‘I’d like you to come in to the clinic on Monday,’ he said, hoping brisk matter-of-factness would ease the lad’s worry. ‘Here’s my card. It has the clinic’s address on it. You can give me a ring some time over the weekend if you want to talk about it, or your parents can phone me if they wish. If I’m not at home, I’ll make arrangements for all calls to be transferred to my mobile.’
‘You’re operating on Monday,’ Phoebe reminded him.
Nick frowned then nodded, turning again to the young man.
‘I won’t be in the clinic but I’ll warn my colleague, Charles Marlowe, to expect you. He’ll explain all the procedures to you.’
Phoebe could see the tension in Phil’s face and feel it in the muscles beneath his skin, but he put on a show of bravado.
‘Well, that’s put a dampener on our day at the beach,’ he said. ‘I guess you’re going to tell me I should get out of the sun right now?’
‘I don’t think I have to tell you that,’ Nick said, and the three of them were about to move on when the reporter arrived.
One of Nick’s blondes!
Phoebe managed a smile and hoped it looked OK, although an edgy uneasiness churned her stomach when she imagined the pair of them together.
‘Have you found something bad? Could we film the patient and follow up on him? On his diagnosis and treatment?’ the blonde asked brightly.
Without thinking, Phoebe moved forward to shield Phil from the camera.
‘It’s a spot that needs checking out—nothing more,’ she said. ‘And although he’s not yet a patient, there is such a thing as patient privacy and confidentiality.’
‘But it would make a great story,’ Linda persisted, turning to Nick for support. ‘Especially if it’s malignant and the clinic cures him. Just think of the good publicity for your cause.’
Phoebe glared at the woman, stepping closer to her because she didn’t want Phil to hear the argument, but before she could get really stuck into Linda for her insensitivity Nick intervened, taking Linda by the arm and leading her away.
Fortunately the cameraman and Brad followed, and Phoebe was left with the shocked young man and Bill, who was hovering solicitously over her, not their patient.
‘It may not be anything to worry about,’ she told Phil. ‘Even if it is malignant, if we get it early we can cure it. So don’t spend the whole weekend fretting over what might be.’
Phil smiled at her.
‘Easier said than done?’
‘Of course it is,’ Bill told him. ‘It’s one of the worst things about doctors—they always sound so know-it-all when they tell patients not to worry. Give them a suspicious spot on the neck and see how they feel.’
It must have been the right approach, for Phil laughed, then bent down to gather up his things. The young woman with him was looking shocked, and a little scared, and Phoebe felt her heart ache for the teenagers, whose perfect day at the beach had been ruined by the shadowy threat of cancer.
‘No matter how often we tell them cancer’s just a word, not a death threat, it doesn’t sink in, does it?’ Bill murmured.
‘I guess they know that in many cases it might be a death threat,’ Phoebe reminded him. ‘Though eventually, and maybe sooner rather than later, it won’t be.’
They continued along the beach, distributing leaflets and stopping to speak to people, examining skin when asked and generally spreading the word. At some stage the cameraman came up and took long shots of them, which Phoebe guessed would be used to set the scene with voice-over from either the reporter or Nick. Depressed by their discovery, she was beyond worrying about how dirty she might look, so she stuck doggedly to her task, criss-crossing the sand and trying to convince people to take better care of their skin.
‘Brad has a hire car. He’s suggested we all lunch together then he’ll drop us home.’ Nick was waiting for them when they returned to the steps.
Bill seconded this idea with far too much enthusiasm, but Phoebe’s head was aching and she guessed Nick would prefer to be at the hospital.
‘I’m too sweaty and dirty to be seen in public—well, anywhere but on the beach.’ She smiled an apology at Brad. ‘So if you’d excuse me, I might hop into a cab and head home for a restful afternoon.’
‘We could take you home to shower and change, then go on to lunch,’ Bill suggested, but Phoebe shook her head.
