Читать книгу The Best Of The Year - Medical Romance - Carol Marinelli, Amalie Berlin - Страница 35

I FOUND MATT’S great-aunt’s house without any trouble. I asked one of the neighbours who was walking by with an overweight labrador which house had a corgi called Winnie.

Here’s what I’ve found out recently. Dog owners have their own network. It’s like the medical community—everyone knows everyone. The only difference with dog owners is they only know the dogs’ names, not each other’s. They call each other things like Fifi’s mum or Milo’s dad. Weird but true.

The house was a lovely Victorian mansion—personally, I thought it was way too big for a single old lady—with a lovely knot garden at the front, which was currently covered in snow. There was a light on downstairs but the upper floors were dark. I pressed my finger to the brass doorbell and listened as it rang throughout the house. I heard Winnie bark and then the click-clack of her claws on the floor. After what seemed a long time I heard someone coming down the stairs. They weren’t happy footsteps.

The door opened and Matt stood there dressed in nothing but a pair of drawstring cotton pyjama bottoms. I stared at his chest and abs. He was so cut it looked like he had stepped off a plinth in the Uffizi in Florence. My fingers itched to touch him, to trace my fingertips over every hard ridge and contour. I dragged my eyes up to his. His weren’t pleased to see me, or at least that was the impression I got. ‘I thought you might like some company,’ I said.

‘Now’s not a good time.’

I looked at his forehead, where beads of perspiration had gathered. The rest of his features looked pale and drawn. ‘Consider it a house call,’ I said.

He managed to summon enough energy to lift one of his eyebrows but I could tell it caused pain somewhere inside his head by the way he winced. ‘I thought you didn’t make house calls?’

I pushed past him in the door. ‘I’m making an exception.’ I bent down to ruffle Winnie’s ears. ‘Besides, this old girl could do with a walk, surely?’

‘It won’t hurt her to miss a day.’

I turned back to face him. ‘Stop frowning at me like that. It’ll make your headache worse.’

‘How do you know I have a headache?’

I gave him a look. ‘Have you taken something for it?’

He dragged a hand down his face, wincing again. ‘Paracetamol.’

‘You probably need something stronger.’

‘What I need is to be left alone.’

I put my hands on my hips. Jem calls it my ‘taking-charge pose’. I can be quite bossy when I put my mind to it. ‘Come on, off to bed with you. I’ll sort out the dog and rustle up something for you to eat and drink.’

He made a groaning noise. ‘Don’t mention that word in my hearing.’

‘When was the last time you ate?’

He gave me a glare but it didn’t really have any sting in it. ‘Yesterday.’

I shifted my lips from side to side. ‘Fluids?’

‘A couple of sips of water.’

‘When?’

He let out an exhausted-sounding breath. ‘You don’t give up easily, do you?’

‘I’ve been playing doctors and nurses since I was three,’ I said. ‘Now, where is your bedroom?’

He scored his fingers through the tousled thickness of his hair. ‘Second floor. First on the right.’

I made my way to the kitchen and boiled the kettle and made a cup of chamomile tea, which is really good for settling an upset stomach. I had brought herbal tea bags with me as I know from experience that not everyone has them in their pantry. I was right about Matt’s aunt. She only had English Breakfast and Lady Grey. I took the steaming cup up on a gorgeous silver tray I found in a display cabinet and carried it upstairs. I felt like one of the chambermaids in Downton Abbey.

Matt was lying in a tangle of sweaty sheets, his forearm raised at a right angle over his eyes. I got a good look at his chest and abdomen. Ripped muscles, just like an old-fashioned washboard, lean and toned with just a nice sprinkling of chest hair that fanned from his pectoral muscles into a V below the drawstring waist of his pyjama bottoms.

I hadn’t realised how sexy male pyjamas could be, way more sexy than sleeping naked. It was the thought of what was hiding behind that thin layer of cotton that so tantalised me. He was lying with his legs slightly apart, his feet and ankles turned outwards, his stomach not just flat but hollowed in like a shallow cave. I looked at it in unmitigated envy. My stomach was more domelike than the one on St Paul’s Cathedral. I sucked it in and approached the bed. ‘I have a cup of tea for you.’

He cranked open one eye. ‘You don’t have to do this.’

‘Here.’ I held the cup up to his mouth. ‘Just take a few sips. It’ll help with the nausea.’

He raised his head off the pillow and took a small sip but then he sprayed it out as if it were poison. ‘What the freaking hell is that?’

