him firmly.

Her declaration seemed almost defiant, observed Callum thoughtfully. ‘Good,’ he said briskly. ‘I’ve drawn up a timetable for you, but this is flexible and will change as you grow in confidence.’ He pushed the neat chart across the desk at her, and Nancy began to study it.

‘At first, you’ll sit in on my surgeries and accompany me on my visits,’ he told her. ‘Then, when we both feel that you’re ready to see patients on your own, we will give you small, selected surgeries. But remember that I’m always next door if you run into any problems.’

‘I’ll do my very best not to,’ she told him with a smile.

‘Good. Every day we’ll have short tutorials on conditions we’ve encountered that day—influenza epidemics notwithstanding, of course! And once a week we’ll have a longer tutorial on a subject which you will be able to choose—’

‘Unless there’s a topic which you feel I ought learn about?’ she guessed.

Callum nodded, pleased at her perception. ‘That’s right. There is also an afternoon day-release course at St Saviour’s Hospital on Wednesday afternoons especially for GP registrars, which I think you’ll find very useful as well as providing an opportunity for you to meet some other people in the same boat as yourself.

‘And I intend to go lightly with you when I’m on call.’ He smiled. ‘I’ll make sure you get all the experience you need, but I’m aware that you’ll need to study for your membership exam so if I’m up all night, working, I won’t necessarily expect you to be!’ His green eyes glittered as he watched her eyes widen. ‘Any questions?’

Nancy gazed at him in a rather dazed fashion as the reality of just how much work she would have to do hit her. ‘It sounds frantic,’ she ventured.

Callum shook his head. ‘It sounds more daunting than it actually is, but most of the job you’ll learn as you go along. I often think that there is no finer tutor than experience, and in medicine this is especially true.’

‘And presumably I’ll be driven by a “need to know”?’ prompted Nancy. ‘Which will make me eager to learn?’

Callum nodded his dark head approvingly. ‘You’ve obviously been reading up on the subject.’

‘A bit.’ Not as much as she would have liked, of course. Steve, her husband, had made sure of that. Nancy had wondered lately if he saw her career as some kind of threat. Sometimes he seemed almost jealous of the time she tried to put into her background reading.

He’d complained last night when she’d been curled up beside him on the sofa after dinner.

‘Must you keep reading that?’ he’d demanded.

Nancy had been bent over a textbook, trying her level best to get to grips with its particularly stodgy content, her dark, shiny hair falling in splendid disarray over her shoulders. She had calmly lifted her head to meet her husband’s accusing stare head-on.

‘I must spend a little time on my reading, Steve,’ she’d observed, her voice determinedly conciliatory as she’d fruitlessly attempted to delay the row which would inevitably follow.

‘But I thought that the whole point of you going into general practice was to stop working unsociable hours so that we could spend more time together!’ He scowled.

Nancy laid her book down on her lap and tried to block out the whining tone in his voice. ‘Actually, I thought the whole point of me going into general practice was to have an interesting and varied workload, while mixing with the whole community,’ she corrected drily.

‘And while I’m training I need to do plenty of reading, which I would have to do whichever speciality I’d chosen. I have an examination to take at the end of this year of training, and general practice is a busy job, you know, Steve.’

Steve looked at her disbelievingly. ‘Well, our family GP used to spend three quarters of his time on the golf course!’

‘And you think that’s admirable, do you?’ Nancy challenged, thinking how glad she was that such unprofessionalism would no longer be tolerated in these hardworking times.

‘I think a lot of things,’ he said with a glower, ‘but I don’t think that you’d care to hear any of them!’

He stood up and poured himself another three fingers of whisky, a practice which had been occurring much more frequently of late. ‘And you can stop glaring at me like that!’ he declared as he gazed unsteadily into her brown eyes.

‘I wasn’t glaring!’

‘Oh, yes, you were! And I can tell you something else, Nancy Greenwood—that the amount of time you spend with your nose in a bloody textbook would drive a saint to drink!’

And Steve was certainly no saint...

* * *

Yet as Nancy looked across the desk at the approving face of her trainer she found herself thinking how wonderful it would be to have a partner who actually supported you, instead of undermining your determination to succeed.

But allowing her thoughts to drift in that direction would do no good whatsoever. There was absolutely no point in wishing for what you knew deep down you would never get...

