Читать книгу The Real Christmas Message - Шэрон Кендрик, Sharon Kendrick - Страница 8

CHAPTER TWO

THIS wasn’t how it was supposed to happen at all, thought Lara, as she moved forward automatically to shake the immaculately manicured hand, from which the glove had now been removed to reveal a huge, sparkling diamond solitaire ring.

She made polite small talk, but as soon as she could she excused herself and left, heading off home on her rusty old bicycle, refusing all offers of a lift from both Cunningham doctors, and sure she saw a smile of relief on the face of the stunningly beautiful Annabel.

She spent Christmas Eve in the pub, with some Mends she’d known since schooldays, and they piled out at midnight, singing and laughing and jostling as the bells from the church in the square began to chime. Lara slipped in quietly at the back for midnight mass and offered up a prayer that she wouldn’t be so selfish as to spend the festive season wishing above all else that Nick Cunningham hadn’t come home with a fiancée.

On the twenty-fifth, she arrived at Dr Cunningham’s house to find herself greeted by Nick, and her cheeks went pink.

‘Where is everyone?’ she asked.

‘Annabel’s still in bed.’ Lara tried very hard not to wince. ‘And my father’s taken the dogs out. You’re nice and early.’

‘I’m cooking lunch,’ she said defensively.

He grinned. ‘Not yet, you’re not! Come and have a glass of champagne.’

‘Isn’t it too early?’ she protested, not sure if she wanted to spend any more time alone with him than was absolutely necessary.

‘Nonsense! It’s Christmas. And, what’s more, you’re not cooking the lunch like some Dickensian character—you’re going to get some help!’

They drank some champagne but Dr Cunningham still didn’t come back from walking the dogs and Annabel didn’t emerge from upstairs, and when eventually she did she didn’t look best pleased to find Lara chopping up sage for the stuffing and Nick companionably making a festive cross in each of the Brussels sprouts.

She raised a quizzical eyebrow and flopped into the nearest chair. ‘Someone get me some black coffee, quick!’ she groaned. ‘I’m hopeless in the mornings.’

But not too hopeless to make your face up immaculately, thought Lara as she filled up the kettle, and immediately felt ashamed of the thought.

Annabel was clearly someone who was used to people doing things for her. She also giggled a lot. Lara found herself wondering what on earth Nick saw in her, and then silently told herself not to be so naive. It was perfectly obvious what he saw in her. The combination of a mane of blonde hair down her back, legs up to her armpits, and a perfectly featured face. What man wouldn’t like her?

Dr Cunningham returned, and they all adjourned to the sitting-room for a drink. ‘Let’s hope things will be quiet enough so that at least we can eat our lunch in peace.’ He smiled. ‘Still, the patients don’t usually bother me unnecessarily on Christmas Day.’

Annabel threw up her hands in horror. ‘Don’t tell me you’re actually working?’ she asked.

Lara thought that she made it sound like an infectious disease!

‘Dad’s very old-fashioned,’ explained Nick. ‘He doesn’t trust anyone else to take care of his patients—though if it were me I’d join on to a rota system with the health centre here in town. That way you’d only be on call every fourth night and weekend, instead of every night.’

‘Every night?’ squeaked Annabel.

‘It isn’t as bad as it sounds,’ remonstrated Dr Cunningham gently. ‘If you educate your patients properly, then they learn to only call you in the case of a real emergency. It’s when they don’t get any degree of continuity that they feel nervous and stop trusting their doctors—and that’s when they call you out for niggling sore throats.’

‘It needn’t be like that, Dad—being on a rota doesn’t preclude educating your patients, you know!’ Nick looked at his father affectionately.

‘Well, anyway,’ Dr Cunningham put his empty glass down on the small side-table, ‘you’ve no need to concern yourself about a general practioner’s burdens—as a surgeon your on-call duties will be arduous but infrequent—and they’ll be mapped out for you.’

‘But Nick is——’ pouted Annabel, when Nick interrupted her.

‘I think we’ve talked enough shop for one meal.’ His tone was light, but Lara thought that there was an unmistakable warning in it, and that the blue-grey eyes had turned distinctly chilly. She wondered what Annabel had been about to say.

Dr Cunningham turned to Annabel. ‘Nick’s right—too much shop can be tedious—his mother used to say exactly the same thing! Are you connected with medicine, Annabel?’

Annabel gave a tinkly laugh. ‘Oh, no—not me! Nothing so noble! I’m one of that rare breed, I’m ashamed to admit. I act.’

Dr Cunningham beamed. ‘An actress? My dear, how splendid! What have you done?’ His eyes grew dreamy. ‘More a Celia than an Ophelia, am I right? Less of a Cleopatra, and more of a Katharine, am I correct?’

‘What?’ Annabel looked at him blankly.

‘Shakespeare, darling,’ interposed Nick hastily. ‘Annabel’s not exactly into Shakespeare, Dad. More into soap-powder commercials, actually. She’s a model, really.’

‘I am not! Nicky, sweetheart—you know that isn’t true!’

I can’t stand a minute more of this, thought Lara fiercely. What on earth was he doing with such a lightweight, feather-brained, beautiful dolt as this one? What a waste.

