Blinking back tears, Fleur angrily told herself she was a fool. Sitting there glooming would not be of the slightest use. When he came this evening, as he promised, she would tell him to go away again, because she did not care to be used to goad Rowena into making up whatever quarrel they had had.
She needed to direct her fury into something energetic, so exhausting that she would sleep from sheer weariness that night. It was a pleasant day, and she could take a long walk, but the prospect was uninviting. It would not occupy her thoughts.
In the end she decided to decorate her own bedroom. The dingy wallpaper had always depressed her.
She moved her things into Anne's room and pushed the bed and the wardrobe into the centre of the room. Covering them with a sheet she set to, attacking the old wallpaper vigorously, and found it an excellent way of utilising her fury against Russell.
She stopped briefly for a sandwich and coffee, then realised that the shops would soon be shut for Christmas and she must buy what she needed now. She couldn't leave the flat disorganised for Anne to come back to.
She went out to the nearest shopping parade and found some very pretty wallpaper with tiny blue flowers on a white background. Fleur bought several rolls as well as paint and brushes and wallpaper paste.
Laden with her parcels, she belatedly thought about food for the holiday and hastily collected stores from the supermarket.
*
Back in the flat she glanced at the cooker clock. Three o'clock. Good, she could do at least three more hours before she need tidy herself up to deal with Russell. She had no intention of dressing up for him, of course, she told herself angrily, but she would feel more equipped to tell him she did not wish to see him again if she had bathed and changed.
It would be a lie. She did want to see him again, but to continue as they were would only hurt more in the end, which must be an inevitable parting.
She set herself grimly to finish scraping. Previous tenants had put new paper on top of old, with four different layers in some places. But soon only the last wall remained. She would do that on the following evening, or even finish it tonight after she had sent Russell away.
She suddenly realised she had no idea of the time. It had grown dark ages ago. She sped into the kitchen and gasped with dismay. The cooker clock still said three o'clock.
Fleur ran into Anne's bedroom, forgot for a few moments where she had put her watch, and then began to scrabble for it amongst the mound of small items she had dropped on top of the dressing table, intending to sort them later. When she retrieved her watch she groaned. It was twenty-five past seven and Russell had said he would be there at seven. He was late.
Perhaps he wasn't coming. Perhaps taking her to the ball had brought him and Rowena together, wondering how they could have been so crazy as to split up.
Instead of being relieved at escaping a quarrel, Fleur was overwhelmed with anguish. He was not coming!
To still the sudden trembling in her legs she went into the kitchen, poured herself, rather unsteadily, a large gin, splashed a token teaspoonful of tonic water into it, and gulped nervously. She sat at the kitchen table, a bleak look on her face, and suddenly felt tears trickling down her cheeks.
'Damn him! Damn him! Damn him!' she whispered, angrily brushing them away with the back of her hand, and drank the rest of the gin in one swallow.
She was still trying to recover her breath when the doorbell rang. Her heart leapt. He was here, he had not deserted her! Then she realised she would have to face him after all and suddenly felt cold. The bell pealed again and slowly, her pulses throbbing, she went to open the door.
*
Russell stood there, unexpectedly dressed in jeans and a heavy fisherman's sweater. He carried a bottle of wine wrapped in festive green and red paper and a small white carrier bag.
His eyebrows shot up and his lips curved in amusement as he surveyed Fleur in her old jeans, hair and shirt spattered with drips of dirty water and with shreds of clinging old wallpaper.
He went past her, ignoring the instinctive movement of her hand as she tried to bar the way, and deposited his parcels on the kitchen table. Then he turned and surveyed her closely before walking back and taking both her hands in his.
'What is it, sweet?' he asked gently, and Fleur stared up into his eyes, noting the concern in them, and wondered whether she was utterly crazy to harbour such dreadful suspicions about him. 'I'm sorry I'm late, there was an emergency operation, a road accident and peritonitis from a wound. Had you given me up?' he asked, surveying her old clothes.
