by Ashley Croft
Molly grinned in delight. ‘No, but you said you had a secret to tell Niall and you’re obviously desperate to stay sober on the party night of the year. I don’t have to be a rocket scientist, or even a behavioural ecologist to work out what it is.’
Sarah nodded excitedly. ‘Oh, Mol, I know Niall ought to be the first to know but I only found out for sure tonight and he was just about to go out on shift. I didn’t want him driving round the streets of Cambridge at sixty miles an hour with that on his mind.’
Molly hugged her. ‘I’m so happy for you, and for Niall. I know you’re going to make an amazing mum and dad. You deserve it so much.’ She meant every word; she could never wish enough good things to happen to Sarah, after what she’d done for Molly. After their parents had died, it was Sarah who’d kept her on the rails and made sure she went to uni. Sarah who’d encouraged her and supported her through some of the darkest days of her life; of both their lives.
‘We were both there for each other,’ said Sarah but then her smile faded. ‘But it’s not the best timing, with me just starting up the business. Niall only took tonight’s shift for the overtime. I hope he’s not too shocked.’
‘Only in a good way, I’m sure. You two are the most loved-up pair I’ve ever seen. You were made for each other.’
‘“Made for each other” … and you know that’s possible, do you, Dr Havers?’
‘Shh. You really will get me into trouble.’ Molly tapped the side of her nose. ‘And I …’ The words stuck in her throat as she caught sight of what Mrs Choudhry would call a “kerfuffle” happening by the double doors leading into the canteen.
‘On my God, it’s Ewan and he’s wearing a sodding kilt. What the hell am I supposed to do about that?’
Molly sat open-mouthed as Sarah followed her gaze. ‘I don’t know. Ask him what he’s wearing under it?’
‘Arghh. Don’t. It doesn’t even bear thinking about.’
‘And yet, you often have.’
‘Please, no, I think I’m going to self-combust.’
Sarah’s eyes had a glint to rival the rhinestones on her “Princess Anastasia” tiara. ‘I thought you told me spontaneous combustion was an urban myth and that only people on Jeremy Kyle believe it actually happens?’
‘It is – I mean, I thought it was a myth but I think that tonight might be the first documented case. I mean, look at him.’
What Molly really meant was for Sarah to wait patiently while she stared at Professor Ewan Baxter for the umpteenth time that evening. Her earlier annoyance at his rudeness/ignoring her in the lab had disappeared in a haze of wine/kilt-induced amnesia. The kilt showed off legs that Molly had only ever seen clad in denim, or occasionally, a pair of suit trousers if Ewan had to visit someone important. His calves were firm and well developed with exactly the optimum amount of soft, dark hair.
‘OK. I admit, he’s very sexy for a biochemistry academic, although that’s not saying much when you look at the competition,’ said Sarah, giving the room a withering appraisal.
‘You do know these are some of the finest scientific minds on the planet? Some of these people are going to save the world one day.’
‘God help the world,’ said Sarah. ‘More wine?’
Half an hour later, whoops and screeches cut through the disco beat. Ewan had joined a group of people at the bar. Molly wasn’t the only one in the faculty who had a crush on Ewan. In fact, there was so much drool – of the real and intellectual variety – she could have gathered a lab full of samples. She watched his guns as he lifted the pint; his mouth tilting upwards at the corners as he laughed with his PhD students, the slight stiffening of his body when one of the younger female professors touched him “playfully” on the arm. The academic was brilliant, single and gorgeous but Ewan seemed oblivious even to her.
‘It must be heartbreaking to be in love with your tutor,’ Sarah teased.
‘Firstly, he isn’t my tutor, he’s my boss. Secondly, I’m not his student, I’m a research associate; and thirdly, I’m not in love.’
‘Mum used to sing that song when she was ironing,’ said Sarah.
‘Did she? I don’t remember,’ said Molly, trying to picture their mother holding up her school blouse and asking her if she’d been using it to help their dad clean the car again. She knew the event had happened, but she could no longer see their faces distinctly in her mind. Her memories were fading after thirteen years. She wondered if Sarah had the same problem but had never dared to ask her and certainly wasn’t going to tonight.
