Vets in Love

by Cathy Woodman

  ‘How can I help?’ I say, offering him a seat. I wait for him to speak.

  ‘I don’t know why I’m here really,’ he says eventually. ‘I doubt there’s anything you can do. And it’s a cosmetic thing. I’m not ill.’

  ‘But it was important enough to bring you here,’ I point out.

  ‘Actually, I’m fine, A-one.’ He makes to stand up. ‘I’m sorry, Nicci. I’m wasting your time.’

  ‘Ed, sit.’ I find myself talking to him the way he does to his dog. ‘You aren’t wasting my time.’

  ‘I’ll – um – make another appointment sometime.’

  ‘And then you’ll forget or not get around to it,’ I say sternly. I notice the flush on his cheeks, like the baby teething, and the fine tremor in his hands as he rubs them along his thighs.

  ‘I really should let you get on.’

  ‘I promise you I’ve seen and heard it all, and whatever you say, remember it’s in complete confidence.’ I know Ed. He wouldn’t have booked an appointment if it was nothing. Finding it hard to admit weakness isn’t an exclusively male trait. ‘If there’s something bothering you, it’s better to get it off your chest.’

  Ed stares at me. ‘That’s just it, Nicci. It’s so obvious, isn’t it?’

  I frown. I’m not sure what he’s getting at.

  ‘I feel like a freak,’ he goes on, staring down at the front of his vest.

  ‘Ed, you’re going to have to be more explicit,’ I say gently. ‘What exactly is the problem?’

  ‘I’m growing breasts, man-boobs, moobs, or whatever you like to call them.’ He looks as if he might burst into tears. ‘One of the guys at work on the estate asked me if I was having a sex-change the other day, and the guv’nor’s wife calls me Edwina. She’s a right stuck-up bitch too, but I have to kowtow to her to keep my job and the roof over our heads. I get a small wage and the gamekeeper’s cottage rent-free, but I’m not sure I can stand the humiliation for much longer.’

  ‘What about your family?’

  Ed relaxes a little. ‘I’d like to say they’re supportive, but my brothers take the mickey out of me too, cracking jokes about which bra I should go for and how I should model for Victoria’s Secrets.’

  ‘And your wife?’

  ‘She says she loves me the way I am, but it isn’t helping our sex life.’ He smiles ruefully. ‘I don’t feel, well, like a man any more – and I like to stay covered up.’ He tries to make light of it, adding, ‘At least we’re both keen to undress in the dark now … And I’d hate to make her feel inadequate in the breast department.’

  I let Ed unburden himself now he’s found his voice.

  ‘I get pretty depressed sometimes, because they seem to be getting larger. I’ve tried working out a bit to see if I can turn them to muscle, but that only seems to make them look like eggs on toast.’

  ‘What about your health in general?’ I ask. ‘How are your hands?’ Immediately, he rests them back on his thighs to control the tremor.

  ‘They’ve been a little shaky recently,’ he admits. ‘But it’s no problem. It doesn’t stop me handling a gun.’

  I realise there is more to this than meets the eye. Ed relies on his gun licence to work as a gamekeeper. He can’t afford to lose it.

  I ask him the usual questions about drinking and diet, before returning to any other symptoms.

  ‘Do you feel unwell at all?’

  ‘I’ve been feeling a bit panicky, but I put that down to my state of mind,’ he says. ‘I’m under a lot of stress with three small kids.’

  I smile at the thought. I can’t imagine living with one small kid, let alone three.

  ‘One consolation is that with the situation I’m in, I’m not likely to have any more in a hurry.’

  ‘I’d like to examine you now. I need you to undress.’ I pull the curtain across in front of the examination couch for privacy, and wait for him to undress, running through the possible diagnoses for gynaecomastia, the technical term for moobs.

  ‘I’m done,’ he says, and I go to examine him. He’s very self-conscious. He can’t look me in the eye. ‘Look, I’m almost a double D. It’s like I’ve fallen asleep and woken up with bloody implants.’

  ‘When did you first notice a change?’

  ‘About a year ago. Yes, I should have come along sooner, but you know what it’s like.’

  ‘Have you lost weight recently?’ I ask. He’s carrying very little spare flesh, and obesity clearly isn’t the cause of Ed’s problem.