‘No, really. I’ve had enough excitement for one day.’
Nick was frowning at her, but it was too bad if he thought she should accept the invitation. She’d already given up enough of her Saturday to his pet scheme, and there was no way she was going to spend more time with him until she’d had time to analyse all the new, unsettling reactions she was suffering when with him.
And given more thought to The Plan.
‘I’ll take you home,’ he said, surprising her by how far out her reading of his reaction had been. He turned to Brad. ‘You’re here for a few more days. I’ll make some other time for us to get together.’
Then he lifted his arm and a taxi appeared as if by magic, the driver’s obvious impatience at holding up a stream of traffic leading to a minimum of farewells.
‘You look as sick as a dog!’ Nick scolded, when they were both belted into the rear seat and he’d given the driver her address. ‘That was sheer stupidity, walking up and down the beach when you obviously weren’t feeling well. Why on earth didn’t you go home earlier? Or was it that over-friendly American’s company that kept you there?’
His anger caught Phoebe by surprise, then it sparked her own.
‘Well, thanks for the compliment!’ she retorted. ‘For your information, I also feel as sick as a dog, so if you’ve any sense at all you’ll sit there and shut up so I can concentrate on not throwing up all over you.’
‘Hell! Do you feel that bad? Do you want the cab to stop?’
He reached over and put an arm around her shoulders—difficult, given the restrictions of two seat belts—then drew her awkwardly towards him.
She pushed away, knowing that being close to him was dangerous. Besides, her anger was still burning.
‘Actually, I didn’t feel sick until we were waiting on the pavement. Maybe it was the mention of lunch.’
Which was odd, given her partiality for food. She leaned her head back against the corner of the cab and tried to figure out this other, and far more puzzling, new phenomenon.
The cab drew up outside her home. Behind a shiny dark green Jaguar which had obviously just arrived.
‘Oh, no! Not a fatherly visit today of all days!’ she muttered to herself.
At the same time Nick said, ‘Isn’t that your father?’
Before she could ask how he could recognise her father, the man himself was there, opening the cab door, greeting her with his usual enthusiasm and helping her out of the cab.
‘Ah, Nick! Good to see you again,’ her father added, leaning past her into the back seat to shake hands with Nick. ‘You coming in?’
‘No, he isn’t!’ Phoebe said, forcing her father out of the way and slamming the door shut in case Nick had other ideas. ‘He has patients to visit,’ she added rather lamely, when the startled expression in her father’s eyes told her she’d been extremely rude.
Fortunately, Nick must have got the message for the cab drew away from the curb and continued on down the street.
‘Just thought I’d pop in and see my best girl. How are you, darling?’ Michael Moreton said.
As he was talking, Phoebe asked him, ‘How do you know Nick David?’
Her father chuckled.
‘Who’ll answer first? You or me?’
‘I’m fine—there, that’s me done,’ she said, leading the way up the path and unlocking the door. ‘Now it’s your turn.’
She spoke abruptly, but a wild guess at her father’s reply was churning her already unsettled stomach.
‘He came to see me last week. Part of his plan to tempt business into sponsoring medical programmes. Edward
Sheilds put him on to me.’
There was a pause and Phoebe, who’d been hanging up her hat on the stand inside the door, turned enquiringly towards him.
‘And?’ she prompted.
‘Well, I thought he’d have mentioned it to you by now but he obviously hasn’t worked out the finer details.’
Her father started his usual practice of pacing as he spoke—up and back across a rich red Turkish rug he’d given her when she’d bought the little cottage.
‘What finer details, Dad? And stop moving. Look at me.’
He turned towards her, a dark-haired, well-built man, at fifty-four still impossibly good-looking.
‘We talked about this business of you not being able to begin your specialist studies while you’re in that unit. Of not being able to count that time towards your dermatology experience.’
Phoebe wondered if the top of the human head could blow off with rage. Hers certainly felt as if it might go at any moment.
