‘And if you don’t?’
Her smile was wistful. ‘You’ll be here, won’t you? I’ll cry on your shoulder.’
Would it come to that? The nearer Wednesday came, the more certain Tricia was that she was making the biggest mistake of her life. She was conscious of everything about him—every footfall above her head, every glimpse as he turned a corner, every word he spoke in earshot—and sitting in the little sun room behind the surgery if they had a minute to spare or wanted a practice meeting was torture.
She couldn’t concentrate or take her eyes off him, and he was obviously having the same trouble. Every time he caught her eye her blood pressure soared. When he spoke, she heard his voice and not the words, listening instead to the low, quiet tones, the odd laugh that started deep in his chest and rumbled round it looking for a way out.
It was almost a relief on Tuesday to go to the hospital for her spell of duty in the casualty department.
Because it was the holiday season still, they were usually busy enough to justify having a doctor there all the time to cover Casualty, and Tricia had enjoyed the only other stint she had done there.
She greeted the staff cheerfully, took over from the afternoon medic and set about dealing with the steady stream of walking wounded.
There were the usual holiday things—sunburn, cut feet from the beach, heatstroke, upset tummies and insect bites and stings.
She was amazed yet again by how many wasp stings she had to deal with, some of them quite nasty. Luckily none of the people whom she had seen in the past fortnight had gone into anaphylactic shock, but it seemed that it could only be a matter of time before one did. She resolved to carry adrenalin with her at all times, just to be on the safe side, as well as an antihistamine. You never knew when such a life-saving combination might be urgently required.
The other thing she had to contend with was forgotten tablets that required a prescription, and ones that had run out during the course of a holiday.
She had to use her judgement on those, but when a bottle was brought in with a request for more sleeping tablets only two weeks after the date on the label on the bottle alarm bells rang for Tricia.
There should have been enough pills in the bottle for three or four weeks, and she rang the surgery in front of the patient and checked with the GP on duty.
‘Mrs Jane Bennett—34 Ransomes Drive. She’s on holiday and wants a repeat of her diazepam. The last prescription appears to have been given only two weeks ago.’
‘Oh, her—yes, that’s fine. I don’t need to check the notes. Give her them; she’s all right.’
‘Are you sure? It’s rather soon.’
‘Yes—she’s probably slipping a few extra. I’ll see her when she’s home.’
And so Tricia, against her better judgement, prescribed the drug and wrote against the notes that the patient’s own GP had authorised it over the phone and thought she was taking more than the prescribed dose.
Later that same night Tricia was glad she’d done that, because Mrs Bennett was back in, carried unconscious out of the car by her weeping, ranting husband and trailed by two wide-eyed and terrified children.
A nurse took the children quietly away, the woman was prised from her husband’s arms and removed to a treatment room, and he was taken into the office and questioned about the incidents leading up to her collapse.
It was immediately obvious that she had overdosed herself on the drugs that Tricia had prescribed, as the man pointed out in no uncertain terms—and Tricia, cursing herself for not following her instincts, quickly and efficiently pumped the woman out. Sure enough they found the remains of all the sleeping pills.
‘Damn.’
‘I should ring the GP,’ the sister suggested.
‘Too right, once I’ve got her stabilised. Serve him right if I have to get him out of bed. Right, let’s get this reversed.’
They set up a drip and ran in a carefully measured dose of a drug designed to counteract the sleeping pills. It had to be done slowly otherwise the sudden reversal could cause convulsions and other side effects. Frankly, Tricia didn’t want anything else to go wrong!
‘At least I know what she took, as I prescribed it!’ she said drily to the sister. ‘Right, she should probably be transferred to Lymington for monitoring and psychiatric assessment before she’s discharged. I suppose I’d better have a word with the husband and then ring the GP and give him the glad tidings.’
The woman’s husband was still blaming Tricia when she went back into the office, finally satisfied that the woman was out of danger and coming round.
‘Damn it, the last bottle was only two weeks old!’ he told her. ‘Can’t you read?’