Callum saw the apprehension that clouded her clear, brown eyes, but even if he hadn’t correctly read it there it would have been apparent from her demeanour.

Her whole delicately boned frame had tensed, as though she were uncomfortable in her own body. Those narrow shoulders—tiny shoulders, Callum found himself thinking with an almost protective pang—were all bunched up beneath that navy blue suit she was wearing.

He looked at her clothes properly for the first time.

Callum was not the kind of person who was particularly interested in the clothes that women wore. And whilst the man in him could recognise and acknowledge the sexual allure of a woman clad in a shimmering and clinging gown—with all its accompanying glitz—he nevertheless preferred women to look more natural. He liked the kind of woman who would climb out of bed and into an old pair of jeans to walk for miles, before tackling a hearty breakfast.

He sighed. Bit of a shortage of those women, really. And—here his eyes flickered to Nancy’s structured navy jacket—this woman wouldn’t fit into that category either. Not with a suit that must have cost most of a month’s salary. Callum couldn’t have named a dress designer to save his life, but he was enough of an aesthete to recognise and appreciate the superb cut of the finely woven material and the way it moulded itself so beautifully to the curving lines of her body.

Their eyes met, and something in his expression made Nancy’s cheeks grow faintly pink.

Callum shook his head impatiently. For God’s sake, man, he told himself, she was his trainee and she was married so he’d better stop ogling her right now!

He put on his professional smile, with a brisk professional tone to match. ‘We’ve a few minutes to spare so I’ll give you a quick guided tour of the health centre. Then we’d better get a couple of these visits out of the way before lunch,’ he said brusquely.

He stood up, and immediately dominated the surgery. ‘I tend to buy a sandwich and eat it in between visits. I hope that’s OK with you? That way we can talk in the car on the way.’

‘Right,’ gulped Nancy, wondering what had prompted his sudden change of disposition.

‘Then let’s go,’ he said in a clipped voice, and led the way out of the surgery.

Callum’s bad mood lasted only as long as it took them to reach their first visit. Nancy couldn’t help noticing that he was politeness personified when it came to dealing with patients.

The visits which were logged in his book were fairly straightforward. First up was a new baby to check over, who had just arrived home from hospital.

The family lived in a small house on one of Purbrook’s two housing estates, and it seemed completely swamped by baby equipment. There were numerous toys and giant packets of nappies, as well as an enormous pram, a pushchair and a car seat. And Nancy only just narrowly avoided tripping over a baby-walker!

Mrs Morris, the new mother, seemed rather stupefied by the whole experience, although Daniel, her baby, glugged away happily at her breast. ‘I can’t take it all in,’ she murmured. ‘There just seems to be so much which is new!’

‘Baby shock,’ said Callum with a grin as he straightened up from listening to Daniel’s chest. ‘It happens to all new mums, Mrs Morris, but, rest assured, you have a fine, bouncing baby. Oh, and I’m very glad to see you’re breast-feeding!’

Mrs Morris cast a rueful eye around the cramped sitting room. ‘I simply wouldn’t have had room for a steriliser and all the bottles, even if I’d wanted to!’ she told them. ‘We’re hoping to move to a cottage on the outskirts of Purbrook soon. It’s very basic but there’s room to build on—my husband is a builder, you know—and it’s got a huge garden!’

‘Plenty of room for young Daniel to run around, then,’ said Callum, with an approving nod.

‘That was the general idea,’ agreed Mrs Morris, staring lovingly down at her baby’s bald head.

Their next port of call was to a small, sheltered housing complex for the elderly. ‘I want to pop in on an old lady named Ethel Waters and take her blood pressure—it’s been all over the place lately,’ explained Callum, as the car drew up in the well-tended grounds.

‘Can’t she get out to the surgery, then?’ queried Nancy.

He pulled a face. ‘She can, but she’s fairly immobile due to arthritis. I tend to think that it’s not much of an outing for a lady in pain to have to get down to the doctor’s surgery!’

Nancy smiled with delight at his level of understanding and consideration. ‘That’s very sweet of you,’ she told him.

‘Why, thank you, Nancy,’ he responded, but the mock gravity in his voice couldn’t disguise the unaccountable pleasure he took in her praise.

They were drinking a cup of tea with the old lady, whose blood pressure was reassuringly low, when Callum’s bleeper went off.

‘May I use your telephone, please, Mrs Waters?’ he enquired putting his empty teacup down in the saucer.