‘Dad! How could you discuss my career with someone else—without my permission? And who said I wanted to specialise? I’ve been telling you for years that I was pretty sure all I wanted to do was GP work. This skin-cancer thing is just an added string to my bow when I eventually apply for a position in a practice. Just what were the two of you planning? Was Nick David going to pull strings and in return get a healthy donation from you?’
She took a turn across the carpet herself. ‘No wonder people were making cryptic remarks. I guess everyone knew about this but me. Just wait until I get my hands on that man!’
‘But, darling,’ Michael said, moving towards her with his hands outheld in a placating manner. ‘You’ve always been ambitious. Of all my children, you’re the one most like me. You want to be the best, to rise to the top, and specialising is the way to go to get there.’
Phoebe sighed, the spurt of anger dying as the full realisation of what he’d said sank in.
‘Dad,’ she said, waving him to a chair and sinking into one herself, ‘I hate to disillusion you but I’m probably the least like you of all your children. I have next to no ambition. I did medicine because Mum felt I should use the brains I was given, and because I enjoy helping people. Now I’m a doctor, but nothing’s changed. As far as I’m concerned, helping people at the basic, general-practice level is what I want to do. At least, that’s my thinking at the moment.’
‘But it’s a dead end,’ her father protested.
‘Nonsense!’ Phoebe told him. ‘A GP sees new challenges every day, and has to continue to study and learn because he needs a far wider range of medical knowledge than any specialist.’
‘And that’s all you want?’
The incredulity in her father’s voice was so strong Phoebe had to laugh. Not that Nick’s involvement in this mad scheme had any humour in it. Although it did explain why he’d been so obliging with the making-Charles-jealous farce. Sweetening her up as a way of getting her father’s donation.
The acidic bite of disappointment made her feel ill again, and she had to breathe deeply to counteract its poisonous effect.
Her father, apparently realising the futility of his argument, was now expounding on Matthew’s studies in information technology. Phoebe managed the appropriate noises of approval, knowing Matthew, her half-brother from her father’s third marriage, had inherited the drive and ambition she lacked. Though only in his first year at university, he was already running a small web page design company.
‘Did you know Celeste is pregnant again? This baby is due in February.’
Phoebe nodded. Celeste was the first child of marriage number two, nearest to her in age, and earning Brownie points from their father for her ambition, which, as far as Phoebe could tell, was to add to the world’s over-population problem.
‘If all you’re going to do is GP work, perhaps it’s time you started thinking of marriage and a family.’
‘Would you like a cup of coffee, Dad?’ Phoebe said, as she felt her eyes crossing and the top of her head about to blow again. Better to get him coffee than throw a pot-plant at him.
‘Do you have fresh beans? Do you use the grinder I gave you?’
Perhaps she should have thrown the pot-plant at him after all, she decided as she stalked off to the kitchen without dignifying his question with a reply.
But there was no escape. He followed her, working down through her numerous half-siblings and extolling their excellence in their schooling and extra-curricular activities.
Phoebe ground the beans—fresh—and made coffee, then dug through her store cupboard for a tin of biscuits he’d once given her and offered them to him.
He perched on a stool in the kitchen, and continued to relay the family news.
‘And Beatrice’s piano teacher tells us we have a genius on our hands.’
‘She’s only three, Dad. Don’t push her.’
He looked offended by this remark, but fortunately the doorbell rang and Phoebe excused herself to answer it. Probably a couple of religious visitors of some denomination. She’d invite them in for coffee and let them do their spiel in front of her father. That should distract his attention from her future—and her lack of what he considered ambition.
‘I was worried about you. About a delayed reaction—from the head injury or shock. I visited Peter but I was too distracted to do any more than depress him, so I came to see you for myself.’
Nick managed to deliver all this information in a single breathless run of words. The pace added to a suggestion of uncertainty about this usually positive man.
At any other time she might have felt sympathy for him, but today he was the epicentre of her problems.