‘Mum said “I’m Not in Love” was the ultimate song about being in denial,’ said Sarah.
‘But I’m definitely not in love with Ewan,’ said Molly, wishing Sarah hadn’t referred to their mother so casually. Oh God, her parents would have been grandparents. Molly gulped down her wine, desperately trying not to cry. Sarah did not need that kind of reminder tonight. She tried to drown the reminder of her loss with another large glug of wine. It had struck suddenly, as if she’d sat on a sharp thorn that was working its way into her flesh again. It seemed cruel that the pain took longer to fade than her memories.
‘Romantic love is just the brain pumping out a cocktail of chemicals: pheromones, dopamine, serotonin … plus a few others,’ she said, babbling away to try and erase the memories.
‘Okayyy …’ Sarah’s eyes were glazing over; and Molly couldn’t put it down to the booze because Sarah was stone-cold sober. Molly had always driven her sister mad with her obsession with science, zoology and anthropology. Any ology in fact. Sarah, in contrast, had ended up joining a bank’s training scheme straight after her A levels so she could stay at home and look after Molly, rather than going to university to study jewellery design. Molly owed her sister a lot and she was delighted that Sarah had finally been able to leave her job and fulfil her dream, with Niall’s help and support.
‘I’m not denying I’m in lust,’ Molly said.
‘Is it so different?’
‘Totally. Love requires mutual dependence while lust is a transitory condition, involving an overload of oestrogen and testosterone.’
‘And?’
Molly grinned. ‘I’m completely powerless to do anything about my hormones.’
‘Have you actually let him know what he does to your levels of oestrogen yet?’
Molly snorted. ‘Of course not! He’d run a mile!’
‘Why?’
‘Because … because … he’s a workaholic who lives for his research. A relationship would only distract him from that purpose. Sometimes, he actually sleeps in the lab.’
Sarah laughed. ‘I thought you said there were lots of geeks who slept in the lab.’
‘Yes, but Ewan has a sleeping bag and a packet of Coco Pops in his filing cabinet.’
‘I thought even you’d spent all night in there sometimes.’
‘Occasionally, yes, when I’ve got an experiment running and I can’t let the samples die. It would ruin the project and it is important.’
‘Ah, the Love Bug project.’
Molly put her finger on her lips. ‘Shh … You can’t get infected by it, it’s a hormone and it has to be specially tailored to your DNA and delivered in a very specific way. I could get the sack for telling you about it but it isn’t a “bug”. Look, can we talk about something else? Please?’
‘Like Ewan?’
Molly nodded, relieved and happier than was probably healthy. Or normal. Or smart. Sarah was right, she was probably a tiny bit obsessed, or worse, maybe she was a teeny bit in love with him.
‘Look, he is single right? And straight from what you’ve told me?’
‘Divorced. His wife lives with a barrister in Dulwich according to one of the lab assistants. His workaholism was why they split up. Apparently.’
‘Single, then, with a bit of baggage, but you can work through that. Also, straight, in that case, unless that’s why he split up with her?’
‘Oh, he’s straight.’ Molly surprised herself with her own vehe
mence. She did know Ewan was straight, even though all the recent evidence was against it. ‘Though it’s feasible that he could be asexual, I suppose …’
Sarah laughed. ‘I doubt it. Look, it’s New Year’s Eve and even though I hate to swell your ego, you’re the most gorgeous girl in the room. Why don’t you just go and ask Professor McDreamy if he wants to dance?’
‘Dance? Are you mad?’
‘Only as crazy as you are if you don’t take your chance while he a: doesn’t have his face glued to a microscope and b: is probably a bit pissed. Go on, ask him. Otherwise, shut up and come and dance with me. It’s New Year’s Eve and as you know, I don’t get out much so I’m bloody well going to make the most of tonight.’
‘Oh God, Sarah, I’m a selfish bitch, going on about Ewan. What a shame Niall couldn’t make the party. It must be shit having to work on New Year’s Eve but Niall’s a hero, and hunky; he loves you to bits. I could hate you, if I didn’t love you to bits as well, hon. I really envy you though.’
‘Gorgeous brilliant “gonna save the world” Dr Molly envies her sister?’