  ‘I’ve been putting that down to stress as well.’

  ‘I don’t think this is stress-related at all. I’m going to ask Claire to take a blood sample and refer you to an endocrinologist – someone who specialises in hormonal disorders – for some investigations.’

  ‘So it’s possible to get rid of them?’

  ‘We have to identify the underlying cause so we can address it, but yes, there are ways to resolve the problem.’ I worry a little that the underlying cause might turn out to be more difficult to manage than the moobs, but for now, it’s enough for Ed to know that something is being done.

  I send him out to Claire for the blood tests, make a note to sort out the referral and check the waiting list. Matt is next. I can’t help it – I run a brush through my hair before calling him in.

  ‘Hello, girlfriend,’ he says, entering the consulting room.

  ‘Sh,’ I say. ‘I’m not your girlfriend.’

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t say that with quite so much conviction.’ He smiles and looks me up and down. ‘Are you all right, Dr Chieveley, only you look a little flushed, as if you have a fever.’

  ‘Hang on. Who’s running the consultation here?’

  ‘How’s the horse?’ he goes on.

  ‘She’s fine now, back in work ready for the next event.’ I sit behind the desk, keeping the barrier between him and me. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘What are you willing to do for me?’ he says immediately.

  ‘That would be telling,’ I say, unable to resist.

  ‘Tell …’

  ‘Oh, stop flirting with me. You’re wasting NHS time.’

  ‘Do you have any compassion at all for your patients?’ Matt teases. ‘I’ve come back because I’m in pain.’

  ‘Your shoulder.’

  He lowers his voice and leans across the desk. ‘Would you believe me if I said I’ve been aching to see you, Nicci.’

  ‘You’ve come here to tell me that?’

  ‘Well, yes. You haven’t been returning my calls.’

  ‘That’s because you haven’t called me.’

  ‘I have – I’ve left messages on your voicemail …’ he hesitates, ‘… on what I thought was your voicemail. I wonder who’s been receiving my messages? It must be your fault – no one can read a doctor’s handwriting.’

  ‘It was perfectly clear,’ I say. ‘You probably washed some of the numbers off when you scrubbed up for some operation or other.’

  ‘I transferred them straight to the mobile when I got home. Anyway, why don’t I give you my phone now and you can type your number into my list of contacts? That way there’ll be no more confusion.’ He hands me his mobile from his pocket. ‘I thought I’d better make an appointment to see you instead.’ He gazes at me as a million thoughts race around my brain. Is he serious?

  ‘I’m pulling your leg,’ he says, grinning. ‘Well, not entirely. I wanted to see you again and my shoulder still hurts. And before you tell me off for not wearing that sling, I have been resting it to a certain extent.’

  ‘You know what I’m going to say, then. Go home and rest it. Properly.’ I pause. ‘Unless I refer you now, and hand you on to someone else to deal with. You might listen to them.’

  ‘Are you trying to get rid of me?’ Matt says with mock petulance.

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘So you’ll come out for dinner with me on Saturday? I’ll pick you up at seven.’ He gets up and heads for the door.

  ‘Hey, you
don’t know where I live.’

  ‘I’ll call you, now that I have the right number,’ he says. ‘I’ll see you on Saturday. Don’t forget.’

  As if, I think when he’s gone and I’m making a note to organise his referral. I’m looking forward to it, but I’m wondering how we’re going to remain friends through the rising mist of attraction that envelops me whenever I think of him. I bite my lip. I should have turned him down. That would have been the right thing to do.

  Nobby Warwick takes my mind off Matt temporarily. He has a boil on his bottom, and the less said about that the better. Suffice to say, he won’t be sitting down to play the organ for a while.

  Chapter Six

  Happy Hackers

  ON SATURDAY AFTERNOON I have a jumping lesson with Shane before Willow and I go for a long hack. We take a circular route, the one we call the chicken run because it passes some tumbledown sheds that were once used for keeping poultry. Willow is fresh, snorting at all kinds of imaginary monsters in the hedge along the soft and peaty bridleway. I pop her over the log onto the open common where the grass has been mown short by deer and rabbits. I let her canter along the ridge between the clumps of gorse and bracken and the stunted trees, taking in the view of sea and the houses and hotels of Talymouth, my childhood home and where my mum still lives. Once Willow has stretched her legs, I bring her back to a walk and let her stretch her neck on a long rein while my mind wanders to thoughts of Matt.