‘Chamomile tea,’ I said.

He gave me a black look. ‘It tastes like stewed grass clippings.’

I put the cup on the bedside table and mopped the front of my jumper with a tissue I’d plucked from the box near the bed. ‘You won’t feel better until you get some fluids on board. Maybe I should bring an IV set from the hospital and run a couple of litres into you.’

‘Don’t even think about it.’

I got up from the edge of the bed and went through to the ensuite bathroom. It was a beautiful affair, with black and white tiles on the floor and a freestanding white bath with brass clawed feet. The shower was separate and had brass fittings the same as the bath taps. There were black and white towels hanging on a brass rail, although there were another couple on the floor next to the shower, as if Matt hadn’t had the energy to pick them up after he’d showered.

There was shaving gear on the marble counter where the washbasin was situated and one of those shaving mirrors, the one with one side magnified. I absolutely loathe them as they always show up my chicken-pox scar above my left eye. You guessed it. My parents went through an anti-vaccination phase.

I ran the tap to dampen a facecloth. I wrung it out and sprinkled a couple of drops of lavender oil, which I’d brought with me, on it and took it back to the bedroom.

Matt was still lying in that body-fallen-from-a-tall-building pose. I swear I could have drawn a chalk line around him like in one of those film noir murder mysteries. I gently pulled his arm away from his eyes and laid the facecloth over them. He gave a deep sigh, which made his whole body relax into the mattress.

‘Did you hear that?’ he said.

‘What? Your sigh?’

‘That hiss of steam.’

I laughed. ‘You certainly are running a fever. Do you have a thermometer anywhere?’

‘I have a doctor’s bag in the study downstairs.’

I got up from the bed. ‘I’ll be back in a tick.’

I was at the door when his voice stopped me in my tracks. ‘Bertie?’

I turned and looked at him. ‘Yes?’

He opened his mouth to say something but then he closed it. ‘Doesn’t matter.’

‘No, go on, tell me.’

He looked at me for a beat or two. ‘Why did you come here tonight?’

I pulled at my lower lip with my teeth, not quite able to hold his gaze. I’m not sure I knew exactly why I’d come myself. I had acted on automatic, as if it had been programmed for me to walk the block that separated our places of residence and call on him. ‘I know what it’s like to come home to an empty house when you’re feeling rotten.’

There was a little pulse of silence. I was feeling pretty proud of myself for not trying to fill it.

He closed his eyes. ‘Forget about the thermometer. I need to sleep.’

‘If you’re sure.’

‘I’m sure.’

I left him upstairs sleeping and took Winnie out for a walk. I found a spare key on the hall table so I didn’t get locked out. Matt looked so exhausted I thought he might not hear me on my return. Winnie and I didn’t go far as it was freezing but she seemed to enjoy the outing. She stopped at just about every lamppost for a sniff and a minuscule pee, before trotting on to the next one and doing it all over again. That is quite some pelvic floor she has, I thought.

I took her back and fed her and then had a good old snoop around. I love looking at other people’s houses. I get lots of ideas for decorating my own. Well, that’s my rationalisation anyway. Matt’s great-aunt had excellent taste and clearly money was no object. The place was decked out in the most luxurious soft furnishings and the furniture was mostly antique, and not just charity-shop antiques either. I mean real antiques, like centuries-old pieces that were heirlooms that looked like they should be in the Victoria and Albert museum.

But it wasn’t a house I could imagine a young family growing up in. I began to wonder what sort of house Matt had spent his childhood in. Was it like this one, a showpiece of wealth but without the warmth and heart of a house where children’s laughter was always welcome? I wondered too about his older brother. Whether they were close and how Tim’s death had impacted on him.

Was that why he was so driven and focussed on work? His blunt honesty about a patient’s prognosis made a lot of sense now I knew his brother had spent so long in ICU before he finally died. I had seen enough relatives do the long stints in the unit, watching for any sign of change, their hopes hanging in the air like fragile threads that could be destroyed with a look or ill-timed word from a doctor.

That final walk from the unit once a loved one has passed away is one of the saddest things to watch. Some people hold themselves together, walking tall and straight, or putting their arms around other family members, keeping strong for the rest of the family. Others cry and wail and scream in denial and some have to be physically escorted, as they can’t bear to bring themselves to leave. Others look for scapegoats, lashing out at staff or other relatives, apportioning blame as a way of dealing with overwhelming grief.