‘Course you can, Doctor!’

The call was urgent, and they drove to it as quickly as the law would allow. ‘What’s up?’ asked Nancy, as he roared past a picturesque grey church.

‘An elderly lady is wandering around her garden naked?’ he replied calmly.

‘Who?’ cried Nancy in alarm.

‘Mrs Dolly Anderson,’ said Callum. ‘She’s an elderly patient with dementia, and she copes well enough with the assistance of the home help and Meals-on-Wheels.’

‘And has she ever done anything like this before?’ asked Nancy.

‘Never.’

‘Then I wonder what’s changed,’ said Nancy thoughtfully.

Callum’s eyes gleamed at her perceptiveness. ‘Precisely,’ he observed, his voice equally thoughtful.

Their answer came soon enough. Once Mrs Anderson had been gently persuaded into the house and into a dressing-gown Callum was able to assess his patient properly.

Only when he had concluded his examination did Callum turn to Nancy. ‘Mrs Anderson is wheezy and has a slight cough and temperature. Do you want to have a shot at a diagnosis?’

‘Could it be a chest infection?’ she asked hesitantly. ‘Which would make her more than usually confused?’

He nodded. ‘I think so. I’m going to admit her to the medical ward at St Saviour’s—that’s if they have a bed!’

They did, although Callum had to sweet-talk the admitting team into allocating them one.

‘Hospital beds are like gold dust these days,’ he complained as he talked Nancy through the admission procedure, before setting off for the surgery.

A moment’s peace and quiet seemed equally elusive, thought Nancy with a touch of amusement.

‘Coping OK so far?’ he asked her, as they buckled themselves back into the car.

‘So far,’ she grinned, wondering what had caused his grumpiness earlier but then dismissing the thought because when he was being sunny and helpful like this she could have stuck to his side like glue all day.


CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_7317b79f-7646-527e-a25f-50d6ef00774f)

THE house was in darkness, and it was seven forty-five before Nancy finally fumbled around in her briefcase for her house keys. She pushed open the front door of the modern glass and steel townhouse she called home and listened for the sound of her husband.

Silence.

She felt a moment’s disloyalty for the rush of relief she experienced as she closed the door behind her and switched on the light.

‘Steve?’ she called, more out of habit than anything else, as a soft light illuminated the spacious hall.

She checked the answerphone but there were no messages so she went upstairs and changed out of the rather formal navy suit, which Steve had bought for her, into jeans and a big, floppy sweater. Then she came back down, made some tea and sat at the kitchen table, drinking it, while she decided whether it was worth cooking supper.

Steve was so unpredictable, that was the trouble. Sometimes—usually when she had pulled all the stops out with an exotic new recipe and bought candles and flowers—he would moan that he had eaten an enormous business lunch and that he simply wasn’t hungry.

At other times—and this always seemed to coincide with Nancy being too dog-tired from working to even think about food—he would complain that she never seemed able to provide the same creature comforts as the wives of his partners. Women who, from Steve’s glowing descriptions, seemed to embody all the qualities which made up the ideal wife. They cooked, they cleaned, they sewed and they gardened, and—apparently—achieved a blissful state of contentment from all these activities.

In other words, thought Nancy, trying to subdue a trace of bitterness as she slipped at her tea, wives without children who did no work outside the home.

She yawned as she thought back over her first afternoon in practice. It had been hard work. Non-stop, in fact. After visits and a baby clinic, which had run over time, they’d had what had seemed like an endless evening surgery, composed mostly of patients complaining of sore throats.

Then the medical registrar from St Saviour’s had rung to say that a chest X-ray on Mrs Anderson had confirmed Nancy’s and Callum’s diagnosis of a chest infection, and that they were going to start her on a regime of intravenous antibiotics.

It was after one of the receptionists had rung through to ask if Callum could squeeze an extra patient onto the end of his already long evening surgery that Nancy had turned on him and said, half in amusement and half in exasperation, ‘Is it always like this?’

He’d looked up from scrubbing his hands, which the last patient—a baby—had been sick over. ‘Like what?’

‘Busy!’

‘Busy?’ He’d pulled an expressive face as he’d dried his hands on a paper towel and thought back to how it had been just before Christmas. ‘This is a doddle, Nancy. Just you wait until a flu bug sweeps the community and then you’ll understand the meaning of busy!’