'Of course not!' she retorted, angry he should think a mere half hour's lateness could cause such distress. 'I – you – it's nothing,' she stammered.
She tried to pull her hands away, but his slim fingers gripped her effortlessly and she could not escape. Then he relaxed his hold and moved one hand up to her face.
'What is it?' he asked gently, his fingers tracing the path her tears had worn in her dusty face.
She shook her head wordlessly.
'I thought you might be too tired to go out again, especially as Sir John Summers asked me to bring you to his party tomorrow night, so I bought a Chinese takeaway and some wine,' he said calmly. 'Sit down, it's all ready,' he went on, swiftly putting several small foil containers from the carrier bag on the table. He picked up the glass she had used for the gin, paused for a moment, then moved it to the drainer without comment, just casting her a worried look.
Bemused, Fleur sat and watched as he found plates, cutlery and glasses, then removed the lids of the containers, shared out the contents and poured wine into the glasses.
'Here, eat while it's hot,' he ordered, pushing one of the plates in front of her and putting a fork into her hand.
Mechanically she obeyed, and suddenly found herself excessively hungry. She had been working hard all day and eaten almost nothing, and the tasty sweet and sour chicken, stir fried vegetables, and fluffy saffron-tinted rice were delicious. She drank some wine, then realised it was champagne. Odd, she mused, she had never before seen anyone remove a champagne cork without popping it. And why had he brought champagne, she suddenly wondered.
She glanced up at him, but he was not looking at her. However, he began to tell her the details of an unusual case he had operated on that morning, and one part of her mind was caught. She had never seen the removal of a bile duct tumour, and would be concerned with the post-operative care of the patient on the following day.
'How long is she likely to be in bed?' she asked, and did not notice the look of satisfaction in his eyes that she had broken her silence.
He talked easily, and Fleur did not notice how often he refilled her glass. When he cleared away the plates and dumped the containers in the waste bin, she rose to find cheese and biscuits, apologising it was all she had. Then she made coffee and he carried the tray into the sitting room. They were installed in armchairs opposite one another, sipping the fragrant brew, before he spoke.
'Can you tell me now what's the matter?' he asked gently.
*
Fleur glanced across at him, a haunted look in her eyes. Could he be a deceitful, conniving philanderer, totally careless of any hurt he might cause his victims, when he looked at her like this? And when he had given her time to recover her poise, making her eat, chatting about neutral things, without demanding a word of explanation until now.
She could not pour out all her hateful suspicions. In his absence she had persuaded herself to believe the worse of him but now, while he was here, regarding her so anxiously, and with the same loving care of her that she had grown to associate with him, she could not believe them. Utterly confused, she shook her head. She could not tell him lies, or find some excuse for her attitude.
'Please, I'm being stupid,' she said in a low voice. 'Forgive me, but I'd rather not talk about it. I really am better now,' she added to forestall further questions.
To her astonishment and deep relief, he accepted this.
'As y
ou wish. What have you been doing, decorating?'
Fleur for the first time recalled what a sight she must look, and her hand strayed to her hair. It was too tangled to put it right with a few pats, and she smiled ruefully.
'I always mean to wear a shower cap,' she said resignedly, 'and always forget. I decided to re-paper my bedroom while Anne was away,' she explained, and then apologetically, 'I hadn't forgotten you were coming, but the clock had stopped and I'd lost track of time.'
'Then it's fortunate I hadn't tickets for some early show,' he teased lightly. 'How is it going? Are you finding lots of other jobs which need doing as well?'
'Something like that. Mainly the number of layers of old wallpaper, but I've done three walls. I can soon do the rest tomorrow night, and start papering over Christmas. Luckily the paintwork's reasonable, just needs a good scrub and one coat.'
'It sounds a big job,' he responded easily, ignoring the hint she was not intending to go with him to the party he had mentioned, even though Sir John Summers was one of the most important consultants at Chad's, and it was a social triumph to have been invited to his home.