  I’m going to have to tell him what the problem is, why we can’t be more than friends, unless …

  Suddenly I find myself halfway up Willow’s neck, the reins flapping and one foot out of the stirrup as she stops and shies.

  ‘Hey!’ I say sharply, sliding back and taking up the leather between my fingers. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ I look towards the ground and catch sight of a plastic bag.

  ‘Honestly, Willow. When has a piece of plastic ever done a horse any harm?’ I grumble lightly at her, relieved not to have fallen off.

  She walks on unconcerned as if nothing has happened and I can imagine Delphi’s voice in my ear telling me off for blaming the horse. ‘It’s your fault, Nicci. You had your mind on other things – Matt and your love life, for example. A good horsewoman NEVER blames her horse.’

  When we return to the yard, I untack Willow, throw on a light stable rug and put her away. I lean over the stable door to watch her settle as she munches on the hay in her net. Dark Star whickers at me and I give him a mint so he doesn’t feel left out.

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ I tell the horses. I would normally add ‘bright and early’, but I doubt it somehow. ‘I’m going out with your vet.’ Willow doesn’t show any interest in this news, but I can hardly wait.

  It seems like a long time, but eventually seven o’clock arrives, and as soon as the long hand hits the twelve on the clock on the church tower opposite the house, Matt appears on the doorstep, which is flattering. It suggests that he couldn’t wait to see me either.

  I open the door before he has the chance to ring the bell.

  ‘You found it then. My house,’ I go on. I’m nervous – that’s why I’m wittering, but Matt doesn’t appear to mind. He’s standing on the step, eyeing the wonky door with curiosity.

  ‘I’ll have to duck when you ask me in later,’ he says, tipping his head to one side.

  ‘If I ask you in.’

  He looks me up and down. ‘You look amazing, as always.’

  ‘Thank you.’ My pulse trips into a faster rhythm and a hot flush creeps up my chest and neck. The combination of a low-cut tunic top, leggings and silver heels is the fourth ensemble I’ve tried on this evening.

  He’s looking good too, dressed in a grey sweater with a white T-shirt underneath and blue jeans – designer, not the workmen’s jeans they wear at Overdown Farmers, the local agricultural merchants. He smells good too, of shower gel and mint, overlaid with a hint of antibiotic. He’s had his hair cut and his complexion has a healthy glow.

  ‘Have you been hitting the bottle?’ I say, still failing to engage my mouth and brain at the same time. ‘The tan,’ I add quickly when I realise he hasn’t a clue what I’m talking about. ‘I didn’t mean the other kind.’

  ‘I believe there are many varieties of bottle,’ he says, grinning. ‘I’ve been in the garden all day.’

  ‘Catching some rays?’

  ‘Mowing the lawn and trimming the hedges.’ He hesitates. ‘I feel as if I should have been doing something far more exciting to impress you.’

  ‘I’m quite impressed that you’ve been gardening. I didn’t realise you were so domesticated.’ I duck back indoors. ‘Let me get my bag.’

  When I return, I close the door behind me.

  ‘Don’t you lock up around here?’ Matt asks.

  ‘Um, I do usually, although my neighbour says I don’t need to, but right at this moment, I can’t find my keys.’ I check in my bag. ‘And I can’t remember where I’ve left them.’

  ‘You don’t want me to come in and help you look for them. I’d hate you to get burgled while we’re out.’

  ‘It’ll be fine,’ I say, wishing I didn’t look so dippy in front of Matt. ‘Let’s go.’ I pause. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘I thought about Mr Rock’s to pick up fish and chips,’ he smiles, ‘but because I can remember what the food was like the last time I tried it and because I’d prefer it if you actually wanted to see me again after tonight, I’m going to whisk you away to a little place I know in the big city.’

  ‘In Exeter?’

  ‘All right, it isn’t that big when it comes to cities, but I know this restaurant on the quay where we can eat pizza and listen to some jazz, if you like that sort of thing,’ he adds anxiously.