‘I can’t wait,’ Nancy had said faintly, but his remark had brought home to her that, contrary to what their hospital colleagues might have imagined, general practice was certainly not a relaxed way to idle away the day!

Nancy leaned her elbows dreamily on the table as her mind drifted over everything they had accomplished during that busy afternoon. Because, despite the unaccustomedly frantic pace, it had also been one of the most interesting days of her medical career so far.

Or was that simply because Callum Hughes was such an astute and sympathetic teacher... ?

She opened up the textbook which Callum had loaned her and began to read about red eye in general practice, becoming so engrossed in the subject that she didn’t hear the front door open and close—didn’t hear anything, in fact, until a slight movement arrested her attention and she looked up to find Steve standing in the doorway, watching her.

‘Hello,’ said Nancy, her eyes sweeping over his face in an attempt to try and gauge what kind of mood he was in.

His eyes were glittering hectically as he stared at the book she was reading and then let his gaze move slowly around the kitchen. ‘And what’s for supper?’ he asked carefully, in an oddly controlled voice which immediately told Nancy that he had been drinking, even if she hadn’t been able to smell it on his breath from the other side of the kitchen.

Seeing from the wall clock that it was now gone nine, she closed the textbook and smiled brightly, ‘To be honest, I hadn’t really given it a thought—’

‘I can see that!’ he sneered, opening the fridge door and taking out a bottle of white wine. ‘Too busy with your precious textbooks again.’

‘But, Steve, you weren’t even at home,’ she said, putting on her most reasonable voice, ‘so what was the point of preparing something when I wasn’t even sure you’d want it?’

‘I called you earlier,’ he responded icily, as he began to twist the corkscrew into the bottle, ‘and you were out.’

‘But there were no messages on the answerphone!’ Nancy pointed out in confusion. ‘I looked!’

Steve’s eyes glittered dangerously. ‘So you’ve been checking up on me, have you?’

‘No,’ answered Nancy steadily. ‘Why should I want to do that?’

He shrugged. ‘You tell me,’ came the slightly threatening reply.

His handsome face looked ugly—bloated and red with drink—and Nancy was aware that she was handling this all wrong and that by sounding so defensive it was giving him the opportunity to attack her.

‘Are you hungry?’ she asked calmly.

‘Not for food,’ came the unsteady reply, and his eyes focussed blearily on her breasts. ‘Why d’you have to wear that horrible sloppy jumper?’ he grumbled, as he eased the cork out of the bottle with a resounding pop. ‘Hides all your assets.’

Nancy felt ill, torn between telling Steve that he had already drunk quite enough and keeping quiet about it. She knew that if he continued to drink at the same rate at least he wouldn’t start pawing at her.

As a doctor she knew what her advice should be, and as a wife she knew that she wasn’t going to give it.

She rose to her feet, keeping her distance. ‘Shall I make you an omelette? Or there’s some frozen curry in the freezer. I could microwave that.’

Steve splashed some wine into a large glass and slugged half of it back. ‘If you want,’ he mumbled. ‘I’m going to watch TV.’

Nancy watched him pick up the bottle and glass and wander towards the sitting room. Guilt, mixed with an overwhelming sense of relief, washed over her until an immense sadness obliterated everything.

Whatever had happened to him?

To her?

To them?

Nancy frowned as she pulled open the freezer door, her mind flitting back to when they had met—when the world had seemed a much less complicated place.

To the worldly Steve, the bookish Nancy had seemed like a creature from another planet. He’d never met a woman who was more interested in studying than in buying clothes or going out.

As an account executive of a successful regional advertising agency, Steve had had all the accoutrements of success achieved at an early age—the fast cars, the designer clothes and the luxurious holidays in far-flung corners of the globe, as well as the slightly spoilt air of cynical detachment, which seemed to fascinate members of the opposite sex. Women had spent their lives flinging themselves at him.

But Nancy didn’t fling herself at him—in fact, she’d scarcely noticed him. It was a new and heady experience for the worldly Steven Greenwood, and he’d pursued her with a flattering and ardent dedication until at last she’d agreed to go out with him.

Steve’s world had been a very different world to the one which Nancy had been used to inhabiting, and their very differences had been what at first had attracted them to each other. It had been exciting to be with a man who hadn’t always had his head in a book—who had done wild, crazy things on impulse, instead of writing essays.