‘Yes,’ Tricia said carefully. ‘I can, and that’s why I checked with her GP before prescribing them. He said it was all right.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Look at the notes.’
‘You’ve doctored them,’ he accused her, studying the sheet of paper.
‘How?’ the nurse with him asked. ‘That’s been in here with us ever since you arrived.’
‘I’ll ring him. I’ll do it now,’ Tricia said calmly, although she was feeling far from calm. First thing in the morning she would ring the Medical Defence Union and ask them for advice. In the meantime, she’d speak to the GP.
She rang him, using the phone’s hands-free facility which was useful for conference calls and meant that everybody in the room could hear. Before telling him the situation, she asked again about the prescription, and again, rather irritated, he agreed that she should give it. ‘I’m glad we’ve cleared that up,’ she said quietly, ‘because I did as you suggested and prescribed the drug, and I’m afraid your patient has just been admitted to hospital suffering from an overdose.’
The GP swore, and Tricia picked up the receiver, cancelling the hands-free facility, stifling the speaker that broadcast the GP’s invective criticism of his patient.
‘I have to talk to Mr Bennett,’ she informed him, cutting him off. ‘I just wanted to confirm for everyone’s benefit that you had given authority for the prescription.’
She cradled the phone and turned to the woman’s husband.
He lifted his hands. ‘I’m sorry. So it’s his fault, not yours.’
‘I think what we’re all forgetting here and what we should be focusing on rather more than who is to blame, Mr Bennett, is why your wife might have tried to kill herself.’
He sagged. ‘Oh, I can tell you that. We had another row about her spending.’
‘Spending?’
He nodded. ‘She’s run up so much debt with her credit cards—literally thousands. Then on Saturday, because we were coming away, she forgot to do the Lottery, and the numbers she always uses came up—not the jackpot, but enough to get us out of this mess we’re in now. And she forgot.’
‘Oh, dear. And she’s feeling guilty, and you’re feeling angry with her for forgetting and angry with her because it’s her fault you need the money. Am I right?’
He nodded at Tricia. ‘Spot on, Sherlock. And what do we do now? She’s in hospital, our holiday’s ruined—on. hell.’
Tricia left him with the nurse offering what comfort she could while Mrs Bennett’s transfer was arranged, and Tricia checked that she was coming round gradually and without incident.
After the ambulance took her away they had a lull, and the sister suggested Tricia should lie down in the duty room. ‘It may be quiet until morning,’ she said optimistically.
Tricia thought that it was just as likely to snow, and she was right, but there were no more crises. Unfortunately that just left enough time to worry about Mrs Bennett and her part in the woman’s attempted suicide.
Was it just a cry for help, or a genuine attempt to do away with herself? And whose fault was it? The GP’s? Tricia’s? Or Mrs Bennett’s?
She had to admit, finally, that it was Mrs Bennett’s fault. The GP had certainly been rather casual, and Tricia should have followed her
instincts and given only enough for the night and told the woman to get her GP to fax a prescription to a local pharmacist to tide her over for the rest of her holiday, but the bottom line was that Mrs Bennett was a deeply unhappy woman unable to control her compulsive spending and she would probably have done something like this sooner or later anyway.
And still Tricia felt guilty.
The night finally came to an end and she handed over to the daytime GP and drove back to the surgery. She parked her car and got out just as Rhys pulled up beside her, and she paused for a moment.
‘Morning,’ he said, all brisk cheerfulness.
She dredged up a smile. ‘Morning.’
He shot her a keen look. ‘Busy night?’
Her laugh was weak. ‘Just a bit. Well, not really, but a bit of a problem.’ She told him about Mrs Bennett as they went in, and he shook his head.
‘I wouldn’t have given them to her.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Neither would I with the twenty-twenty vision of hindsight.’
He smiled and patted her shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, you’re in the clear. The other GP might have to do a bit of fancy footwork, but basically it’s the woman’s own fault if she wants to top herself. You can’t stop all the trains in case she jumps in front of one.’
