Saving Dr Gregory

Saving Dr Gregory Caroline Anderson A HUSBAND AND FATHER IN THE MAKINGPractice Nurse Polly Barnes hasn’t long been in her new job when Dr Matt Gregory has an accident in front of her cottage. She soon discovers what a very good doctor he is—particularly with the pregnant mums. But Matt is still getting over the loss of his wife and child and, while he makes it clear he would love to have an affair with Polly, he no longer wants any commitment. If ever a man has good husband and father written all over him it’s Matt, and Polly is determined to save him from himself! Saving Dr Gregory Caroline Anderson www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk) Table of Contents Cover (#u7e111f52-0015-56bd-a426-9fba50da61f2) Title Page (#u7b165d99-bc87-5965-bc22-950875cbe43a) Chapter One (#uf368f5bc-5e59-526b-a266-b6538e466914) Chapter Two (#u6696aedf-f02d-5f31-a04b-b4534020a420) Chapter Three (#u8da9c365-d43c-5b71-9663-632fd22368c5) Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo) 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) Copyright (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_4166ae61-461a-51ba-b5d3-8c9f69605ea5) IT WAS Polly’s favourite time of day, and she curled up on the window-seat overlooking the valley and cuddled her steaming mug of coffee. Her breath was misting on the window, and she scrubbed at it with her sleeve. It was cold in the sitting-room in the mornings, but the view was so spectacular that she didn’t mind. The little window was set in the thickness of the cob walls, and the seat tucked into the little nook was fast becoming Polly’s favourite place. Admittedly it wasn’t very comfortable, but the view was something else. In front of the tiny rented cottage ran a narrow, winding lane, hedged with hawthorn and dog-rose, with occasional wild cherries standing like sentinels along the route. Beyond the lane was a field, dipping away into the distance, with neat lines of plough showing tiny tips of green as the winter wheat broke the surface of the soil. Beyond that, a river wound lazily along the valley floor before the land rose steeply on the other side in a heavily wooded slope. As it rose, the willows and poplars gave way to other trees, beech and oak and sycamore, with the occasional white trunk of a silver birch gleaming in the distance. The autumn colours in the old wood were at their best on this early November day, and the morning sun slanting low across the hill behind her caught the leaves and turned them to flame. It was an isolated spot, but that didn’t worry Polly. She wasn’t afraid of her own company, and she wasn’t afraid of her fellow man, either. In her experience the vast majority of people were good and decent, and the media’s exaggeration had led a great many people to believe otherwise. Polly thought it was a tremendous shame. Take this man, for instance, she mused. He jogged along the lane every morning—at least he had in the week Polly had been living here. Anybody could see that he was harmless, for all that he was big. He just looked reliable, honest and solid and trustworthy. It didn’t occur to Polly that she was being fanciful, or that she was making judgements based on speculation and not fact. She just knew, without any question, that she could trust him with her life. He was earlier today, she thought. Last week it had been about eight-fifteen, and she had even passed him one morning in her car on the way to work. Today it was barely half-past seven, and Polly was only up and dressed because she wanted to get to work early to sort out her surgery shelves and rearrange her supplies before the clinics started. The man drew level with her cottage, jogging steadily across from left to right. The sun was shining on his back, highlighting the breadth of his shoulders and the glint of gold in his neat brown hair. The boy-next-door grown up, Polly thought, and smiled to herself as she watched him. There was a car coming towards him now, and Polly frowned as she saw it bearing down on him with no attempt to reduce speed. She saw a greasy sheen on the windscreen, and realised in horror that the driver was momentarily blinded by the sun. She heard the man shout, and at the last second the car swerved, sliding out of control on the wet leaves that covered the lane. With the car headed straight for him, the man threw himself out of its path, crashing into the hedge as the car slewed past him and ground into the bank on the other side. Polly didn’t hesitate. Grabbing her coat off the peg by the door, she ran out into the lane and towards the jogger. He was picking himself up by the time she got there, and looked at her in surprise. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked anxiously. ‘Yes, I’m fine. How about the people in the car?’ ‘I’ll check them.’ She turned on her heel and ran over to the car just as the passenger door opened and the driver struggled out. ‘Sorry, mate!’ he called. ‘Didn’t see you—damn sun got in my eyes. You OK?’ ‘Fine,’ he repeated. ‘What about you?’ His voice was warm and deep, Polly noted with detachment. Just what she would have expected. The jogger had every right to be angry, having nearly been mown down. Many people would have been, she thought, but his first concern had been for the occupants of the car; that just reinforced her opinion of him. Now they were shaking hands, and the driver was returning to his car and pulling away, considerably more slowly than before. She turned back to the jogger. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ He nodded. ‘Just a bit shaken up. I’ll be OK.’ He frowned at the lane. ‘Where did you spring from?’ The cottage. I’m renting it. I’d better get on, if you’re sure——?’ He grinned. Tine—see?’ He turned to jog away from her, and his left leg collapsed under him. Making a grab for Polly, he swore softly under his breath and bent to explore his left calf. His right hand was gripping her shoulder firmly, and Polly tucked her left arm around his waist to support him. He felt lean and solid, without an ounce of fat. He was also shaking slightly, probably with shock. ‘What’s the problem?’ He shook his head and straightened, frowning at his left hand. It was streaked with blood and he glanced down at his leg again. ‘Don’t know. It hurts, though. It didn’t a minute ago.’ ‘That often happens,’ Polly hastened to reassure him. ‘Often we don’t feel an injury until it’s safe to do so. I suppose it’s a safety mechanism. Let’s get you inside and have a closer look.’ Still supporting him around his waist, she changed sides so that his injured leg was next to her and she could give him better support, and they made their way slowly into the cottage. The top of her head came up to his chin, and his arm rested comfortably across her shoulders. They fitted well together, she thought idly. Once in the kitchen, he sank gratefully on to a chair and flexed his leg. ‘It feels as if there’s something in it,’ he muttered, and Polly stripped off her coat, turned on the kettle and washed her hands thoroughly. ‘Take off your tracksuit bottoms,’ she instructed, rummaging in the kitchen cupboard for her first-aid kit. ‘Do you say that to all the strange men you meet?’ he asked, laughter brimming in his voice. ‘Only the ones who fall in my hedge and write themselves off,’ she returned. ‘You’re quite safe, I’m a qualified nurse. I’m also going to be late for work, so if you could co-operate, please?’ When she turned back he had pulled his trousers off and was standing on one leg in his jogging shorts, craning his neck to see the back of his calf. ‘Here,’ she said, and grasping his ankle firmly, she lifted his well-muscled but lacerated lower leg and propped it across the seat of the chair. ‘Stand still. You don’t need to see, I do,’ she told him frankly, and then examined the area without touching it for a few seconds. Because he had been exercising, the blood vessels were all dilated and so the scratches were bleeding freely. However, there only seemed to be one serious wound. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, peering over his shoulder again. ‘Stop squirming around,’ she chided. ‘You’ve got hawthorns in it, and a nasty cut. I’ll clean it up and lift out the thorns with tweezers, but you really ought to have stitches in the cut, I think. You’ll have to keep still.’ ‘Yes, Nurse,’ he said in a mock-submissive voice, and Polly’s mouth twitched into a smile. She cleaned the area as gently as possible, and then after warning him, swabbed the cuts with antiseptic. He winced and his leg muscles clenched involuntarily. Polly apologised and carried on swabbing. ‘It could have been worse.’ she told him, ‘you might have sat in the hedge.’ His choked laugh was cut off abruptly when she swabbed him again. ‘You haven’t asked if I’ve got AIDS,’ he said through gritted teeth, and Polly straightened for a second and looked him dead in the eye. ‘I should think not! I would imagine, as you’re an intelligent person, that you would have had the grace to tell me. You’re far more likely to have Hepatitis B——’ ‘Sorry, all clear. I’ve had my jabs.’ ‘Tetanus?’ she asked. He shook his head. ‘Not recently.’ ‘Well, you must. Go to the doctor today and have a booster.’ She bent her head over his leg again. ‘You don’t know what you could have picked up from these thorns. Infected animals could have brushed against them or anything.’ ‘Unlikely,’ he murmured, watching with interest as she removed the tweezers from the cup of boiling water and dipped them in the antiseptic to cool them. ‘I’m probably in more danger from those things.’ ‘That’s the most sterile I can get them at this sort of notice. Sorry,’ she added as he flinched again. ‘You look as if you’ve had a run-in with a porcupine. There,’ she laid the tweezers aside and swabbed the cut again, then wiped it dry. ‘I’ll put a butterfly plaster on it for now, but I really would recommend that you go to your doctor.’ Polly pressed the plaster in place, covering it with a sterile gauze dressing, and stood back to admire her handiwork. ‘You’ll do. I must get on. Can I give you a lift home?’ ‘Please, if you’ve got time. Are you going through Longridge?’ ‘I work there. That’s no trouble.’ She picked up her coat, and handed him his tracksuit bottoms. ‘I’m afraid they’re ruined,’ she said apologetically. He shrugged. ‘They were ancient anyway.’ He hobbled out to the car, commenting as he went that his leg felt much better without the thorns. She drove carefully into town, following his directions and dropping him in front of a lovely cottage, set back from the road behind a low wall in a quiet little lane just off the town centre. ‘Take care, now, and do go to the doctors’ with that. I’m sure they’d rather see you before it goes septic,’ she said cheerfully. ‘I don’t doubt it,’ he said with a laugh, leaning down through the passenger door to throw her a cheeky grin. ‘Thank you…?’ ‘Polly,’ she supplied. ‘Thank you, Polly. You’re a gem.’ She blushed. ‘Rubbish. I’ll see you,’ she mumbled. The grin widened. ‘Yes, you will. Go carefully, Pollyanna.’ She pulled away, and glancing back in her rearview mirror, she saw him give a jaunty wave before turning to hobble into his house. Nice man, she thought, even if he did call her Pollyanna. She wondered what his name was, and if she would see him again … Polly arrived at the surgery in good time for her first clinic, but not in time to turn out her shelves. Oh, well, there was always the evening. She could stay late—goodness knew, there was precious little else for her to do as she didn’t know anybody yet. She hung her coat in the little cloakroom and studied herself in the mirror for a moment. There was a liveliness in her gentle brown eyes that hadn’t been there earlier this morning, and a soft touch of colour on her cheekbones, the remains of the blush put there by her intriguing encounter. With a little smile, she tidied her lively nut-brown curls and added a dash of soft pink lipstick before going into Reception. ‘Morning, Angela, morning, Sue,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Anything exciting I should know about?’ ‘Other than that Dr Gregory is back today? Not really,’ Angela told her. ‘Here’s your surgery list—they’re mainly inoculations and routine dressings. Mrs Major’s in for a diabetic check, and there are one or two to have stitches out. That’s this morning, then this afternoon you’re working with Dr Gregory on the ante-natal clinic. He’ll talk to you about that when he comes in. Sue’s got your notes out for this morning. Here,’ Angela handed her a pile of patients’ envelopes, and headed for the door. ‘Dr Haynes wants to dictate some letters before surgery starts. Must fly. Help yourself to coffee.’ The practice manager-cum-medical secretary ran lightly up the stairs to the senior partner’s surgery, and left Polly sorting through the notes. Sue, the receptionist, was on the phone, and Polly was alone when the surgery door was pushed open and her jogger limped in and came round to the door into Reception. ‘Hello again,’ he said, his warm toffee voice touched with humour. He was wearing a light grey suit and tortoiseshell specs, and looked even more like the boy next door. What a nice smile, Polly thought, and returned it with interest. ‘Hello. I’m glad you decided to take my advice. If you can hang on a minute, I’ll see who can fit you in.’ ‘Actually, it’s you I wanted to see——’ ‘Oh, no,’ Polly replied, ‘you really ought to be seen by a doctor——’ His lips twitched. ‘Nonsense. All I need is a tetanus booster, as you so thoughtfully pointed out when you were tactfully trying to discover if I had AIDS——’ ‘I did no such thing! You brought that up! I would never dream——’ ‘You should, Pollyanna. You can’t be too careful.’ Polly pretended to scowl at him. ‘Don’t be absurd. Look at you! Unless you’ve had a contaminated blood transfusion——’ ‘I could be a haemophiliac’ Polly shook her head firmly. ‘No. I’ve seen your legs. No haemophiliac has knees like that, with straight, strong joints—and anyway, you would have bled to death on my kitchen floor.’ ‘There could be worse fates,’ he joked. ‘Not for my kitchen floor!’ Polly replied laughingly. ‘Now come on, out of here, please. If you go round to the window I’ll get the receptionist to make you an appointment with one of the doctors. Who do you usually see?’ ‘I have more to do with Gregory than the others,’ he replied, still lounging in the doorway, an engaging smile playing around his nicely sculptured lips, his blue eyes behind his tortoiseshell specs twinkling merrily. Polly was at a loss. How could she get him out of the reception area into the waiting-room? Short of picking him up—and he was much too big for that? probably a shade under six feet, but she knew from her contact with him that morning that every inch of him was solid bone and muscle, and at five feet three in her shoes she didn’t stand a snow-flake’s … sighing, she turned away to the desk. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said over her shoulder, ‘but Dr Gregory has been away on holiday and he’s rather booked up this morning.’ ‘But I only want to see you, Pollyanna——’ ‘The name’s Nurse Barnes, and please don’t call me Pollyanna,’ she almost snapped, turning round as she did so to find that her nose was in line with the middle of his tie, and so close that she could see the fine silk weave. She swallowed. ‘Patients really aren’t allowed in here. Please go into the waiting area, Mr—er…’ ‘Ah, Polly, I see you’ve met Dr Gregory. Good, good.’ The senior partner swept in, clapped Polly’s intruder on the back and grinned at them both. ‘Good to have you back, old chap. Matt, this is our new nurse, Polly Barnes. She’s a real breath of spring.’ He smiled apologetically. ‘I know. She has the hands of an angel, as well.’ He laughed at Dr Haynes’ puzzled frown. ‘I fell in her hedge this morning, and she tended me, very sympathetically.’ Polly felt the heat rising from her toes—whether from her own humiliation or from his praise, she wasn’t sure. Scarlet, she muttered something about having to get on and excused herself hastily. ‘I’ll see you later for that tetanus jab, Polly,’ Matt called after her. Polly smiled grimly. That could be a mistake. The way she was feeling, it could provide her with a wonderful means of revenge! ‘You do that,’ she called back, and stomped into her little room, mortified. He could have said something—anything! Rat. Low-down, sneaky, devious rat! So much for trusting him! She was giving vent to her feelings when he stuck his head round the door and grinned. ‘Your notes,’ he said, and limped off down the corridor, whistling jauntily. Polly wondered if he realised how close he was to having a hypodermic in the back of his neck. The day was the usual hectic scrabble, with a mish-mash of inoculations interwoven with various other routine checks, like Mrs Major, the young diabetic who was having her three-monthly check-up. Polly weighed her, took her blood pressure and a blood sample for the hypotest. ‘Your blood sugar’s a little on the low side, Mrs Major,’ Polly told her. ‘Oh, I’m not surprised. I couldn’t eat this morning—I tried, but—to tell you the truth, I’ve been off my food for a couple of days.’ Polly frowned. ‘I’ll get you a cup of tea and a biscuit in a minute. Your blood pressure’s down a bit, too. I don’t suppose you could be pregnant?’ Mrs Major laughed. Oh, no, Nurse. No chance. We’re always very careful—we don’t want a family yet, and James always—no, I couldn’t be.’ Polly persisted. ‘When is your next period due?’ The woman shrugged. ‘Any time now, I think. Why? You don’t seriously think I could be pregnant, do you? I’m sure—although, come to think of it——’ She flushed. ‘Yes?’ Polly prompted gently. ‘There might have been one occasion—but surely…?’ Polly smiled. ‘It only takes once, Mrs Major. Let me see if your doctor can fit you in now, just to be on the safe side. Who is your GP?’ ‘Dr Gregory,’ she replied, and Polly almost ground her teeth in frustration. ‘Fine,’ she said with a forced smile, and asking Mrs Major to hang on, she went along the corridor to Dr Gregory’s room and tapped on the door, popping her head round. He had an elderly man with him whom Polly had seen the previous week to dress an ulcer on his leg, and she smiled at him in genuine pleasure. ‘Hello, Mr Grey. How are you doing?’ she asked warmly. Oh, not so bad, my dear. I’ll be along to see you directly,’ he told her with a twinkle. ‘Jolly good. I’ll look forward to it——’ ‘Did you want something, Nurse Barnes, or is this merely a social call?’ Matt asked a trifle abruptly, and Polly straightened up like a naughty girl. ‘I’ve got a lady I’d like you to have a look at when you’ve got a minute, Dr Gregory.’ ‘Fine. Hang on to her; Mr Grey and I have almost finished, I think.’ ‘Fine,’ Polly gulped and shot out of his room, pulling the door to behind herself and sagging against it with a sigh. Why did he always seem to catch her at a disadvantage? She went back into her little surgery, and continued with Mrs Major’s check-up, examining her eyes and feet for any sign of the deterioration that diabetes could cause. Everything was fine, except that she was beginning to feel a little nauseated and was probably going to go into a hypo if she didn’t have something to eat soon. Polly gave her a glucose tablet, and went to find some biscuits from the kitchen. When she got back, Dr Gregory was in her chair, holding Mrs Major’s hands and talking soothingly to her. ‘She’s going into a hypo, Polly. I’ll have to give her some IV dextrose, I think. What’s her blood sugar?’ ‘One point five.’ ‘I wonder if we can get it up with food?’ Matt suggested, eyeing the biscuits, but Mrs Major by now was beyond co-operating. ‘Polly, could you draw me up ten mls of twenty-per-cent dextrose?’ he asked over his shoulder, then, scooping the nearly comatose woman up in his arms, he laid her gently on the couch and rolled up her sleeve; putting a tourniquet around her upper arm, he started looking for a vein. ‘Can’t find one. They’re all contracted down—ah, here’s one.’ Taking the syringe from Polly, he inserted the needle, pulled back to check the positioning in the vein and then flicking off the tourniquet, slowly injected the glucose solution. The effect was remarkable. Mrs Major groaned and rolled on to her side, complaining of nausea, and Polly grabbed a kidney dish and pushed it under her chin in the nick of time. ‘Well done, Pollyanna,’ Matt murmured, withdrawing the needle and dropping the used syringe into the yellow sharps bin. Mrs Major was groaning, and Matt laid his hand over the vein and pressed firmly. ‘Hello, there. How are you feeling?’ She attempted a smile. ‘Awful. I have been for days. I think maybe Nurse Barnes is right.’ Matt raised an eyebrow at Polly. ‘There is some possibility that Mrs Major is pregnant,’ Polly explained quietly. ‘Her blood pressure’s lower than usual, and she’s been nauseated in the mornings.’ Matt nodded. ‘Let’s just have a look at you, Mrs Major,’ he suggested, and helped her undo her skirt and slide it down to her hips. He checked her eyes and throat, the glands in her neck and under her arms, and listened to her chest before moving down to palpate her abdomen gently. ‘When did your last period start?’ he asked. ‘I’ve been trying to think. The day we finished putting in the central heating,’ she decided. ‘That was the end of September—twenty-seventh, something like that?’ Polly picked up a calendar. ‘That makes you ten days overdue, Mrs Major.’ Oh,’ she said, subdued. ‘Oh, Matt echoed. ‘Would it be bad news?’ She shook her head. ‘Not really—although I don’t know what James will say.’ Matt smiled. ‘If it’s simply a case of accelerating your plunge into parenthood, he’ll probably get used to it very quickly. If not, well, he’ll come round, I’m sure. I’m much more concerned about your physical well-being at the moment. Certainly there’s nothing else obviously wrong with you. Is your diabetes normally well controlled?’ ‘Yes—well, it has been. It’s only recently that I’ve been feeling off-colour, but I really have tried to eat.’ ‘You must—I know that sounds impossibly trite, but you know the importance of maintaining your intake of carbohydrates. Try eating crackers and drinking cold water with ice in it. Slices of apple are supposed to be very good, too. Get James to wait on you a bit.’ He grinned. ‘Do him good. Men have it far too easy during pregnancy—always assuming that’s what’s wrong with you! I suppose it wouldn’t be a bad idea to take a sample of urine and run a pregnancy test, Polly. Can you sort that out?’ Polly nodded. Of course. Do you want Mrs Major to come back this afternoon if it’s positive?’ Matt shook his head. ‘I don’t think there’s any need. If you find you can’t eat, then we can arrange for you to go into hospital so that you can be consistently monitored and maintained. Hopefully it won’t come to that—I don’t think it will—but they may want to take over your ante-natal care.’ ‘Aren’t there any pills you can give me?’ ‘I’d rather not,’ he said, after a slight pause. ‘I’m never sure about them. Let’s give it a whirl without first. I’m sure you’ll be all right.’ He rose to his feet and limped to the door. ‘Oh!’ Mrs Major exclaimed ‘You’ve hurt yourself!’ He gave her a lopsided grin. ‘Polly beat me up,’ he said sorrowfully. ‘Ignore him,’ Polly advised, throwing him a black look and fighting down another blush. He limped off down the corridor, chuckling quietly. Polly explained to the bemused patient that Matt had nearly been run off the road that morning. ‘Lucky for him you were there!’ Mrs Major said, and Polly smiled tightly. She was not a vindictive person, but this tetanus injection was beginning to sound attractive! It was much later that Polly got her revenge, and it wasn’t at all as she had expected. She met up with Matt over lunch—a snack taken in Reception after he came back from doing house calls, while he explained what he wanted her to do during the ante-natal clinics. First she was to weigh each patient and take her blood pressure, then check her urine with the Multistix, entering the results on the co-op card as well as the patient’s notes. Then Matt wanted her present to chaperon during examinations, but not otherwise. There were six patients booked for the afternoon session, and he ran over the notes quickly with Polly. There was nothing unusual about any of them, except for one elderly primip, a thirty-five-year-old unmarried woman who had decided she wanted a child. ‘She shouldn’t be a problem,’ Matt said, ‘she’s very fit and healthy. She’s in a stable relationship but there’s no question of marriage, so don’t ask her, and for goodness’ sake don’t call her Mrs Harding. It’s Ms—on pain of death! On the other hand, this very married lady——’ he thrust some notes at Polly ‘—Sarah Goddard, has three children already. The last one was born in the car on the way to hospital, and she only just got there with the second. Going on her record, we’ve opted for a home delivery! She’s due at the beginning of January, but she probably won’t go to term. Right, I’ve got some letters to write and some results to sift through. I’ll see you at three on the dot. We’ve only got an hour, so we have to keep moving fairly rapidly. If anyone has a problem, we tend to run over and lose our tea break. I really don’t want to, especially as I’m on call tonight, but that’s the way the cookie crumbles.’ He gave a wry smile, and Polly felt herself respond against her better judgement. He was such a tease, she thought, but such a nice person with it. She watched as he unfolded himself and limped cautiously towards the door. ‘Have you done anything about that leg yet?’ she asked, concerned despite herself. He shook his head. ‘I can’t reach it to stitch it, but I think you’re right. I don’t suppose you’d like to do it now—that is, if I can trust you?’ Polly’s eyes widened. ‘Me?’ she mouthed. ‘You can suture, can’t you?’ She nodded. ‘Yes, but——’ ‘But nothing. Please? Stephen and Mike are too busy, and I hate to see a good woman go to waste——’ Polly stood up and stalked past him. ‘Come on, then,’ she threw over her shoulder, and went into his consulting room. ‘Take your trousers off and lie down,’ she instructed, scrubbing up her hands and sorting out the lignocaine injection and the tetanus booster. ‘I get a feeling of d?j? vu,’ he commented, kicking off his shoes and removing his trousers. ‘Just shut up and lie down,’ she said irritably. She didn’t like the way he made her feel, not one bit. She was never irritable—never. He brought out a side of her she didn’t even know existed, and it was a side she didn’t think she liked. However, he seemed to hit all the wrong buttons all the time. She picked up the lignocaine syringe and got Matt to check it. ‘Don’t mix them up,’ he warned, a thread of laughter in his voice. ‘Serve you right if I did,’ Polly replied, and resisted the urge to plunge the needle into his leg unnecessarily hard. After injecting the local anaesthetic into the area around the wound and disposing of the syringe, she picked up the other and asked, ‘Where do you want the tetanus booster—gluteus maximus?’ He rolled over sharply, eyes laughing. ‘No way! I want to be able to sit down. Here will do. I’m going to be limping anyway.’ He pointed to his thigh and watched as Polly slapped his leg, swabbed it and injected it with practised ease. ‘Not bad,’ he said mildly, ‘but was it necessary to slap me first?’ ‘Technically, no, spiritually, yes,’ Polly replied, dropping the syringe into the sharps bin. ‘Right, let’s get you sewn up, Dr Gregory.’ He rolled on to his stomach, propped his chin on his folded hands and mumbled something. ‘What?’ ‘I said I’m sorry. I should have told you who I was, but I was enjoying your ministrations and I was afraid you’d flounder if you knew who I was. I didn’t mean to tease you at first, and in the surgery…’ ‘… it was just too good an opportunity to miss. I know. Right, hold still. Is it numb?’ At his nod, she removed the butterfly plaster, swabbed the wound and carefully trimmed away the softly curling hairs around the area. Then she inserted the suture needle, drawing the ragged edges of the wound together. ‘I’m going to do two, I think. It’ll be neater. Not that it’ll show with all this fuzz.’ ‘I’ll be devastated if I’m scarred, Polly. I’ll hold you personally responsible,’ he threatened. ‘You are in a very vulnerable position,’ she warned him. ‘If I were you, I’d be very quiet!’ Just then Mike Haynes popped his head round the door. ‘Ah, there you are. Very neat, Polly. Well done. Don’t forget to fill in the paperwork so we can claim!’ Polly smiled. Oh, no. This one’s on me,’ she said with a light laugh. ‘Can you give me a minute when you’re done, Matt?’ Dr Haynes asked, and Matt nodded. ‘We won’t be long.’ Polly tied off the suture, clipped it neatly and covered the wound. ‘Let me see that tomorrow, and I’ll change the dressing,’ she told him, disposing of the refuse and stripping off her gloves. He slid off the couch and dressed quickly, then on the way past, he dropped a quick and meaningless little kiss on her lips. ‘Thanks, Polly.’ His smile held his apology, and Polly smiled back her forgiveness. In truth, she couldn’t have done anything else, because something inside her had come alive at his kiss, and she couldn’t have stopped the smile if her life depended on it. CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_d9cc84d0-e673-599c-894c-4814ca3e793d) THEY met up again at three for the ante-natal clinic, and Polly had an opportunity to see Matt Gregory in action. She found it a real eye-opener. Far too young to assume a paternalistic attitude, with his warm, open smile and solid bulk he just became everyone’s favourite brother. He asked searching personal questions with gentle understanding, said nothing trite or patronising, and managed to refrain from avuncular pats or the worse alternative, chilling professional distance. He treated the women in his care with respect, interest and a touching tenderness, as if what they were doing was somehow special—which of course it was. Polly was impressed. She didn’t think she had ever seen anyone so human before. Ms Harding, the liberated elderly primip, was dealt with without any faux pas on Polly’s behalf and with humorous efficiency by Matt, and she was