City Girl, Country Vet

by Cathy Woodman

  “Emma makes a point of checking the consent form before she ever touches a patient,” Izzy says critically, making me feel as if it’s going to take a very long time to redeem myself.

  I should have been more careful, especially knowing how protective Cheryl is of her “babies.” Even when she came in to pick Blueboy up, it wasn’t too late to turn things around. Emma would have warned her before she saw the cat, and apologized gracefully.

  I wish Emma was here, but she isn’t, and it’s down to me to sort it out, swiftly and quietly, before the whole of Talyton gets to hear of it. I resolve to go and see Cheryl first thing with an offer of compensation—a check drawn on my own account—to make amends. I don’t like the thought of facing her again though—I’d rather have all my teeth pulled out without anesthetic.

  CHAPTER 10

  Eating Horses Is Wrong

  “I’m sorry I’m late.” Alex revs the engine of his car as I settle myself in the passenger seat, surveying the chaos of sweet wrappers and apple cores on the dash and the mud in the footwell. There’s a book, Dear Zoo, and a handful of pens in the pocket of the passenger door. “I’ve been fitting heels to a cow.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I say—magnanimously, I think, considering I’ve been on tenterhooks for the past hour, wondering if he’d forgotten to pick me up. I brush a stray white hair off my trousers—I should have known better than to wear black—and feel a little miffed that the scent of farmyard has managed to overwhelm my extravagant use of Armani.

  “It does if we’ve missed out on the buffet.” He grins. “I’m starving, aren’t you?” He doesn’t wait for my answer, continuing, “I hear you gave Blueboy a short back and sides today. Cheryl called my father out to treat him for post-traumatic stress.”

  “That’s all I need.” Groaning, I shrink into the seat, embarrassed and ashamed at being made to look a complete idiot in front of Alex Fox-Gifford.

  “It’s all right, Maz—he told her to pull herself together.” Alex brakes momentarily. “Hold your tummies.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “It’s what I say to the kids. We’re coming up to the humpback bridge at Balls Cross—it’s a local landmark. They like me to drive fast over it.”

  “Oh? Not too fast, I hope.”

  “I’ll go slowly just for you … but not too slowly. Legend has it that if you drive across it at midnight, you won’t make it to the other side without being strangled by the Hairy Hands of Talyton.”

  It’s impossible to believe in malign magic on an evening when the hedgerows are filled with flowers and bathed in sunlight.

  I can’t help laughing. “That sounds like wishing warts away to me. You must have driven along this stretch hundreds of times.”

  “Ah, but never on the stroke of twelve.” He adjusts the rearview mirror as if he’s checking for those monstrous appendages, hirsute with evil intent, and drives on, joining the main road, which takes us to an industrial estate on the outskirts of Exeter, where we turn off, following signs for a conference center and park.

  Inside the lobby we meet a scene of devastation: tables laid with glaring white cloths, fallen wineglasses, and empty plates strewn with crumbs and soggy lettuce leaves.

  “Don’t panic, Alex.” A woman in a green silk dress and heels glides toward us like a man-eating crocodile. Her hair is yellow Lab on top and chocolate underneath. She snaps her fingers. “This way—I’ve saved something for you.”

  “Eloise, you are an angel.” I watch Alex kiss her on both cheeks in a just-good-friends kind of way, but then that might be because they’re in public, I think, my lungs suddenly tight with envy. Alex is attentive, Eloise adoring, her big blue eyes fixed on his face, her hand hovering as if she’s about to grab his arm.

  “This is Maz,” Alex says, and Eloise turns to me, touching the gold chain around her long, slender neck.

  “It’s lovely to meet you,” she says. “I’m organizing this evening on behalf of the sponsors, for my sins.” She laughs lightly.

  “I’m the relief vet at Otter House,” I say, pretty certain now that Eloise is one of the many women I imagine has sinned with Alex. Frances was right—Alex’s girlfriend is both beautiful and glamorous.

  “You’re very brave turning up here with Alex then,” Eloise says. “There’s no way you’d see Emma getting into bed with the competition.”

  Me neither, I think wryly.