I wondered how Matt had handled his older brother’s death. Had he stood tall and quiet and dignified or had he railed and ranted against the injustice of a young life cut short? Or had he buried his grief so deeply it rarely got an airing?

He was a complex man, caring and considerate, strong and capable and disciplined, but with a sense of humour that countered his rather formal, take-no-prisoners demeanour. I wondered if he would have turned out a different, more open and friendly person if his brother hadn’t died. His real self was locked away behind layers of grief, only getting an airing when he felt safe enough to let his guard down.

I suddenly wished I were that person. The person he would open up to in a way he had never done with anyone else. Hadn’t he already let me in a tiny bit? He had mentioned all had not been well with his childhood. He had mentioned his father and mother’s relationship. Would he eventually tell me more, reveal more of the man he truly was? I hoped so. I had a sense we could be allies. Our childhoods couldn’t have been more different but there was an air of loneliness … of otherness about him I could definitely relate to.

I found Matt’s doctor’s bag in the study downstairs. It was a beautiful room kitted up like an English country estate library. There were wall-to-ceiling bookshelves and there was even one of those extendable ladder-like steps to reach the top shelves. There was an antique desk with a Louis IV chair and an old world globe. The only modern thing in the room, apart from the electricity and Matt’s doctor’s bag, was a laptop on the desk. I admit I like a little snoop from time to time but I draw the line at reading other people’s emails. Matt’s computer was in sleep mode in any case, but there was a part of me that dearly would have liked to know if he’d mentioned me to any of his friends.

But then I saw a handwritten note lying on the desk next to an old inkwell and quill. My reading speed was faster than my moral rectitude. I was halfway down the page before I realised I was reading something that was meant to be private, but by then it was too late.

Matthew,

It’s your father’s birthday next month. I know you’re not speaking to him after the last time you visited but he didn’t mean it. He’d had too much red wine. You know he can never remember what he’s said the next morning.

Anyway, I know you’re busy but it would be lovely if you’d pop in. You don’t have to stay long. I’m not doing anything too big. Just having a few friends around for cocktails. I wouldn’t want Eleanor Grantonberry next door to think I couldn’t put on a proper do for my husband.

Feel free to bring a date. Are you seeing anyone? You never tell me anything! Isn’t it time you got over Helena? She wasn’t right for you. You’re too much of a workaholic. She and Simon are very happy. Did you know she’s pregnant? The baby’s due in June. I wish you could find a nice girl to settle down and have babies with.

Love Mum x

I sat on the chair and looked at that piece of paper for a long time. I wished my mum were there to do a handwriting analysis. But I could pick up enough between the lines to realise Matt had a complicated background.

And here I was, thinking mine was a little weird.

I went back upstairs with some chicken broth I’d made while Matt slept. I’d found some ingredients in the pantry and fridge and freezer and whipped up my classic cure-all. I set it out on a tray with a starched doily I’d found and carried it upstairs.

Matt opened his eyes as I came in. ‘You’re still here?’

‘I haven’t got anything on this evening.’ I set the tray on the bedside table. ‘Do you think you could manage a bit of broth once I take your temp?’

‘Did you make it?’

‘Don’t worry, it’s not laced with poison.’

He frowned. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound—’

‘I did, however, sprinkle some eye of newt in it.’

He smiled a crooked smile. ‘Don’t make me laugh. It makes my head hurt.’

‘Poor baby.’

I popped the thermometer in his mouth and waited for it to beep. I took it out and looked at the reading. ‘Hmm, it’s back to normal. The rest must’ve done the trick.’

I sat beside him on the bed as he worked his way through the bowl of broth. He didn’t manage it all but he seemed to enjoy what he had. He even had a glass of mineral water with a squeeze of lemon I’d brought up.

Once he was finished I got up to take the tray back down to the kitchen. ‘Why don’t you have a shower and I’ll sort out your bed for you? I’ll even do hospital corners.’

He frowned again. ‘Seriously, Bertie, you don’t have to do this.’

‘I know, but I want to.’

His eyes looked into mine. ‘Why?’

‘Everyone needs a friend now and again.’

His frown deepened as his eyes moved away from mine. ‘I’m not sure I’m the sort of friend you need right now.’

‘Because you haven’t got over H-her?’ I caught myself just in time. I didn’t want him to know I’d been reading his private mail, although he might put two and two together once he realised I’d been in the study to get his doctor’s bag. I’d left everything as I’d found it, but if he knew anything about women at all, he must know I would have read it.