‘I’m not gorgeous – especially not dressed like an extra from Television X – and I doubt I’ll ever save the world but you know what I mean. You have a lovely bloke who’s crazy about you and would do anything for you.’
‘I don’t know what I’d have done without him; he’s stuck with me through thick and thin, mostly thin for the past year.’
‘You don’t regret leaving the bank to start up the business, do you? You’re so creative. It was time you did something for yourself. By the way, I love the outfit.’
Sarah touched her tiara. ‘I hoped it met the definition of movie hero. I thought coming as Princess Anastasia might be a bit fluffy for this event but then I thought, it might attract some customers.’
Eight assorted biologists were throwing shapes on the dance floor.
‘Even geeks fall in love and get married. Eventually,’ Sarah said, watching them.
Molly wasn’t convinced.
‘But I don’t think they go in for tiaras much. Another?’ said Sarah, pointing to Molly’s empty glass.
‘I think I’d better if I’m going to ask Ewan to dance.’
A few hours later, Molly fished a party popper out of her glass and finished up a large vodka while Sarah went outside to phone Niall during his break. Molly could tell her sister was anxious about him and she didn’t really blame her; Sarah must be desperate to tell Niall about the baby. Sarah looked tired too, and Molly wasn’t pissed enough to ignore the fact that her sister and niece/nephew-to-be really ought to be in bed.
It was well past midnight and there were just a few party people jigging around on the dance floor. She tried to spot Ewan at the bar. The shutters were already down on one side of it and only a couple of people queuing at the other. Ewan had probably gone home; or more likely, back to the lab. The party was over, and so was her opportunity.
Just when she’d given up all hope and was shouldering her handbag ready to join Sarah outside and leave, she swivelled round.
Ewan was right next to her. He looked down at her with a sheepish expression, rubbed his chin and said: ‘So, Dr Havers, would you like to dance?’
CHAPTER FOUR
‘Ewan. I didn’t notice you creep up on me.’
‘Creep up on you? Is it that bad?’ He folded his arms. A knot of lust twisted low in Molly’s stomach. She stared at him as he swam in and out of focus.
‘No, of course not but, did you just ask if I’d dance with you?’
‘Yes.’ He nodded in the direction of the space between the serving counters that served as a dance floor. ‘That thing where two – or more – people try to move their bodies in time with music. Which in this case, I’m afraid, is George Michael.’
Ewan’s face changed from orange to green to red and back to orange as the disco lights pulsed. He was a human traffic light.
‘But … are you sure?’
‘Do you mean am I statistically certain that I want to dance or merely sure in a slightly pissed, relatively normal kind of bloke sense?’
Molly giggled and then regretted it. Ewan never giggled, he was allergic to the concept and so was she under normal circumstances but these weren’t normal circumstances; they were slightly drunken circumstances. She stood up and almost had to hold on to the table for support. Make that very drunken circumstances because it could only be alcohol making her legs this wobbly.
‘Oh, go on, then.’
She tugged her nurse’s hem down, which had the effect of also lowering the neckline to pornographic level, just as Ewan moved closer to her.
‘It was all they had left in the shop, apart from a comedy Boris Johnson outfit,’ she said, feeling the need to explain, as the dress pinged up her thighs again.
His eyebrows shot up his face. ‘Interesting choice and um … call me a bit dim but what movie hero are you meant to be?’
‘Um. Nurse Ratched from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest?’
Ewan winced. ‘Great film. Terrible nurse.’
‘Kate Beckinsale from Pearl Harbor, then?’
Ewan tutted. ‘Terrible film. Very sexy nurse.’
Molly’s face heated up like someone had taken a Bunsen burner to it. ‘You’re William Wallace from Braveheart, of course.’
‘Well … not really. I borrowed this from my brother. He stayed over Christmas and said I could borrow it. He’s Scottish, you see.’
‘And you’re not?’
‘Technically, yes. I was born in Edinburgh Royal Infirmary but our parents moved down here when I was six weeks old.’ He narrowed his eyes at her. ‘Why? Do you have a problem with me being Scottish?’