  “Now, now, Eloise, you know I don’t bite,” says Alex. “It’s my father who’s the old bear. I know I wasn’t happy about Emma setting up Otter House in the first place, but I’ve discovered the advantages of having another practice on our doorstep.” He tips his head to one side, teasing. “For one, it’s great to have somewhere to off-load our difficult clients.”

  I smile ruefully, thinking of Cheryl and Mr. Brown.

  “I’ve been hearing rumors about Otter House,” says Eloise slyly, “about how the wholesalers have refused to make any more deliveries.”

  “Oh, that’s sorted now,” I say, trying to think quickly. “It was a mix-up, that’s all.”

  “I’d heard that the practice is about to go bankrupt because Emma overstretched herself when she set the place up and there aren’t enough clients willing to pay her rather exorbitant fees …” Eloise raises her perfectly shaped eyebrows, waiting for me to respond, while Alex fiddles with his mobile, politely pretending he hasn’t heard.

  “Oh, they’re just rumors,” I say, trying to brush her off, but her opinion is like a giant tick embedding in my skin, draining my blood and my confidence in equal measure.

  “I’ve heard them from more than one source. I get to visit lots of the local practices,” Eloise goes on.

  I force a smile and say, “It’s professional jealousy, I expect. You get that wherever you go.”

  Eloise doesn’t look convinced, but before she can continue, Alex interrupts.

  “No one takes on a relief if they can’t afford it,” he says, putting his phone back into his pocket. “That’s why I never get to go on holiday.”

  “That’s because your father’s tight, not because you can’t afford it,” Eloise jokes. Alex smiles again, and I’m grateful for the change of conversation. She glances at her Rolex, and I wonder if Alex bought it for her. “I must love you and leave you, I’m afraid. I have to keep to my schedule if this talk’s going to start promptly at eight.”

  “Where’s this grub then?” Alex says.

  “Along the corridor and left.” Eloise touches his arm briefly. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

  “What do you think of Eloise?” Alex says on our way to find the food. “First impressions?”

  “She seems very efficient. And charming,” I say, picking my words carefully. I don’t want to offend Alex by being less than complimentary about his girlfriend. She comes across as rather hard, but maybe that’s because she sees me as some kind of threat, which is utterly ridiculous of course.

  We find drinks and a couple of plates of food on a table in a side corridor that leads toward the kitchens.

  I decline the sandwiches—they’re all meat and I couldn’t eat a thing for worrying that there might be an element of truth in what Eloise has said. I pick up a glass of wine instead.

  “Don’t tell me you’re on a diet,” Alex says and then takes an enormous bite out of a beef sandwich.

  “No …” I don’t like the way his eyes rake up and down my figure.

  “I remember now—you’re vegetarian. Dad told me, several times over. I don’t think he appreciates your ethical stance. We wouldn’t have many clients left if everyone decided to turn veggie.” He pours himself a glass of orange juice. “So you definitely don’t eat horses then?”

  “Horses?” I take two steps back.

  “Dad’s old hunters can be a bit tough.” Alex grins again. “You should see your face. Of course we don’t eat them. We turn them out to grass, and I always sign the not-for-human-consumption section in their passports. It’s how I was
brought up—I think my mother would have loved me more if I’d been born brown and furry with four long, gangly legs.”

  Ten minutes later, Alex and I find seats near the back of the main conference room. Eloise steps up to the front, fiddles with the lights, then turns to the audience of about forty—maybe fifty—people.

  “A very warm welcome to tonight’s talk on the subject of management of the failing heart,” she says. “Unfortunately, our guest speaker is unable to join us. However”—there’s a breathy pause, and a shadow steps through from the dark doorway at the front of the room—“please, put your hands together for …”

  Eloise doesn’t have to introduce him. I know who he is from the tread of his feet and the slope of his shoulders, then, as he steps into the light, the wave of his hair and the angle of his jaw.

  “Dr. Mike Schofield,” Eloise continues.

  His eyes sweep the room. I slide down the chair, hiding behind the person in front of me.

  “Can you see all right?” Alex whispers.

  “Yep, I’m fine.” I’m in denial. I’m not fine at all. In fact, the talk may be too late for me—my heart is failing as memories of my time with Mike flash by on fast-forward in my head.