She stood up. ‘I’d better go and baste the turkey, and see about the spuds,’ she said.

‘What talents,’ trilled Annabel. ‘I can’t even boil an egg!’

Well, bully for you, thought Lara as she headed for the door.

Nick had got to his feet. ‘Shall I come and help you, Lara?’

‘No,’ she answered hastily. ‘Too many cooks and all that. . .’ The last thing she wanted was to be marooned in the kitchen with him, cooking a meal together, wishing that he’d come here on his own, seen her, and fallen in love. And you’re too old for fairy-stories, she told herself fiercely, as she added butter and sugar to the carrots julienne.

To her surprise, despite her preoccupations, the lunch was a great success, and Nick proposed a toast to the chef.

‘Tell me, are you sure you aren’t a professional cook?’ he asked, the blue-grey eyes twinkling in a way which she wished she didn’t find quite so devastatingly attractive. ‘What are you like as a nurse?’

‘She’s better,’ said Dr Cunningham instantly. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without Lara.’

You’d rely on your son more, thought Lara. He’d have to come to see you more often. She wanted to concentrate on his bad points; she didn’t want to like him. There was no point.

‘I could never be a nurse,’ grimaced Annabel. ‘All that blood and gore!’

No one challenged her, and Nick stood up to begin clearing away the plates when the phone rang.

John Cunningham answered it, and they heard a series of delighted responses. When eventually he put the receiver down, he turned to Lara with a wide smile.

‘Baby Rawlins is in the clear,’ he declared, looking as if he’d just won the jackpot.

Lara saw Nick looking interested. ‘Baby Rawlins had a bad attack of whooping cough,’ she explained. ‘I expect you know there’s been a bad epidemic recently.’

‘Oh, surgeons never know about things like that!’ interposed Dr Cunningham jovially.

‘Your father admitted him on the twentieth,’ continued Lara.

‘They’ve discharged him home for Christmas Day,’ smiled Dr Cunningham. ‘His father’s home, and they’re all together.’ He brushed his eye with the back of his hand. ‘I said I’d pop over, just to see him settled. Would you mind? Can the pudding wait, Lara?’

What a superb doctor he was, she thought fondly. ‘Of course it can wait,’ she smiled. ‘Do you want me to come with you?’

He shook his head. ‘If you’re here, it means I don’t have to put the phone over to the answering service.’

After he’d gone, there was a moment or two of awkward silence, broken only by the clattering of cutlery on china as Nick continued to clear the dishes away. Lara wondered idly if he was a true ‘new man’ or whether it was just that Annabel was so lazy that he’d got used to doing all the chores!

The phone started to ring again, and Lara moved to answer it.

‘Is it always as busy as this?’ complained Annabel, and Nick grinned conspiratorially at Lara.

‘Busy?’ he exclaimed. ‘This is quiet!’

Lara began to take details. The call disturbed her, and yet she couldn’t put a finger on why. She opened her mouth to form more questions to ask the patient, when they were cut off. The woman had been calling from a phone box.

She frowned as she replaced the handset.

‘What’s up?’ asked Nick.

She shook her head. ‘Something. Nothing. I don’t know.’

‘Need a second opinion?’ he suggested gently.

She looked at him gratefully. ‘It was such a vague history. A woman with “funny” pains in her stomach.’

‘And Dad can go and see her when he gets back. What’s the problem?’

‘He’s likely to spend ages with the Rawlins baby.’

‘Then bleep him,’ said Nick.

She shook her head. ‘He’s trained me only to bleep him if it’s urgent. And it doesn’t sound urgent. And yet. . .’

‘And yet you’ve got a hunch?’ he ventured.

‘Exactly,’ she agreed.

‘Then you’ve got to bleep him,’ said Nick.

‘I know.’

But Dr Cunningham didn’t answer his bleep, and Lara began to grow restless. She eventually got through to the Rawlins family on the phone, to be told that he’d only just left. And they lived on the periphery of the practice area. Miles away.

Nick saw her glance at her watch for the fortieth time. ‘What do you want to do?’ he asked.

‘What can I do?’ she asked desperately. ‘She isn’t on the phone, and I certainly can’t call an ambulance on a hunch. I guess I’ll just have to wait until your father gets back.’

Nick stared at her. ‘Get your coat,’ he said decisively.

‘What’s going on?’ demanded Annabel petulantly.

‘Lara and I are going to see the patient,’ he explained.

‘But you’re not. . . I mean, you can’t. . .’ stumbled Lara.

‘I’m not her doctor, it’s true,’ he agreed. ‘Although I’ve done locums for Dad in the past. I’ll just come along for the ride. We’ll go in and see how she is. If it’s a false alarm, fine. But if you need a doctor—for whatever reason—then I’m there.’

His calm assurances warmed her and she smiled. ‘Thanks,’ she said, and then turned to the grumpy-looking Annabel.

‘I’ve switched the phone back over to the answering service. Could you explain to Dr Cunningham where we’ve gone?’ she asked. ‘Tell him I’ll ring if we need him.’

‘OK,’ muttered Annabel sulkily.