But at the back of her mind Nancy had suspected that the relationship had had no solid footing to bolster up the purely physical appeal which had existed between them. More than once she had tentatively broached the subject of their incompatibility with Steve, but he had kissed her doubts away and eventually taken her to bed.

Nancy’s upbringing had been a conventional one—you saved your virginity for the man you loved and would marry. She had never questioned this point of view and it had seemed to be satisfactorily backed up by her parents’ long and happy marriage. So that when, soon after he had taken her to bed for the first time, Steve had asked to marry her she had turned to him happily and said yes.

So just how could dreams die and hope be eroded after less than two years together? she wondered sadly as she took a couple of plates down from the cupboard.

Fifteen minutes later she carried a steaming tray into the sitting room. On it were two delicious platefuls of chicken bhuna and saffron rice, with accompanying naan and a side-salad. She had even put a glass on the tray. She would join Steve for a drink, and that way he would drink less himself. They would eat a delicious meal in front of the fire and she would let him watch the video of his choice, which usually meant a film with a cast composed entirely of men!

Though, come to think of it, mused Nancy wryly as she padded through from the kitchen, carefully balancing the tray, he usually did watch the video of his choice, anyway!

Nancy came to a halt in the doorway.

On the sofa, sprawled out with all the abandonment of a sleeping toddler, lay her husband. The remote control lay like a prayer-book on his chest, even as the television droned on, ignored, in the corner. The wine bottle was already empty.

Nancy put the tray down and went to wake him.

‘Steve,’ she called softly, and shook him gently by the shoulder.

For answer he simply expelled some sour breath from his mouth and sucked in a huge, shuddering breath.

Nancy was no stranger to this routine.

With a sigh, she made him comfortable and removed his shoes and socks, then covered him up with a spare blanket kept in the cupboard underneath the stairs. Then she carried the tray back to the kitchen and binned its contents.

Only then, after a final check, did she turn off the television, snap off the sitting-room light and leave her husband, snoring, in the darkness.

The first day back after a holiday was always exhausting but today had been especially wearing, and Callum did something he hadn’t done for years.

He went to the pub on the way home from work.

Purbrook had several pubs, but in Callum’s opinion the Crown served the best beer—and was also the closest to his sprawling thatched cottage which overlooked the surrounding fields. At weekends he would occasionally pop in for a pint, and had been known to bring girlfriends in to sample some of the landlady’s famous steak and ale pies.

The pub was low-ceilinged and beamed, with a real fire in the corner. Pewter mugs, belonging to regular customers, hung above the bar and gleamed in a dull, beaten-silver row.

Tom Watts had been the landlord of the Crown for longer than most people could remember, and he beamed with delight as Callum stooped his head to pass underneath the low doorway and went to stand at the bar.

‘Evening, Doctor.’ He smiled proudly. It added a certain cachet if one of the local doctors happened to drink in your establishment! ‘Pint of the usual, is it?’

‘Please.’ Callum nodded. He watched while Tom carefully poured the drink, then took the foaming tankard with a grateful smile.

Several of his patients were dotted around the pub but they paid him no heed, other than to greet him. And that was just the way Callum liked it. As a family doctor working in a semi-rural area privacy was essential, and he appreciated the fact that most of his patients realised that—out of hours—he liked to be left alone!

He’d almost invited Nancy Greenwood to join him for a drink, but something had stopped him from asking her at the last minute. Which was pretty ridiculous, when you thought about it. Women these days—especially career women, in Callum’s experience—demanded that they be treated equally. And rightly so!

If Nancy had been a male colleague he would have suggested a drink, without giving it a second thought. So why hadn’t he? Because she was a woman? Was that the reason for his reluctance? But Callum had been working quite happily with women for years.

Because she was married? Was that closer to the truth, then? Because, against his will, he had found her utterly captivating? Callum rubbed his square jaw and felt the rasping of new beard beneath his fingers. He sincerely hoped that was not going to be the case.

Infatuation was nothing more than an inconvenience, especially if it stood no chance of ever being reciprocated. And Callum was enough of a moralist and a traditionalist to be appalled at the thought of a married woman ever straying.

He drank his pint slowly and refused all offers of a refill. ‘No, thanks, Tom,’ he said, in his deep, resonant voice. ‘You wouldn’t thank me if you came into my surgery tomorrow morning and I was all grouchy and headachy from drinking too much, now would you?’