pleased to meet Sarah Goddard, the woman who was going for a home delivery. When she showed Mrs Goddard in to Matt after weighing her and checking her BP and urine, he asked Polly to stay. As she watched his strong, sensitive hands moving deftly and with infinite care over Mrs Goddard’s swollen abdomen, Polly felt some strange emotion rise up and clog her throat. The baby, resenting Matt’s interference, squirmed and kicked, and Matt and Mrs Goddard both laughed, a warm, intimate laugh that made Polly feel left out. The thing, whatever it was, that had come to life inside Polly when Matt had kissed her turned into full-blown jealousy for a brief instant—so brief that Polly didn’t even have time to recognise it, but she was aware of a tiny flash of pain which she attributed to a frustrated maternal urge. Sighing, she turned away and busied herself laying up the instrument trolley with swabs, gloves, KY jelly, speculum, cervical spatulas and the like. Polly wanted children. She had no particular image of herself, either as a nurse or as a woman, but she knew that men—not all, certainly, but enough—found her reasonably attractive. With her nut-brown hair curling in unruly tangles around her head, and her warm brown eyes in what she saw as an honest but unremarkable face, Polly was as far removed as she could be from her ideal of the Nordic blonde which she imagined was what turned men on. Her breasts were too full, her hips too rounded, although her waist was neat and her stomach flat and firm. She was too short, too squat, and altogether too homespun for perfection, but she knew she had a warm heart and a loving nature, and her one affair had been filled with affection and humour. Martin had emigrated to Australia, and the choice for Polly had been simple—go with him, as his mistress, or stay. He had never asked her to be his wife, and Polly felt he probably never would unless he was pushed—but she didn’t want to push him. Somewhere inside the practical, cheerful and warmhearted woman everybody loved to know was a passionate, romantic girl who wanted to be swept off her feet. No matter that it was unrealistic. Polly knew that in the end she would settle for a kind man and set up a loving home based on mutual affection and respect. She didn’t ask for fireworks. She had learned long ago that they were a figment of romantic fiction. All she asked was that some time, before she was too old, she should find a good man to settle down with and raise a brood of chicks. And the young and attractive Mrs Goddard, with her mother-earth good looks and the smooth mound of her burgeoning pregnancy, was a reminder that time was ticking by. Squashing the thing she now recognised as jealousy, she helped the woman off the couch and back into her dress, before excusing herself and returning to her room where she set about rearranging her shelves. A few minutes later Matt limped in with two cups of tea, and propped himself on the edge of her desk. ‘Are you OK?’ he asked, a slight frown creasing his brow. Polly nodded. ’Of course. Why shouldn’t I be?’ ‘Just wondered. You looked a bit strained while you were fiddling with the trolley, rearranging things over and over again. I just wondered if I’d upset you that much this morning.’ With a sigh, Polly picked up her tea and sank down on to the chair, propping her feet on the desk. ‘No. I just felt the pressure of years, that’s all. I was jealous of her—isn’t that silly? I think it’s all these pregnant bumps around the place this afternoon. You’re good with them, aren’t you? I get the feeling you really care about those mums and their babies.’ ‘I do. They’re very important to me.’ ‘You were good with Mrs Major this morning, too. She is pregnant, by the way.’ ‘I thought she was. She had the look.’ Polly smiled. ‘I’m glad you agree that there’s a look. Most men dismiss it.’ He gave a curiously bleak smile. ‘Oh, no, I believe in the look. My wife had it when she was pregnant.’ Polly felt a strange little lurch of pain. Of course he was married—he had ‘HUSBAND MATERIAL’ written all over him in letters ten inches high. She should have guessed. Misinterpreting her sigh, Matt smiled. ‘There’s plenty of time for you, Polly. How old are you?’ ‘Twenty-six.’ ‘Are you? You don’t look it.’ Her smile was wry. ‘Is that supposed to be a compliment?’ ‘Just a comment, neither one way or the other. Thinking about it, you must be that old to have enough experience to do this job. But going back to pregnant bumps, you’ve got years before you need to worry.’ Polly dropped her feet to the floor. ‘I wasn’t worried, Matt. I just had a surge of maternal feeling—it caught me by surprise, that’s all.’ ‘I know the feeling,’ he said quietly. ‘Every time I do an ante-natal clinic, I long to have a child of my own. One day, maybe—but I doubt it.’ ‘But I thought you said—what happened?’ ‘She had a water-skiing accident. The baby died.’ ‘Oh, Matt!’ Polly’s warm heart ached for him, and she covered his hand with hers. ‘I’m sorry. But there’ll be other chances——’ ‘No.’ His bitterness showed briefly in his eyes before he straightened and moved away from Polly. ‘Evening surgery,’ he said abruptly, and left, limping awkwardly down the corridor towards his room. His tea on her desk was still untouched, and Polly went via the kitchen and took him in a fresh one before his first patient. He flashed her a distracted smile and busied himself on the computer. He had evidently said much more than he had intended, and now he regretted it. Her dismissal was obvious—and painful. He found her in the morning, after surgery, when she was clearing up her room and remaking the couch with a clean sheet. ‘Morning,’ she said, sparing him a quick smile as she bustled round. ‘Have you got a minute? There’s a patient I’d like to discuss with you, Polly.’ ‘Sure.’ She stopped bustling, and pulled up a chair. Go ahead.’ ‘Her name’s Helen Robinson, and I’ve suggested she comes to see you at the well-person clinic. She’s got nothing wrong with her, but she’s a real problem.’ Polly’s heart sank. ‘I’ve got a letter from her old GP. He describes her as one of his “heartsink” patients.’ Polly suppressed a smile. That had been her immediate reaction, too. She could imagine why. There were patients like that in every walk of medicine—physically apparently fit, but with a morbid fear of their own health or an unrealistic expectation of their bodies. Every last palpitation, twinge or hiccup would send them flying to the surgery in a panic. Perhaps Mrs Robinson was just a good old-fashioned hypochondriac? ‘She’s in her late forties, not yet in the menopause. She’s an attractive woman, slim and apparently healthy. They moved here six months ago, and she’s been to see me four times—each time with something unrelated and insignificant. But there’s something wrong—some pain inside that shows in her eyes. I don’t think she’s so much a heartsink as heartsick, and I think she just doesn’t know how to start to explain.’ Polly frowned. She trusted Matt’s instincts, and if he felt there was something wrong, then there probably was. Not a hypochondriac, then, but was her problem medical or social? ‘What makes you think she doesn’t need to talk to a social worker or priest, Matt? Why does she need us?’ Matt sighed and ran his hand through his hair, then pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes wearily. ‘She had a lumpectomy seven years ago for breast cancer, and she was cleared by the oncologist a year ago. I asked her if she had any worries about it returning, and she said no, but she was cagey. Polly, I think something about it is troubling her. She hasn’t had a smear done for eight years, and when I asked her she said she didn’t think it was necessary. That’s when I suggested she should come to see you. I think a well-person clinic is sufficiently routine and unthreatening that you could check all sorts of things without planting any seeds of doubt in her mind. Will you look at her for me?’ ‘Of course. When’s she coming?’ ‘This evening. I’d like to talk to you after you see her—can you come round to my house? We can have something to eat while we chat.’ Polly’s heart hiccuped, and then she remembered the unknown Mrs Gregory. ‘Is there any reason why we can’t do it here?’ He shook his head. ‘No, not really, if coming to my house gives you a problem. The only reason was that I’m off duty this afternoon and I wanted to get my weight off this leg as soon as I could, but it doesn’t matter. I can come back quite easily.’ ‘Oh!’ Polly had forgotten his leg. ‘Let me do the dressing now and have a look at it—have you got time?’ ‘I thought you’d never ask,’ he teased, but instead of lowering his trousers, he pulled up the left leg to his knee. Polly was relieved. Her feelings about Dr Matthew Gregory were becoming distinctly confused and unprofessional, and that troubled her. If he hadn’t been married, well then, fair enough, but as it was—she eased off the dressing, cleaned the wound and redressed it with swift but sympathetic fingers. Thanks,’ he murmured, sliding off the couch, and Polly, to avoid a repetition of yesterday’s kiss, busied herself at the sink. ‘I’ll come to your house, if you like. What time?’ ‘When you’re ready. I’ll be in all evening. Thanks, Pollyanna. I’ll see you later.’ She thought about Mrs Heartsink—or was it Heartsick?—for the rest of that busy day, and when she went into the waiting-room to call for her she was able to pick out the woman quite easily, because she had focused her thoughts on her so exclusively. She was fairly tall, elegantly dressed, with dark hair greying slightly and swept up into a neat bun. She looked like a businesswoman, and Polly wondered if she had been forced to give up her career to move here with her husband, and she wondered why they had moved. Then she remembered that the woman’s previous GP and not Matt had described her as a heartsink patient, and she dismissed that idea. Her problem, whatever it was, was longer-standing than that. And Matt was right—it showed in her eyes. ‘Come on through, Mrs Robinson,’ Polly said with a smile, and seating the woman, she picked up a blank well person card to fill in the details. First, after the name, was marital status. ‘I just have to ask a few routine questions, Mrs Robinson. Have you ever been to a well-person clinic before?’ At the woman’s headshake, Polly said, ‘Well, it’s all quite simple and routine. We establish your history, and test all the usual things like blood pressure, cholesterol and so on. Right. What’s your marital status?’ ‘Married,’ she answered shortly. Polly thought she detected a twinge of bitterness. ‘Occupation?’ ‘I used to be manager in a travel agency until we moved.’ ‘Oh!’ Polly said. ‘How lovely! Did you go anywhere exciting?’ ‘Once or twice. Nowhere that special. My husband runs his own business, and getting time off is difficult.’ ‘Oh, yes,’ Polly agreed. ‘I know several people like that, and they work harder for themselves than they ever would for anyone else. Perhaps we ought to have a look at him too, just to make sure that he isn’t overdoing things and doesn’t have any problems with blood pressure. This isn’t just a clinic for women, you know.’ ‘He won’t come,’ Mrs Robinson told her. ‘He says doctors are a waste of time.’ ‘But that’s rubbish,’ Polly said briskly. ‘Without doctors you probably wouldn’t be alive now, so he can’t say that.’ ‘He can,’ Mrs Robinson assured her, and sighed heavily. ‘Sometimes I wonder why they bothered with me.’ Polly frowned. Mrs Robinson was her last patient, and she felt they needed a cup of tea, to break the ice, but she didn’t want to do anything which might seem unusual and put Mrs Robinson on her guard. She pressed on. ‘Any current medical problems? I gather you saw Dr Gregory yesterday.’ She shook her head. ‘I thought I had a chest infection, but he said I was clear. Must have been a bit of a wheeze.’ ‘Any drugs or allergic reactions?’ ‘No.’ ‘What about your parents? Any history of heart disease, diabetes, stroke, that sort of thing?’ Again she shook her head. ‘What about you? Do you smoke or drink?’ ‘Drink, occasionally; I haven’t smoked since—well, since my op. I always watch my weight. Glamour is very important in the travel business, and I kept a close eye on myself when I was working.’ ‘Do you miss your job?’ Mrs Robinson shook her head again. ‘No, not really. I miss my friends. It’s a bit lonely.’ Polly agreed. ‘I’ve only been here a week and a bit, and it takes a little getting used to. There must be something you could join—perhaps you’d tell me if you find anything!’ They laughed together, for the first time, and Polly felt the ice creak, if not break. She went over the immunisations, recommended a series of tetanus injections, and then reached the tricky bit. ‘Do you do regular breast examinations, Mrs Robinson?’ Polly asked, and waited while the silence stretched out. ‘Sometimes.’ The reply was strained, quiet. Polly watched her unobtrusively. ‘You’re cleared now, aren’t you?’ ‘So they said.’ ‘What about contraception? You aren’t on the Pill, are you?’ ‘No.’ The reply this time came quickly and was abrupt. Polly glanced through the notes. ‘Have you still got an IUCD?’ ‘A coil? Yes.’ Polly made a note on the card. It was like getting blood out of a stone, she thought. ‘Periods still regular? No change in flow, or longer gaps, anything like that?’ She seemed to relax a little, as if they had got off a difficult subject. Not for long, Polly thought grimly. ‘No changes,’ Mrs Robinson said. ‘I just tick on, as regularly as clockwork. It’s quite reassuring.’ Polly thought she must mean that she was relieved not to be pregnant, and at forty-eight that was understandable. ‘When did you have your last cervical smear, Mrs Robinson?’ Immediately she stiffened up again. ‘Eight years ago, but I don’t need one.’ Polly frowned. ‘Eight years is a long time, you know. It’s a very simple procedure, and it doesn’t hurt at all. I can do it for you, so there’s no need for Dr Gregory to be involved unless you would rather he did it?’ ‘I don’t want it done.’ She was emphatic. Polly pressed on. ‘Really, you know, it’s quite routine. All women from puberty to late old age are at risk to a certain extent, but certainly anyone who is sexually active should have it done—and by sexually active, I don’t mean carrying on like rabbits! Anyone with a partner is included, however much their sex lives may have slowed down, or even stopped.’ She didn’t reply, but something in her stance alerted Polly. She reached out and took the woman’s hand. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’ ‘He hasn’t touched me, you know,’ she blurted. ‘Not since I had the operation.’ Ah! Polly thought. Here we go. ‘Why? Is he afraid to hurt you?’ Her high, thin laugh cut Polly to the quick. ‘He doesn’t care about that. He just doesn’t want to touch me any more—he calls me—an udderless cow.’ ‘Oh, dear God,’ Polly whispered, her soft heart torn apart by the pain and anguish in those simple words. Reaching out, she wrapped her arms around the woman and rocked her against her shoulder as the tears fell, released at last after all this time. ‘He hates me,’ she sobbed, ‘he said it would have been better if I’d died. What use am I? All those models lolling about on the brochures, bursting out of their bikini tops, and him going on about going to topless beaches and getting a bit on the side—he hates me, and I wish I were dead!’ Polly had never felt so hopelessly, overwhelmingly useless in her life. She knew that Mrs Robinson had to grieve for her loss, but the way ahead wasn’t clear to her, and there were many things she wanted to check up on—like the existence of a local mastectomy support group, or the possibility of reconstructive surgery. In the meantime, she wondered if Mrs Robinson didn’t need more than emotional support. Once the worst of her tears were shed, Polly handed the woman some tissues and slipped out of the door to phone Matt at home and ask his advice. To her surprise and relief, he was coming out of his room, and she grabbed him by the sleeve and hustled him back through his door, pulling it shut behind her and leaning on it gratefully. She became aware that her knees were trembling and Matt took one look at her and led her to a chair. ‘What’s up?’ he asked gently, and she told him all that Mrs Robinson had revealed. His face went taut with anger, and he stood up and paced around the room, waves of rage pouring off him almost visibly. ‘How could he do that to her? How could anyone say that to another human being? God, Polly, I wouldn’t treat my dog like that!’ ‘Do you think she needs anti-depressants?’ He stopped pacing and turned to face her. ‘Could be. I’ll prescribe some for her if I think she does, just to take the edge off, and only for a few days, and then I think we need to talk about reconstructive surgery—I can think of some surgery I’d like to do to him!’ Polly smiled, and then her smile faded as she remembered Mrs Robinson. ‘Do you think he needs help too? Perhaps no one has given his feelings any consideration, or given him an opportunity to grieve. If they didn’t have any professional counselling during the time of her illness, then it’s not surprising that they can’t cope with it.’ ‘I would have thought all that had been done at the time,’ Matt said, surprised, and shook his head. ‘We are much more aware now than we used to be about the emotional effects of radical surgery, I think. Polly, see if you can get them to go along for counselling. I’ve got the address somewhere of the Breast Care and Mastectomy Association—it’s a charity, but the work they do is excellent. The head office is in London, but I think there’s a branch in Cambridge. They’re very good with this sort of thing, and if the Robinsons’s marriage is salvageable, they’ll probably find a way.’ She nodded. ‘Are you going to come and have a chat to her?’ ‘Yes. Would you mind making some coffee, and then come and join us? I think I’ll make more progress if you’re there, somehow.’ By the time Polly had made the coffee and gone back to her room, Matt was in there with Mrs Robinson, holding her hand and smoothing the skin on the back with an age-old gesture of sympathy. ‘But how would you feel if it were your wife?’ Mrs Robinson asked, pulling her hand away. Matt straightened up. ‘I can’t tell you, Mrs Robinson, and that isn’t really the issue here. How your husband feels is what’s affecting you, and I think, and Polly agrees, that he’s probably very distressed and unable to cope with his feelings. I think counselling could help you, if you want help. You don’t both have to go, but of course it would help if you did.’ She lifted her head. ‘What about reconstructive surgery?’ ‘Mammoplasty? It’s usually done sooner. What they would do in your case, I suspect, is make a small incision in the skin and insert a silicone implant to help to balance the other breast, and they can create a nipple if necessary using pigmented tissue from elsewhere. Results are variable; usually physically very successful, but it isn’t going to cure your marriage problems or make you the way you were before. It’s become quite common to do it at the time of the first operation, to reduce the kind of emotional stress that you’ve been through. In fact, I’m surprised you weren’t offered it at the time. Results after this length of time, though, may not be so successful.’ ‘What do you think are the chances of it working?’ ‘Depends on the level of residual scarring, shrinkage of the skin and so on due to radiotherapy, and how much was removed. Also the size of the other breast—it’s much harder to get a satisfactory result with women who are more well-endowed. I can’t really tell you much more without examining you.’ She seemed to shrink into herself, but Polly wasn’t about to allow it. Squatting down beside her, she took her other hand and squeezed it. ‘I’ll be here with you. If Dr Gregory thinks you would be a suitable candidate for surgery, then if you decide that’s what you want, he can refer you and get the process under way. Don’t give up now.’ There was a long, painful silence, and then she took a deep breath and nodded. Matt let out his breath in a silent sigh of relief, and stood up. ‘Polly, perhaps you could help Mrs Robinson undress?’ he said, moving over to the sink to wash his hands under the hot tap. Polly watched him out of the corner of her eye, and saw him pick up gloves, look at them and then replace them on the shelf. ‘OK, let’s have a look,’ he said, returning to the couch with a smile. Mrs Robinson turned her head to the side, but Matt ignored her indrawn breath as he folded down the blanket and laid his hands gently on her chest above the breast, working slowly and steadily across it with a gentle, even pressure. When he had finished, he pulled the blanket up over her and tucked it round her shoulders, to restore her dignity. The skin seems fairly elastic, and because of the amount of tissue that’s been removed it’s obviously much smaller than the other one, but luckily your nipple wasn’t removed. I think you might get away with it, especially if the surgeon reduced the size of the other breast as well. It could be worth a try, if you want. OK, Polly, would you help Mrs Robinson dress?’ He turned away and busied himself with the notes, as much to give her privacy as anything, and Polly smiled reassuringly at the woman. ‘What would you do, Polly?’ she asked. Polly shot Matt a quick look, and gave a small shrug. ‘I don’t know. Get counselling first, I think. You really don’t look that bad to me. There are plenty of women who are naturally that lop-sided without surgical intervention.’ ‘But I’m mutilated——’ ‘No!’ Polly and Matt both spoke at once, and Matt continued, ‘You are far from mutilated. There’s nothing off-putting about your appearance. Believe me, I’ve seen far, far worse. I don’t think you need reconstructive surgery, and if you were my wife I’d move heaven and earth to prevent you going through any more suffering. What you need is help to come to terms with who you are now, both inside and out. Surgery will change the outside, but the inside is far more badly hurt, Helen. You need to learn to love yourself again. Of course I’ll refer you if that’s what you want, but please try the counselling.’ She nodded, tears welling in her eyes. Polly laid a hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently. Matt continued, ‘I’d like to see your husband, as well, if you can talk him into coming to see me.’ ‘He won’t come. He doesn’t care.’ Matt smiled at her, tenderly and with great sympathy. ‘Are you sure? Please ask him. If he really didn’t care about you, why is he still with you after seven years?’ Matt patted her hand and stood up. ‘Polly, have you done a smear?’ She shook her head. ‘Perhaps Mrs Robinson would like to come back later in the week and we’ll finish off the tests and things? I think you’ve probably had enough for now, haven’t you?’ She nodded. ‘I think I’d like to go home and have a bath and an early night. My husband’s away until tomorrow, so there’s no need for me to stay up. I’ve got a lot to think about.’ She took Polly’s hand. ‘Thank you for being so kind to me.’ ‘Oh, Mrs Robinson,’ Polly said with a slight smile, ‘you’re welcome. I’m always here—come and have a chat if you need to. Don’t bottle things up—if you need an answer, come and ask one of us. That’s what we’re for.’ Polly showed her to the door, and turned to find Matt watching her from the doorway of her surgery. ‘Well done,’ he said quietly, and Polly burst into tears. ‘Oh, Matt,’ she whispered, ‘why are we so horrible to each other?’ He handed her a tissue and stood patiently beside her while she blew her nose and pulled herself together, then he waited while she found her bag and put on her coat, and locked the surgery behind them. ‘Supper,’ he said, and with a wink, he hobbled over to his car and climbed in. ‘Can you remember the way?’ Polly nodded. ‘I’ll see you back there.’ As she followed his Volvo estate out of the car park, she thought it was typical that he would have a car like that—big, solid, reliable, safe—just like him. Husband material, she thought again, with a heavy sigh. She wondered what his wife was like. ‘She’d better damn well deserve him,’ Polly thought with a protective urge, and then laughed, a little weakly. She realised that her laugh was just a short step from tears. CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_932fafaa-60ed-573b-8812-281a293e38bc) MATT’s cottage was set back from the lane by a wide garden, filled with shrubs and trees and colourful pansies overflowing on to the edge of the path. Polly pulled on to the drive behind him, and switched off the engine, sitting for a moment to gain her composure before getting out of the car. She wasn’t sure she wanted to meet his wife, but she didn’t have a choice—or did she? Climbing out of her little Fiesta, she eyed the cottage. It was in total darkness, and Matt was rummaging through a bunch of keys to open the front door. Was he alone tonight? Perhaps his wife was away—oh, lord, Polly thought, he hasn’t brought me back here for some kind of extra-curricular wrestling match, has he? She immediately squashed the idea, and chided herself for her unworthy thoughts. He needed to rest his leg, that was all. They also had to discuss Mrs Robinson, although admittedly not necessarily tonight, but Polly was lonely, and the prospect of returning to her cold and empty cottage after the harrowing session with Mrs Robinson filled her with horror. Matt had the door open now, and she ran quickly up the drive and in through the door, smiling up at him as she crossed the threshold. Then her eye was caught by the interior of the cottage, and she gasped. Oh, Matt, it’s lovely!’ Soft pink brick, mellow pine furniture, heavy oak beams the colour of honey, and plants—plants everywhere, flowing down off the window-sills and up the walls, living and vibrant. And it was warm—a deep core of warmth that reached down into the lonely places in Polly and comforted her unexpectedly. He smiled at her obvious pleasure. ‘I like it. It’s been jolly hard work, and I spend all my time on it, but I’m getting there. I’ve only really finished this room and the kitchen. The bathroom’s not finished, and the two bedrooms are still pretty grim, but at least the bathroom’s upstairs now. Here, let me take your coat.’ She gave herself up to the luxury of allowing him to stand behind her and ease the coat off her shoulders, and then watched in fascination as he shrugged off his jacket, throwing both coats over the banisters before turning back and placing his warm, firm hand in the small of her back. The heat seemed to spread out from his palm and warm her all over. Curiously, it made her want to shiver. ‘Come into the kitchen. I’ve put the supper in the Aga.’ As they went through the low doorway towards the source of the warmth, a black Labrador with a snow-white muzzle lifted its head from its paws and sniffed. ‘Hello, old girl,’ Matt said softly, and crouching beside her, he scratched the dog gently behind her ears with one hand while he loosened his tie and undid the top button with the other. ‘Did you miss me, Bella?’ The dog’s tail thumped weakly on the ground, and she seemed to smile. Matt stood up and moved to the sink. ‘Poor old girl, she’s ancient, and she’s beginning to wear out. I know I ought to take her to the vet and have her put down, but somehow I can’t bring myself to do it. In her own way I think she’s happy. When I feel she isn’t…’ He shrugged, and dried his hands before turning back to Polly. ‘It’s a hard decision to make,’ she said understandingly. He nodded. ‘Come on, there’s a chicken casserole in here that’s going to be past its best before long.’ He opened the Aga and pulled out a heavy cast iron pot, and when he lifted the lid Polly’s mouth watered. ‘Gosh, it smells delicious!’ He laughed. ‘You don’t have to sound so surprised! Here, lay the table, could you, Pollyanna? The stuff’s in the drawer behind you.’ Pollyanna again. How did he manage to make the hated nickname sound like a caress? She fumbled in the drawer to give her time to subdue her feelings—feelings that were quite unprofessional and inappropriate towards a colleague and a married man. Especially the latter. Polly sighed. Matt, mistaking the reason for her sigh, dumped the steaming casserole on the table and hooked the chair up behind him. ‘Come and sit down and forget about work. Mrs Robinson is nearer to being happy than she was before she came in, and all thanks to you, so you can put your feet up and relax. Have a drink.’ He pushed a glass of red wine towards her. ‘I’m driving,’ she protested. ‘Not till later. One glass with a meal won’t hurt you, and it will probably do you good. Anyway, I can’t drink on my own, it’s rude, so if you’ve got any human feelings you’ll join me!’ Polly laughed. ‘That’s better,’ he said with a smile, and handed her a steaming plateful of the casserole. ‘Ready-cook sauce?’ Polly asked mischievously. His mouth twitched. ‘Absolutely. I’d be lost without it. This one’s called sheep’s eyes in wine vinegar. Bread?’ Polly nearly choked. After the meal, which was in fact a delicious combination of chicken breasts, chick peas, tomatoes, onions and garlic with fresh crusty bread, they made their way through to the sitting-room and Matt sprawled on the floor, his head propped up on the edge of the settee, legs stretched out towards the wood-burning stove. Polly sat on the chair beside him, with her legs curled up under her, nursing a cup of coffee and watching him as he told her about the renovation of his cottage. She was amazed. It had obviously taken him almost all the year he had been with the practice, and he had achieved a tremendous amount in that time. ‘Did you want to do it all yourself? she asked, curious for more information about this man who was beginning to fascinate her more and more. ‘Needs must,’ he replied with a wry grin. ‘I’m not made of money, and I had to buy into the practice, find an affordable house and get a reliable car all at once. It wasn’t easy. It isn’t easy. Sometimes I can’t afford to eat.’ Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/caroline-anderson/saving-dr-gregory/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. 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