  ‘It sounds great,’ I say.

  Half an hour later we’re sitting outdoors near the quay with the water lapping gently against the side of the canal. Behind us, dug into the sandstone rock face, are the warehouses where the ships coming up from the coast used to unload or collect their wares of wool, tobacco and wine.

  We eat pizza and drink cola and listen to a jazz quartet while talking about where we’ve come from and where we think we’re going.

  ‘What do you think of the music?’ Matt asks eventually, when the quartet have finished their first set.

  ‘It’s different, but it isn’t really my thing,’ I say tactfully. ‘I prefer pop and rock.’ I smile at his crestfallen expression. ‘Matt, I’m glad you brought me here.’

  ‘It’s a great place for a first date, isn’t it?’ he says, his eyes flashing with amusement because he knows exactly what I’m going to say about that. We both start laughing.

  As the music plays on, I catch the sound of the Scissor Sisters’ track ‘Only the Horses’ coming from my bag.

  ‘That’s my mobile,’ I say, rummaging for my phone. ‘I’m sorry, Matt. No one ever calls me.’ I cringe when I realise what I’ve said. I sound like Billy No-Mates, though I do have many friends all over the place but we tend to communicate via Facebook, unless we’re planning to meet up. ‘I won’t answer it.’ I glance at the screen, which tells me it’s my sister calling and I change my mind. ‘I need to get this.’

  However, when I accept the call the line is dead.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ asks Matt.

  ‘Do you mind if I …’ My finger hovers over the CALL icon on the screen.

  ‘You go ahead.’ He stands up. ‘I’ll go and see if I can find the menu for dessert.’

  I haven’t heard from her for ages, and of all the times to choose to call me my sister has chosen now. I listen for her to pick up, but there’s no reply and the familiar voicemail cuts in.

  ‘This is Cheska here. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you asap.’

  My heart sinks because I appear to have missed an opportunity to catch up with her to check she and the children are safe and well and happy.

  ‘What’s up?’ Matt passes me a menu when he returns from inside
the restaurant and sits back down beside me.

  ‘My little sister. She’s … Oh, it’s a long story. I won’t go into it now.’ I look at the menu. ‘What are you having? I’m not sure I can eat dessert as well.’

  ‘We could share,’ he suggests, moving so close I can feel his breath against my cheek.

  ‘Do we have similar tastes?’

  ‘What’s your favourite?’

  ‘Something chocolatey. How about the profiteroles?’

  Matt calls the waiter over and orders two profiteroles.

  ‘I thought we were sharing.’

  ‘We are. I’ll eat mine and share yours.’ He raises one eyebrow. ‘I have a good appetite.’

  ‘Hey, I hope you’re not—’

  ‘Here we go again – “This isn’t a date.” Nicci, what’s the problem? I feel like I’m getting mixed signals, as though you’re attracted to me and you’d like to be more than friends, but something’s holding you back.’ He hesitates. ‘Don’t you … well, you know …’

  ‘Fancy you,’ I say for him. ‘Yes, I do,’ I add, but I don’t think he hears me.

  ‘If you don’t want me to pursue you, I can stop. I don’t want to, but—’

  ‘I don’t want you to stop,’ I say quietly as the waiter arrives with two bowls of profiteroles and hot chocolate sauce. Suddenly, I’m really not hungry. ‘Matt, I’m a doctor. I can’t date one of my patients.’

  ‘It doesn’t worry me.’

  ‘The principle is there to protect patients and doctors, not that I’m saying you need protecting from me, or vice versa, but I do believe in it. It prevents vulnerable patients being exploited.’

  ‘I’m hardly vulnerable, and I like the idea of you exploiting me.’

  ‘Matt, please, I’m being serious here. It protects doctors too, from accusations of taking advantage of their patients.’

  ‘It’s an anachronism. This is the twenty-first century.’ He pauses to wipe chocolate sauce from the corner of his mouth. ‘Anyway, who is going to bother about us? Neither of us is married.’

  ‘I don’t like the idea. I don’t mean the idea of going out with you.’ I lower my voice. ‘I like that very much, but I work in the community. If someone catches on that we’re an item, it’ll be all over town.’