Molly smiled, suddenly floating on a cushion of air. ‘Not if you don’t, Professor Baxter.’
‘I’m glad to hear it Nurse Beckinsale. So – shall we before they put on something even worse than George?’
He didn’t take her hand and lead her to the dance floor, as George had in “Careless Whisper”, and the soles of her stilettos stuck to the tiles as she followed him. Silly string trailed from his backside and there was also a strand stuck to his calf, curling through the dark hair and over the contours of his muscles.
Molly shuffled closer, not knowing what she should do with her hands, but Ewan seemed to have at least a rough idea and there they were, pressing his around her waist, not too lightly but not too firm either. Perfect, in fact, the way she’d always imagined them. Her fingers rested on his back, beneath his shoulder blades. The laces of his Highland shirt were loose, revealing the hairs sprinkled across his broad chest. Ewan’s fingers brushed her cheek, and Molly’s hormones pinged so loudly she thought everyone must hear. Not that hormones could make any kind of noise, obviously, but if they did a ping would be appropriate …
She homed in on a hot pink strand dangling in front of her nose and the fingers that lifted it out of her line of vision.
‘You have silly string in your hair,’ said Ewan.
‘Thanks for letting me know. You … um … have some on your bum … I mean, the back of your kilt.’
He twisted round. ‘Oh God. Do I?’
‘’Fraid so. It gets everywhere, doesn’t it?’ she said, instantly regretting her words in case he thought she was referring to something under his kilt.
‘Apparently so.’
Molly glanced down at the party popper nestled between her cleavage. What else was she going to find on her person?
‘Shall I um … help you retrieve that? I’ll be careful,’ said Ewan, as if the popper was a seal pup that needed rescuing.
‘Oh, go on then.’
His fingers fumbled inside her plunge bra, fished out the popper and dropped it on the floor. Goose bumps popped out all over her skin. Just another totally normal reaction to external stimuli, thought Molly, nothing to do with Ewan per se …
‘Mol, I really think I may be a bit pissed …’ he whispered into her hair.
‘I know I’
m a lot pissed.’
‘Then by the laws of the universe,’ he murmured as George warbled on, ‘we must cancel each other out so that’s acceptable.’
Ewan was smiling happily, in the way she’d occasionally seen him do before. Like when one of the retiring admin ladies had given him a fruit cake for his birthday because he “needed feeding up”. Was that how he saw her? Kind and hardworking but harmless? No way. The way he’d retrieved that party popper had nothing to do with pity, she decided as they swayed in time and George crooned about getting away from the crowd. The hem of Ewan’s kilt tickled Molly’s knees and as his hands slipped lower to her bottom and he pressed against her, Molly realised he wasn’t that pissed and that he obviously didn’t think she was harmless.
There was hope, more hope than there had ever been, that this year would be a new start for her. Maybe a new start for Sarah too … They both deserved it and at this moment, in the first hour of the New Year, anything and everything was possible.
Ewan pulled her a little tighter and Molly made no attempt to resist. She rested her cheek on his highland shirt, and the laces tickled her nose. George started wailing about giving his heart to someone nameless and non-gender-specific. Molly knew how George felt. Ewan was now in possession of her heart too, in the metaphorical sense, of course, but it was also trying to escape from her chest.
His arms tightened around her back.
She took her chance. ‘You know, Ewan, when I first joined the lab, I thought you were a bit – you know stiff?’
He waggled his eyebrows. ‘Stiff?’
‘Whoops.’ Molly laughed, although actually, what she’d just said was probably anatomically accurate. ‘I meant uptight.’
Ewan frowned down at her. ‘Uptight? Me? Never.’
‘What did you think of me then?’
‘You? That you were probably one of the most promising young research associates who’d applied for the job.’
‘Oh,’ said Molly.
‘And that some genetic quirk had given you the most kissable mouth I’d ever seen.’
‘Ah.’ Just as George was moaning that his cold-hearted ex didn’t recognise him, Ewan lowered his face to hers and went for a full-on snog. His eyes were closed so she did the same. His stubbly chin rasped against her skin, his lips tasted of Greene King’s finest. The synthesised bells of the song sounded like fireworks and a full-on symphony orchestra.