‘How dare you use me to get money from my father? Plotting with him to get me into the specialist programme, which, I’ll have you know, is the last place I want to be. You may think specialising is the ultimate in life, but for your information I have other plans for my future so go away and stay away.’
She then slammed the door in his face and stalked back to the kitchen.
Her back quivered with nerves on full alert for another peal of the doorbell, but none came. She wasn’t sure if that made her feel better or worse, but until her father left she wouldn’t be able to untangle the snarl of different emotions she was feeling, and get her mind back to normality.
‘Someone selling something?’ her father asked.
‘Something like that!’ she replied.
Her father left shortly afterwards and her main concern, now she’d settled down enough to think straight, was that she had slammed the door in her boss’s face. Although the silly carryings-on of the past week might have shifted her perspective of Nick David, the fact remained he was just that—her boss!
So, what did she do?
Phone him and apologise?
But shouldn’t he be the one apologising? Talking to her father behind her back? Discussing her career as if she had no say in it? Using his connection with her to get his precious unit a donation?
By the time she reached this question, any idea of phoning to apologise flew out the window. It would be a cold day in hell before she spoke to him again.
About anything but work, she amended to herself as she stripped off her clothes and stepped into a hot shower.
But as she soaped her body she remembered how his kisses made her feel, and regret that she’d never know what it was like to make love with him niggled within her.
‘Never know what it’s like to make love with anyone, the rate you’re going!’ she muttered crossly to herself. ‘Talk about a dunderhead! You can’t even get yourself seduced successfully!’
By late afternoon she was in such a dither that when the doorbell rang again, she considered pretending to be out. Perhaps if she peeked through the window first…
‘It’s Jess, Phoebe. If you’re in there, open up.’
Puzzled by Jess’s assumption that she might be pretending to be out, Phoebe opened the door.
Jess pushed past her into the entry.
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‘Well, you look OK,’ she said, ‘though that dressing gown you’re wearing looks way past its use-by date, especially if you’re going to greet people wearing it.’
‘I’ve had a shower and soon I’m going to bed,’ Phoebe told her, then realised her mistake when Jess looked at her watch.
‘At five o’clock in the afternoon. You must be sick. Nick told me about the accident and asked me to check on you. Any headache, blurry vision? What else would head-injured patients have?’
‘Too many visitors!’ Phoebe snapped. ‘I’m a doctor so I do know about head-injury symptoms and you can tell Dr David I’m fine.’
Jess held up her hands in mock surrender.
‘Hey! Don’t get upset with me. I’m only doing an old pal a favour.’
She paused, eyeing Phoebe quizzically for a moment, then added, ‘And speaking of my old pal, just what have you done to get him so tied up in knots? He came roaring around to my place in a brand new Mercedes he’d apparently borrowed from some car-dealer friend, mumbling some totally incomprehensible gibberish about car accidents and doors slamming in his face. What did you do? Turn down a date with him? That’s about all I can imagine that would dent his ego.’
‘He’s upset over Peter,’ Phoebe reminded her, refusing to believe anything she’d done, even slamming a door in his face, could have affected Nick.
‘I guess so,’ Jess said, but she continued to study her hostess. ‘Has he told his mother about you?’
Phoebe sighed.
‘Maybe I do have a head injury,’ she said. ‘A lot of this conversation—that bit in particular—makes no sense. Peter said much the same thing to Nick yesterday. What on earth do I have to do with Nick’s mother?’
Jess grinned at her.
‘He always tells his mother about the women he dates—even me, although we never had a real date, more a convenience thing.’
‘Well, there you go,’ Phoebe countered. ‘Proof there’s nothing going on between me and Nick. When Peter asked him if he’d told his mother, he was most adamant in his denial.’
‘Hmm!’ Jess said, and Phoebe, who didn’t like the sound of that neutral expression, changed the subject, asking Jess about her plans for the evening.
A Very Precious Gift Page 11