He let out a long, uneven breath. ‘I’m not good at relationships, any relationships. I hurt and disappoint people without even trying.’

‘So you keep things casual with anyone who comes along who interests you.’

He gave me a measured look. ‘Is that how you see us? As something casual?’

I wasn’t sure how to answer. What exactly was he offering? Come to that, what was I offering? I couldn’t hope to hide my attraction to him. My body had its own silent language. I could feel it calling out to him even then. The tightening of my core, the flush running over my skin, the way my eyes kept going from his to his mouth and back again. The way my tongue moistened my lips. Even the way I’d turned up tonight, playing nursemaid, surely told him all he needed to know. But how could I have what I wanted without causing even more mayhem in my life?

His eyes had a dark glint in them. ‘I can see how it’s risky, given your … situation.’

My teeth sank into my lip. Here was my chance to confess what a fool I’d been. The words were assembled on my tongue like paratroopers about to leave a Hercules aircraft. I knew once I let them out I couldn’t take them back. How soon before he would tell someone at work about my game of charades? But there was no way I could allow him to make love to me while he thought I was married. ‘There’s something I have to tell you … I should’ve told you earlier.’

‘I know.’

I kept talking, barely registering he had even spoken. Now that I’d made up my mind to confess I had to get on with it without distraction. I had to get it out there before he kissed me or I lost my courage. Not that I’d had much to begin with. ‘I’ve been lying to you about my … situation,’ I said. ‘There was no wedding. I was jilted the night before. I was too embarrassed to tell anyone. I went on my honeymoon alone and I stupidly wrote a couple of postcards when I was tipsy, pretending everything had gone ahead as planned.’ I shook my head at my own foolishness, not wanting to look at Matt in case I saw the derision I was sure he must feel. ‘Postcards. Can you believe it? Who writes postcards these days? How dumb is that?’

‘I know.’

‘But the thing is I never intended to post them,’ I said, without even acknowledging Matt’s calm insertion. ‘The housekeeping staff took them when I was out of the room and kindly posted them for me. I should’ve known something like that would happen.’ I took a breath and went on, ‘I seem to always get myself into ridiculous situations. And then when I came back to work that first day there was my stupid postcard on the noticeboard. If I’d been sensible I would’ve phoned or emailed ahead or something. But walking in like that to their smiling faces, I … I just couldn’t do it. How could I tell them that …?’

Somewhere in the workings of my fevered brain I finally registered what he’d just said. Twice. I looked at him with a quizzical expression. ‘You know what?’

His eyes had that spark of amusement shining in them again. ‘I know you’re not married.’

I gaped at him with my mouth so wide open you could have backed a London bus into it. ‘You know? ’

His smile had a teasing element to it that made my blood start to tick with anger. ‘I knew from the start.’

He knew?

A red mist came up in front of my eyes.

He’d known from the start?

My veins were so bloated with anger they felt like they were going to combust. It was rocketing through my body like a cruise missile. He’d known and not told me? Not given me a single hint?

Why?

I clamped my lips together to force myself to think before I spoke. But I was too upset to think. My thoughts were tumbling around my head like a handful of marbles in a glass bowl. It physically hurt to try and make sense of them. Had he been laughing at me behind all his casually posed questions? Questions about my ‘husband’ and where I went on my honeymoon. Grrr! He’d known the whole time how awkward I would find those questions and yet he had continued each time we interacted as if I were a new bride. What had motivated him? Had he enjoyed my discomfiture, my wretched squirming every time we spoke?

Of course he had. He’d led me on, teasing me, mocking me with his enigmatic looks and half-smiles. The crushing hurt was worse than my anger. It pressed down on my sternum like a chest of drawers. He had deliberately led me on—for what? To have a joke at my expense? So he could laugh about me with all my colleagues?

‘How did you know?’ I fired the question at him like a round of bullets. ‘How could you possibly know? No one at the hospital knows, apart from Gracie McCurcher, and she’s sworn to secrecy.’

He was still looking at me with an amused expression, which wasn’t doing my escalating anger any favours. I felt like a pressure cooker inside me was about to explode. I could feel it expanding in my chest until I could scarcely draw breath.

‘I heard about it via an old school friend of mine who works in the same company as your ex,’ he said. ‘We met for a drink a couple of days before you returned to work. He told me how he’d just come back from Yorkshire where the wedding of his colleague had been cancelled at the last minute. I wouldn’t have taken any notice except he mentioned your name. Bertie is quite unusual so when you turned up at work I put two and two together.’