  I feel sick, angry, hurt all over again. It’s the shock of it, of seeing him again, of hearing his voice. If I’d known he was going to be here, I could have prepared myself, I think as he takes charge of the stage.

  I try to concentrate on the talk, not the speaker. Gradually, the room grows stuffy with the odors of surgical scrub, horseradish sauce, and alcohol. While Mike discusses exercise intolerance and circulatory collapse, Alex snores quietly, eyes closed and chin dropping toward his chest. When Mike winds up the talk, I give Alex a gentle nudge, at which he looks up and turns toward me, his eyes dark and soft. A tiny shiver runs down my spine. Then he yawns.

  “Am I boring you?” I say softly.

  He shakes his head. “No, but this chap is.”

  “Shh!” I say, but it’s unlikely that Mike will hear him now because half the audience is clapping and the other half shuffling about ready to make a quick escape with the freebie pens and certificates of attendance.

  Alex stands up and stretches his long, taut body, revealing a flash of toned stomach where his shirt has come untucked from his jeans.

  “The best place for you to be is in bed,” I say, then, realizing that I could have put it better, I add, “from the look of you, I mean.” Alex cocks his head and grins. Why do I get the impression he’s always laughing at me? “I don’t mind not hanging around if you want to get back,” he says. In fact, I’d rather not hang around, I think. The longer I stay, the more chance there is of my running into Mike.

  “I promised Eloise I’d have a word before we go,” Alex says, and he disappears in the direction of the bar, leaving me stranded. I join the crowd of people leaving the conference room, hoping to blend in, but as I reach the door I hear a voice behind me, calling my name.

  “Hey, Maz. It is you …”

  Reluctantly, I turn back.

  “Hi, Mike,” I say.

  “I wasn’t sure at first …” He looks me up and down, and I think, How can you not be sure when you’ve lived with me, seen me naked?

  I had no doubts that it was him. He looks good in a checked shirt and tie, cords and polished shoes, but the pink of his scalp is beginning to show through his hair. Age is catching up with him and not being all that kind.

  “That was a … er, great talk,” I say. “Very informative.”

  “Thanks,” he says. “How’s it going?”

  “Oh, not bad.”

  “How much longer have you got?”

  “Until Ben and Emma get back from their holiday. Well, it’s a bit more than a holiday. A six-month round-the-world trip.” I’m gabbling, trying to think up an excuse to walk away. “A kind of late gap year, but done with money and style, and without a backpack. How’s everyone at Crossways?”

  “Janine’s pregnant,” he says casually.

  “Right. Good.” I’m assuming he’s pleased from the smug expression on his face. In fact, now I think about it, I recall his reaction not long after we moved in together when I said I could see us living there forever, just the two of us. “And a baby, a little girl with blond hair like yours,” he’d said, and I’d said, “No children.” We were in bed, and I remember how his hand, which had been caressing my thigh, seemed to freeze, how he had then rolled away from me.

  “Why not?” he’d said, and I’d tried to explain about looking after my brother when I was much younger, that, although I’d loved him to pieces, I knew about the frustrations of keeping a small child out of trouble and occupied. I knew I didn’t want one. A fantastic boyfriend and a great career—that was enough for me.

  “Congratulations,” I say.

  Mike nods. “I’d better make a move, say good-bye to Eloise. I’ve got to rewrite one of my papers—one of my fellow academics, who hasn’t a clue what he’s talking about, asked for some pretty major changes. You’ve probably seen the latest one—last week, in the Vet Record.”

  I shake my head, and he looks a little offended.

  “I must catch up with my lift,” I say and step past Mike, crossing the corridor to the bar while he walks along at my elbow. “He’s with Eloise, look.”

  “Are you and him—?”

  “Absolutely not,” I blurt out quickly, and then wish I’d said, “Yes, we’re having a fling with lots of passionate sex.”

  “I’ll see you around then,” Mike says, tugging at his collar where it’s rubbed a red mark on his neck.

  I don’t say anything as he moves away.

  “How do you know Mike, the speaker chap?” Alex says on the way home. “Bit of a robot, isn’t he?”