Tom smiled. He simply couldn’t imagine the scenario of a hungover Dr Hughes! In the seven years since Dr Hughes had come to practice in Purbrook he had looked after Tom’s family brilliantly. It had been Dr Hughes who had noticed that Tom’s and Rowena’s son, Robin, had been failing to thrive—even before his mother did. And it had been Dr Hughes who had rung up a pal at London’s biggest paediatric hospital for an urgent appointment.

Now Robin was doing as well as any other boy his age, and all thanks to the good doctor.

‘Not like you to call in after work, Doctor,’ Tom ventured.

‘Well, you know what they say about a holiday,’ responded Callum, draining the last of his beer. ‘You need another one to recover from it!’

‘Sure I can’t tempt you with some of Rowena’s steak and kidney pud?’

Callum was tempted, but for no more than a moment. Rowena’s meals were legendary but colossal, and he had just spent a fortnight eating food that was far richer than his usual fare. He was also a doctor who firmly adhered to what he taught his patients. Accordingly, he ate and drank moderately most of the time, abhored smoking and took exercise almost daily. But hoped that he wasn’t too sanctimonious about his lifestyle!

‘No, thanks, Tom,’ said Callum, putting his empty tankard on the counter. ‘I’ll grab something at home. I’ve a lot to catch up on—and a new doctor under my wing, who’s learning all about general practice. So, if you make an appointment to see me with a fairly straightforward problem, you might just get the new doctor.’

Tom nodded. ‘Good bloke, is he?’

‘She,’ Callum corrected, thinking of pale skin, clear brown eyes and a tiny frame dressed much too severely in stark designer clothes. ‘The new doctor is a she.’

‘Is she now?’ asked Tom, his eyes lighting up with interest, but Callum elaborated no further and said goodnight.

Tom watched him leave, wondering why—not for the first time—the good doctor had never married.

And most surprisingly, Callum found himself asking the very same question as he let himself into the impractical, draughty and thoroughly beautiful thatched cottage he had bought and renovated when he had first arrived in Purbrook.

Most family doctors of his age had a wife, but Callum often suspected that some of his colleagues’ marriages were precipitated by the desire to have someone answer the phone for them and provide warm meals, rather than because they had found their true soul-mates.

Callum was the product of a successful marriage which had also been a love match and, consequently, he was unwilling to settle for anything less than the best. And a close brush with matrimony in his twenties had made him even more wary of commitment.

Indeed, sometimes he suspected that his expectations were too high to ever be realised, and that he might be consigning himself to a solitary future. But isolation posed less worry to him than failure in a relationship, particularly if that relationship involved children. For Callum had been a doctor for long enough to understand the far-reaching repercussions of divorce on family life.

At home there was a message on his answerphone, asking him to ring Helen. He knitted his dark eyebrows together, and it took a moment for him to remember that she was the rather luscious actress he had met at his younger brother’s Christmas party. Blonde, attractive and sunny in nature, she had been appearing in panto on the south coast and had promised to get in touch once the run had ended.

Callum hesitated as he recalled a pale and fluffy dress which had clung to an outrageously curved body. Yes, he would ring her, he decided—but not tonight!

Tonight he would write down a list of topics which his new GP registrar might wish to discuss with him.


CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_0906028a-6454-5473-9280-2c2320b0bc1a)

NANCY awoke with a splitting headache and the dull ache of hunger gnawing away at the pit of her stomach. She turned to stare at the space beside her on the bed, and again felt relief and guilt in equal measures on discovering that it was empty.

She showered and dressed, before going downstairs. She felt much too vulnerable to face her husband wearing nothing but a pair of cotton-brushed pyjamas which fell in soft folds against her bare skin.

Steve was sleeping just where she had left him, still snoring—his mouth open and moistly slack—sucking in great shuddering breaths of air. She went into the kitchen, made a pot of strong, black coffee and poured him a vast mugful, before attempting to shake him awake.

‘Go away!’ he mumbled, and turned his head into one of the cushions.

‘Steve, I’m not going anywhere,’ she told him patiently, even though the stale smell of alcohol made her want to gag. ‘It’s eight o’clock in the morning, and I have to leave for surgery in five minutes. You, meanwhile, have a client meeting booked for ten-thirty so I suggest you drink this and dive into the shower.’ She bent and loudly crashed the coffee-mug onto the table next to the sofa. ‘Pronto!’




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