I gave him a livid glare. ‘So why didn’t you blow my cover then and there? That would’ve been quite a laugh for you, along with my project title.’

The amused look was exchanged for one that suspiciously looked like pity, or at least something very close to it. ‘I figured you had your reasons for keeping quiet about it. I decided to play along for a bit.’

I sent him another paint-stripping look. Seriously, I could’ve taken my new paint burner back to the hardware store and used my gaze on my house instead. ‘Why?’ I shot back. ‘So you could have a joke at my expense? Mock me while you pretended to be interested in me?’

His eyes darkened to a deeper bluey grey as they held mine, his voice deep and gravelly. ‘I wasn’t pretending.’

My heart kicked against my breastbone. ‘You weren’t?’

He shook his head.

‘Oh, well, then …’

‘You have to tell everyone, Bertie. Surely you see that?’

I stood from the bed and crossed my arms over my body. ‘No. No. No. I can’t. I just can’t.’

‘Why are you so worried about what people will say?’

I turned back to look at him. ‘I spent most of my childhood being laughed at. I can’t bear people sniggering at me, or—worse—pitying me. If I were to tell everyone now I was jilted the night before my wedding they’ll howl with laughter or cringe in pity. It’s too late. I have to keep it quiet. I have to.’

‘Come here.’ His voice had a commanding tone to it I found wonderfully soothing. It was like he was going to take charge—please, don’t tell my bra-burning mother I said that!—and make everything right for me. I sat beside him on the bed and he took one of my hands in his. ‘You don’t have to keep pretending. The longer it goes on the harder it’ll be to undo. People will understand. They really will, sweetheart. Trust me.’

It really got me when he called me that. A lot of men utter endearments without making them sound genuine. But I wasn’t convinced a tell-all in the staffroom was going to work for me. Besides, I didn’t have the guts to do it. My childhood scars were too deep, too raw to have them scraped open by even one giggle or chuckle. ‘Please,’ I said. ‘Please, try and understand.’

He gave my hand a gentle squeeze, his eyes holding mine in a tender look. I don’t think anyone—no man at least—has ever looked at me like that. He looked like he really cared about me, about my feelings, about my insecurities. ‘I do understand. It’s tough when things don’t work out the way you’d planned. But you’ll get over it in time.’

I gave him a narrowed look. ‘Please, don’t tell me you feel sorry for me.’

He stroked his thumb over the back of my hand. ‘I feel sorry you feel so pressured to fit in that you can’t be honest with people. But you don’t have to hide or pretend with me, okay?’

I could feel a little wobble of my chin, which was the closest I’ve got to crying in a very long time. ‘Okay.’ It was barely a whisper but it sure felt good to say it. To admit I trusted him to keep my secret safe.

He trailed a finger over the back of my hand. ‘There’s a way around this.’

I suppressed a shiver as his finger travelled to the underside of my wrist where my pulse was skyrocketing. ‘There is?’

His eyes scorched mine. ‘We could have a secret relationship.’

I noted the word ‘secret’. Not my favourite word right then, but still. I swallowed as his finger made a lazy circle against the skin of my palm. It felt like he had touched me intimately, stroking me to arousal. ‘I want you to know I don’t do this sort of thing normally.’

‘I know.’

I looked at him again. Directly. Staunchly. ‘I mean it, Matt. This is totally out of character for me.’

He gently brushed a strand of hair back from my face. I had always longed for a man to do that to me. Andy never seemed to notice my tendrils, even the ones I’d deliberately staged to hang loose so he could push them back. ‘Maybe we need to get this thing between us out of our system. What do you say?’

‘Well,’ I said, tapping my finger against my lip for a moment, ‘I do have a couple of stipulations.’

‘Which are?’

‘This bed, for one thing.’ I stood up and put my hands on my hips again. ‘If I’m going to have bed-wrecking sex with you, then we at least need to start with a bed that’s not already wrecked.’

He gave another lopsided smiled as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. ‘You are one crazy girl.’

‘But you like me, right?’

He stood and brushed his fingertips down my cheek, his smile, even as it faded, still making my insides turn over. ‘I hope you don’t catch my bug.’

‘Thanks to my parents, I have a robust immune system.’

He gave one of my Dorothy from Oz pigtails a gentle tug. ‘You’re going to need it.’