  I look out at the road, at the dark shadows of the trees and the hedges pressing in on us, at the star-pricked sky above.

  “I used to work for him. In London.” I glance toward the silhouette of Alex’s face. Why can’t I admit it? That Mike and I used to be an item? “He was my boss.”

  “I should think he was sorry to lose you,” Alex says.

  “Oh, he had his eye on a suitable replacement way before I left,” I say, wondering if Alex is paying me a compliment.

  “You must find it pretty quiet here.”

  “Not at all,” I say. “It’s rather hectic.”

  We continue chatting until Alex stops the car outside Otter House, its damaged façade hidden by a mask of scaffolding.

  “Well, thanks for the lift. Would you like to come in for coffee?” I ask, surprised at how much I’m enjoying Alex’s company.

  “Not tonight, Maz.”

  “Is it the way I make it?” I say lightly.

  “It isn’t that … I might sound like a wuss, but I’ve been called out three nights in a row, and then there was Tripod last night. I’m completely knackered.” I notice Alex’s hand moving toward me before settling on the gear stick between us. “Another time?”

  “Another time,” I murmur, uncertain now whether inviting him in for coffee was the right thing to do.

  “You do understand?”

  “Of course I do,” I say regretfully. Eloise. Eloise wouldn’t like it, and who can blame her? I shouldn’t have asked. “Good night.” I open the door and jump out.

  “See you around,” Alex calls after me.

  On my way back inside the house, I hesitate at Reception. There are lights on in the corridor beyond and footsteps coming toward me. It’s Nigel, and from the expression on his face, I’m not sure he’s all that pleased to see me.

  “I’m glad I’ve caught you,” I say. “That check—it bounced.”

  “Aha,” he says. “I was going to talk to you about that.”

  Still, his relief is almost palpable when we’re interrupted by a call on my mobile from a client who says her fish is drowning and she’s on her way in. A couple of minutes later, I’m in the consulting room with Mrs. Finnegan and Nigel looking over my shoulder, watc
hing a goldfish gasping to death in the bottom of a Pyrex casserole dish.

  “There’s a piece of gravel in its mouth,” Nigel points out.

  “Yes, I have noticed …”

  “How are you going to get it out?” Mrs. Finnegan asks.

  “I’m thinking.” How indeed? My heart races and my skin grows clammy, which is ridiculous because it’s only a fish …

  “The children like to give them names,” says Mrs. Finnegan. “I think this is Mickey—he has the white mark on his tail.”

  Great, the goldfish is no longer anonymous. I picture the young Finnegans anxiously awaiting his safe return. What goes in, though, must come out. I decide to take Mickey to Kennels, parking him on the draining board beside the sink while I find a kidney dish and tweezers. I tip him into the smaller dish, grab him behind the gills, fit the tweezers around the stone, and pull it out. It’s all too much for him—when I pour him back into the casserole dish, he sinks to the bottom. It doesn’t look good.

  “I fear that Mickey will be sushi by midnight,” I say when Nigel joins me to find out if I need a hand. “This check—”

  “Ah yes,” Nigel says, with the slightest tremor of his mustache.

  “Look, I admire your loyalty to Emma and the practice, but you can tell me what’s going on. We’re on the same side.” I continue watching Mickey’s apparent lack of response to conservative treatment—all right, I confess, that’s a euphemism for doing nothing. “I need to know the truth.”

  Nigel sighs dramatically and finally relents.

  “I guessed Emma was having some financial difficulties,” he says, “but I didn’t realize how serious they were until I took over the accounts.”

  That isn’t like the Emma I know, I think. She’s always been so careful with money. I was the spendthrift.

  “In my opinion, she’s in denial,” Nigel goes on. “She overstretched herself in the beginning—the work to convert Otter House cost far more than she budgeted for, and she bought all the kit from new. I don’t think she compromised on anything, and I can understand why. She always wants the best for her patients. She’s a great vet, but not such a great businesswoman. Talyton Manor Vets haven’t helped the situation of course—the competition was fiercer than Emma expected. You have to admire the Fox-Giffords for their tenacity.”