There was a sort of perverse logic in his argument that heartened Tricia. She gave him a weary smile. “Thanks. I needed telling that.’
‘You also look as if you need some sleep. Want me to do your calls after surgery?’
She shook her head. ‘I’ll be OK.’
His smile was wry, his voice soft and tormenting. ‘My offer wasn’t entirely without self-interest, you know. I want you awake tonight, Tricia. I’m not into necrophilia.’
She laughed breathlessly. ‘I’ll be awake, don’t worry. I’m doing a chicken casserole—is that OK?’
‘Sounds fine.’ He hesitated, then his fingers caught hold of her chin in a gentle grip and tipped her head back so that she met his eyes. The teasing, tormenting look was gone, replaced by genuine concern and caring. His thumb grazed her chin absently as he searched her eyes. ‘Are you sure about this?’ he said softly.
She nodded. ‘Yes. Yes, Rhys, I’m quite sure. Are you?’
He gave a quiet grunt of laughter. ‘No—but I’ll be there. You can be sure of that.’
CHAPTER SIX
SUSPENSE, Tricia decided as the day wore on, was a terrible thing.
Her palms were damp and tingling, her throat dry, her heart pounding—by the time she finished her evening surgery she was a basket case.
She went up to her flat, threw together the ingredients for the chicken casserole that she had promised Rhys and dived into the bathroom. It had been another hot day and she was tired after the previous sleepless night. However, she didn’t dare have a bath in case she fell asleep in it, so she opted for a quick shower and rubbed her hair dry with a towel before checking the casserole, flinging the salad together and dashing back into her bedroom to dress.
She was ready with a minute to spare, and went into the sitting room, turning on a table lamp to make it seem cosier, although it was still light outside. The cushions had another pat, the casserole was checked again, the table laid. She even found a candle.
Still he didn’t arrive.
By five to nine Tricia was convinced he wasn’t coming, and the sense of loss and betrayal was shocking. She sat down in the kitchen, staring at the stupid white candle sitting in its eggcup, and could have cried. Had he changed his mind after all? He’d said he wasn’t sure. Perhaps he’d thought better of it.
After all, she’d behaved like a hussy on Friday night. Her cheeks flushed when she thought of the way she had pleaded with him. He had every right to think she was sexually hyperactive—perhaps he even found her enthusiasm a turn-off in the cold light of day?
Or night It was almost dark now. After nine o’clock. The white household candle looked ridiculous, and she threw it in the drawer where she’d found it. Damn.
She turned off the heat under the casserole, went into the sitting room and was about to settle down for a bout of self-pity when the doorbell rang, making her jump and her heart leap to life. Rhys? The outside lights were on, and she looked down into the staff car park at the back and saw his car beside hers.
Her heart thudding, she forced herself to walk slowly down to the door at the bottom of the stairs.
He was standing on the other side, looking very big and forbidding—and as nervous as she was. He was clutching a posy of flowers and a box of chocolates as if they were lifeline, and he looked as if for two pins he’d turn and run.
‘It wasn’t locked,’ she told him, trying not to grin like an idiot because he was here after all. ‘You should have just come in.’
His smile was strained. ‘I didn’t want to presume. I’m sorry I’m late—the kids wouldn’t settle. Here.’
He handed her the flowers and chocolates, and she smiled awkwardly and led the way upstairs. Heavens, her heart was in a fluster. She closed her eyes and caught her lips between her teeth. Please, God, let it be all right, she thought. Don’t let me make a mess of this and frighten him away.
She put the chocolates down and found a vase for the flowers, then suddenly her hands were empty.
‘Um—I bought a bottle of wine. I don’t know if you want any,’ she said nervously. Lord, her lungs were going to burst if she kept breathing like this.
‘I don’t drink, but don’t let that stop you. Have some if you want to.’