'I'm in old clothes, so I'll help you finish scraping.'
'I've only one scraper,' Fleur said, astonished. Somehow Russell had seemed to her the embodiment of the sophisticated surgeon, and she had never imagined him a house repair expert.
'I did my own flat,' he said, 'I'll do the scraping while you wash the paintwork. Then it'll be dry by tomorrow.'
*
Because it would occupy the rest of the evening and save her from having to offer any explanation for her odd behaviour, Fleur accepted. She could not talk about it yet, she told herself in panic. His presence had thrown all her painful conclusions into disarray. Although she was too terrified to hope she'd been wrong, she dared not try to resolve her doubts by talking to Russell about them.
Not yet, she said silently as she collected rags and a bucket of hot soapy water, while he set about the final stubbornly clinging wallpaper. She needed more time to consider everything. And perhaps, a small voice within her whispered, he might give some clearer indication of what he really feels.
He had taken off the heavy sweater and was working in his jeans and a thin short sleeved T-shirt. She stood for a moment in the doorway, watching the rippling muscles of his arms and back. She recalled her first sight of that back, naked and tanned, and ached with the need to run to him and be enfolded in those strong arms, to be told her imaginings were all a ghastly nightmare and Rowena meant nothing to him.
He must have sensed her regard for her glanced over his shoulder and smiled.
'Have you heard of Ted Roberts' latest exploit?' he asked.
Ted Roberts was a houseman with a talent for devising hilarious party games for the regular social club discos. Fleur had heard of them, but not yet experienced any.
'What was that?' she asked, pulling forward a chair to stand on and begin on the paintwork round the window.
'He knew Jonty Scott was thoroughly drunk last night, but the fellow's got an amazingly hard head. Although he wouldn't operate after such a bender he does see patients. Ted dressed himself up as a woman, and got the make-up expert from the drama society to paint him so that he looked a frightful old hag. He went to Jonty's clinic this morning and persuaded the receptionist to add him to the end of the list of patients. Then he went in and pretended to be a beauty queen whose face Jonty had ruined during an operation. For a few moments Jonty actually believed him and Ted says you could see the whites of his eyes, and would have been able to if they hadn't been bloodshot.'
Fleur was frowning, uncomprehendingly. 'I'm sorry, I don't understand,' she said slowly. Russell exclaimed apologetically.
'Idiotic of me. I forgot you wouldn't remember him. Jonty is, despite his habits, an exceedingly brilliant plastic surgeon with a flourishing private practice in Harley Street.'
Fleur turned away hastily, and when she saw her distraught expression reflected in the dark glass of the uncurtained window she took a deep breath and glanced at Russell. But he had turned back to scraping, and she wondered whether it was coincidence that he should mention a plastic surgeon. That had been the speciality of Rowena's escort, and he had also recently left Chad's to set up in private practice, as well as being very much under the influence at the ball. There could not have been two drunken, brilliant plastic surgeons around, surely.
She tried to laugh, and as Russell told her more about the crazy doings of the mad Ted Roberts, found it easier. By the time they had finished work and the bedroom was ready for painting, she was almost her old self, her suspicions of Russell buried once more deep in some hidden recess of her mind.
They had coffee but he made no attempt to kiss her until, with a sigh, he rose to depart.
'I hate to leave you,' he whispered as she lifted her face to his, then he almost crushed her ribs as he pulled her into a fierce embrace, and kissed her until her pulses were rioting about her body and she was beginning to think she would never again be able to breathe.
'My darling beloved Fleur,' he said, his voice shaking with emotion, as at last he lifted his lips from hers. 'I can't ever bear to let you go. I can hardly wait until tomorrow. I love you so very much.'
*
Chapter 10
The memory of those last few words, and the hard work, ensured Fleur a peaceful night. By morning she was as sure of Russell's love as she had previously been convinced of his perfidy.