‘Um—I think I will, if you don’t mind,’ she muttered. ‘Where’s the corkscrew? I saw one earlier—’
‘Here, let me.’ He took it from her hand and yanked the unsuspecting cork out with a squeal of protest, then poured her a glass.
She took it, her hand trembling, and set it down. ‘Um—can I get you anything?’ she asked. Lord, she sounded so inane! She tried again. ‘Is there anything I can give you?’
Oh, hell, the innuendo! His smile was fleeting. If she hadn’t been watching him so closely she would have missed it, and the tiny huff of laughter. He closed his eyes.
‘Have you got any mineral water?’
Mineral water. Yes. In the fridge. She opened the door and pulled out the bottle, twisted off the cap and sprayed them both with fizzy water.
She screamed and twisted the lid back on, then turned to Rhys. His shirt-front was soaked, a dark patch spreading across his chest where the fine white cotton was becoming transparent and showing the black hair beneath.
She grabbed the teatowel and blotted it helplessly. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, Rhys! It was new—the fizz—oh, blast—’
His hands closed over hers, which were again dabbing frantically at his chest, and held them still. ‘It’s all right. Really. It’s just water.’
She looked up then, into his eyes, and all the nerves, the suspense, the doubt fell away. All she could see was a raw, naked need that she could answer.
She eased her hands away from him and dropped the teatowel, then reached up to him and cupped his face. His jaw was freshly shaved, the skin tight, and she rubbed her thumb against it and felt the slight prickle of his beard against her skin.
‘I thought you weren’t coming,’ she murmured.
He swallowed. ‘I nearly didn’t. The kids were settled by eight. I’ve been driving round telling myself I’m a fool.’
‘For coming, or staying away?’
He laughed softly. ‘Either. Both.’
‘But you’re here.’
‘Yes. I’m here.’
‘Are you hungry?’
His eyes were like storm-clouds, she thought—his feelings chasing through them one after the other. ‘No.’
‘Neither am I,’ she whispered. She pulled his head down gently and laid her lips on his. For a moment he stood there, unmoving, then with a muttered curse his arms came round her and he kissed her as if he were dying and she were the only cure.
Then suddenly the kiss gentled and he ea
sed away from her, pulling her head down on his chest and resting his chin on her hair. ‘Tricia, tell me to stop.’
‘No.’
‘Oh, God.’
His chest heaved under her cheek, and she turned her head and pressed her lips to his damp shirt. ‘Take me to bed, Rhys,’ she whispered.
His heart speeded up, the whole of his chest wall bounding under her head. Because of her. She felt the power of her womanhood in his body’s response, and all her doubts vanished like snow in the sunshine.
‘Come on,’ she murmured, and, taking his hand, she led him into the little bedroom. The dress took only moments to peel off, but she left the underwear, suddenly shy. Was she moving too fast for him? For her?
She turned and met his eyes, and her confidence returned again. ‘Let me help you,’ she said softly. His shirt buttons were difficult because of the wet fabric, but she persevered, pulling the tails out and sliding the shirt over his shoulders. The cuffs were already undone and turned back, so the shirt fell to the floor, leaving his chest gloriously, magnificently bare.
Her tongue flicked out and moistened her suddenly dry lips and she paused, mesmerised by the sight of his heart beating against his ribs as if it were trying to break free. She swallowed. Where was she?
Trousers. That’s right. She reached for the belt buckle and he sucked in his board-flat stomach as if her fingers were red-hot.
The zip whispered down, shatteringly loud in the quiet room, and she paused again, thinking with the remnants of her fuddled mind.
‘Sit down,’ she told him, and was surprised at how steady her voice was.
He sat on the edge of the bed as if his knees had given way, and she knelt down and pulled off his shoes, then peeled off his socks. Heavens, she had it bad. Even his hairy toes were sexy!
She stood up again and drew him to his feet, and as he stood the trousers fell to the floor and he kicked them away.
For a long moment neither of them did anything, but then he lifted one hand and traced her jaw, then moved down over her collar-bone to the soft swell above her bra.
The Ideal Choice Page 9