Her heart and steps were light as she worked, joking with the patients. She helped three going home for Christmas to pack their belongings, spent time encouraging the others who would spend Christmas in hospital, and directed a couple of off-duty nurses who had volunteered to come in and decorate the ward's Christmas tree, gift of the local Chamber of Commerce.
Half way through the morning Sister Reynolds called her into the office.
'Staff, we need Mrs Archibald's notes, she's coming in for two nights for a barium meal. She'll be here this afternoon, but Mr Havelock still has her record file after the EEG he did. Please will you go to his office and insist on having them. He may be a brilliant surgeon but his organisation is far from helpful to the rest of us,' she added tartly. 'I'm sorry to ask you, normally I'd send one of the first years, but they wouldn't have the nerve to be firm with the great man!'
Fleur grinned, and nodded. 'Yes, when I first started I was terrified to speak to anyone in a white coat, until I discovered some of them were as raw in medical school as I was a nurse. I don't mind going in the least.'
She was half way down the corridor where the consultant surgeons and their secretaries had offices before it dawned on her Rowena Kingsley was Mr Havelock's secretary.
She hesitated, frowning, then shrugged. Russell said he loved her, and was not going to marry Rowena, so why should she be reluctant to face the other girl? Rowena might resent her, and after the ball she would know Russell had a new love, but he couldn't love two girls at once. Or could he?
Deciding she must be sensible and stop worrying Fleur took a deep breath and went on.
The door of the outer office where Rowena had her desk was open. There was no one inside but the murmur of a man's voice came from the inner room. Rowena's desk chair was pushed back, a filing cabinet drawer was open with a folder lying on top of it, and it looked as though she had been called suddenly from the room. Probably Mr Havelock was dictating.
Fleur crossed to the inner door and was about to knock when Rowena's voice, high pitched and hysterical, came clearly to her.
'Darling, I'm sorry! I'm so sorry, it was all my fault, I've been a fool! Please forgive me! I don't want to lose you, truly I don't. Can't we try again?'
Fleur retreated hastily. She could not interrupt such a scene. Belatedly as though suffering from delayed shock, she began to wonder who was with Rowena. It couldn't be Mr Havelock. A dreadful suspicion began forming in her mind, and without conscious thought she backed across the office as far as she could until broug
ht up short by the edge of the filing cabinet.
She stared across the room, hands clenched and knuckles white. At that moment the inner door opened. Petrified, Fleur knew her suspicions were correct, her whole world was about to crash around her. Russell emerged from the inner office, smiling contentedly, then turned slightly in the doorway and spoke to Rowena behind him.
'Phone me in the morning, we can decide what to do about my coming to your parents. Thank heavens it's all come right.'
*
He turned again, and Fleur instinctively shrank back, edging round the side of the open filing cabinet, but he strode across the room without noticing her and went out. She took a few involuntary steps after him, then stopped. What could she do? She could hardly run along the corridors of Chad's demanding an explanation. There was only one explanation. He had made up his quarrel with Rowena.
Suddenly a feeling of rage swept over Fleur. The despicable, hateful man! She loathed him, and never wanted to see him again! Then she shook her head. No, that was untrue. However badly he had treated her, using her to win back Rowena, she loved him and always would.
She was standing there, a bleak look on her face, utterly forlorn, when footsteps behind her brought her back to a consciousness of where she was. She turned slowly. Rowena, a tremulous smile on her lips, her face radiant, looking even more lovely, was coming out of the inner office.
'Hello, I didn't know anyone was here. Can I do anything?' she asked cheerfully, smiling at Fleur.
Summoning up all her courage, Fleur faced this girl who had captured the man she herself had come to love, and somehow conveyed the message from Sister Reynolds.
'Oh, yes, they're in here. Sorry about that, I've been rather preoccupied the last few days,' Rowena said with another smile, going towards the filing cabinet. 'Here they are,' she added, handing a folder across to Fleur. 'Hurry on tomorrow, then I can relax for a few days. Are you working at Christmas?'
Hospital Heartbreaker Page 9
