A Passionate Love Affair with a Total Stranger

by Lucy Robinson

  ‘Well, John MacAllister,’ I demurred. Providing John flirted with me I was at ease: I knew exactly how to handle him. ‘I’d say I’m in pretty good shape, give or take the odd broken limb. I’m sure it won’t be long before I’m hobbling around the office.’ John grinned. ‘Or at least hobbling over to Old Town for dinner. Providing the offer still stands.’

  ‘Excellent news, Lambert. Your doctor believes you’ll be hobbling soon, then?’

  I tried to shrug but was too weak, so instead ended up making a retarded sort of a face. ‘Don’t know. You’re the first person I’ve seen since I woke up.’

  John’s eyes twinkled. ‘That’s not true. You had surgery and then came round eight hours ago,’ he said. ‘Your twin sister was here. Vanessa, is it? She told me your parents are on their way from India and your younger sister’s coming up from London.’

  ‘Yes, Katy lives in London …’ Then I stared at him. ‘Hang on. I came round from an anaesthetic and then slept for eight hours? Seriously?’

  ‘Yes, seriously. Apparently you stared at Vanessa, then fell asleep hugging her elbow. Very sweet, Lambert. The nurses said they’d never seen anyone so desperate for a good kip.’

  He stroked my palm with his thumb again. I felt suddenly grateful for my broken leg. It had brought John MacAllister to me, finally.

  ‘How did you know I was here?’ I asked.

  ‘Fraser Cassidy called me. He said you were recovering from major surgery. I was close to the hospital so thought I should swing by. Employee relations and all that.’

  ‘If Fraser Cassidy told you I was here, he’s a very bad doctor,’ I said. ‘Since when did he have the right to share confidential patient information with the head of the local pharmaceutical company?’

  John’s X-ray eyes stared straight through me to the Lamp of Hope in my chest. ‘Given that he’s one of our most valued medical consultants, and you’re one of our most valued staffers, I think it’s quite reasonable. And he knows we have a special relationship.’

  Damn him. The Lamp of Hope had now taken on the form of a furnace. ‘We do not have a special relationship,’ I told him. ‘Unless you took advantage of me while I was under anaesthetic.’

  John chortled. ‘Oh, Lambert,’ he murmured, staring at me. ‘What are we to do with you? Eight hours out of theatre and you’re already fantasizing about molestation.’

  I fiddled with my horrible yellow blanket and said nothing. I was far too confused to speak. I had not received this level of attention from John since our ill-fated snog that I’d spent three years trying unsuccessfully to forget. It had taken place on 26 June 2009, almost exactly four years since I’d met John. Things were going well for me at Salutech: I’d made it to brand communications manager and now had my sights on director of comms. It was five thirty-seven a.m. on the night of our end-of-financial-year jolly and John and I were in a cleaning cupboard at one of the most expensive country clubs in Scotland.

  I had spent those four years longing for him to hold my hand and now, finally, he was holding my hand. Furthermore, he had been holding my hand for three whole minutes, having led me from the lounge down to the empty basement where he had found a cupboard full of mops. He had seated me on a bench among them and was now looking me full in the face – at point-blank range – in a way that left me speechless and rubbery.

  ‘I’ve been trying every day for four years not to do this,’ he was saying. ‘Charley bloody Lambert, you witch, with that waist and those legs and that confidence and that … Oh, God, Lambert, I can’t take any more.’

  His eyes – hungry and slightly mad – told me everything I needed to know. Sex with him was going to be the most outrageous and dirty act I would ever commit.

  And with that I lunged. There was no other option. It was that or die of an exploding vagina.

  He was hot, dry and delicious. I was mad, crazed and damp. He immediately flipped me round and pushed me back against the wall by my throat. ‘Fuck,’ he muttered. ‘Fuck.’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied breathlessly. ‘Now. Your room?’ He moved his head down and started kissing my neck, hard and urgently. Explosions and alarms fired off all the way through my body. A strange moan filled the cleaning cupboard and I realized it was me. I sounded like an animal.

  John pulled back for a second and looked at me. ‘Yes. My room. Oh, Christ, Lambert, I won’t last. I won’t.’ He, too, made a sort of animalistic groan.

  I did the only sensible thing; I started to unbuckle his jeans.

  But then it came. The Greatest Rejection of My Life. The End of the Universe. ‘Lambert, no, I can’t do this,’ he gasped suddenly. ‘I can’t. I promised myself … I …’ A gurgling noise came out of his throat as if he were in the process of hanging himself, rather than in the process of having his manhood liberated from his jeans.

  ‘Don’t be fucking ridiculous,’ I hissed. ‘We’ll both die if we don’t. I order you, John MacAllister, to TAKE ME NOW.’

  John stared at me with a sort of crazed desperation. ‘I can’t, Charley. If it went wrong and I lost you from Salutech I’d be totally buggered. I can’t take that risk.’

  ‘I’ll RESIGN,’ I yelled. ‘IT DOESN’T MATTER. DON’T DO THIS. I BEG YOU, DON’T DO THIS!’

  John was panting. ‘The thing is …’ he said vaguely, eyes crossing, ‘The thing is, we’re making you director of comms. Across everything. Brands, corporate, internal. You got the job, Lambert – Oh, Christ, I want to be inside you. You’ve got a while to get it all running smoothly and then you’ll be starting the biggest drug launch we’ve ever staged. I cannot start sleeping with you now, of all times.’ In desperation he took a handful of my hair and scrunched it. ‘Aaargh,’ he added.

  ‘What do you MEAN I got the job?’ I croaked. ‘You can’t just announce that! You need to offer me a financial package and then I’ll get back to you and then – Oh, God, what am I saying, who cares? That’s tomorrow. This is now. Please. I beg you. Stop doing this to me. To both of us.’

  John looked at me for a few more anguished seconds, then pulled me back, ramming me down on his lap and kissing me hard, stopping only to pull my dress off over my head. I wriggled, gasping, feeling an outlandishly strong, hard MacAllister between my legs, and moved in so he could take off my bra. He reached round to undo it, burying his head between my breasts. He definitely bit one of my nipples but it didn’t hurt. At all. I began to lose myself. It was finally happening. My privates had gone completely barmy and volcanic, full of pulsating molten lava. Soon they would not be private. Soon they would be filled with John. Jesus, Mary and Joseph! At last!

  ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph!’ It was a scream. A high-pitched scream. ‘And all the saints!’

  Was it me? No. I had not just said that. Was it John? No. John was frozen, his head still between my breasts, hand on the back of my bra strap.

  Slowly, I looked round. The door was open. A woman of around Granny Helen’s age was standing at the door wearing a black dress with a white apron. She had a little white hat thing on her head and was carrying a bucket. She looked like she might drop dead of a heart-attack.

  I looked back down at John, who had become the CEO of Salutech Pharmaceutical once more. He couldn’t meet my eye.

  It was over.

  As, I realized, with great irritation, it was now. John had his hand in mine and was looking at me in the exact same way he’d looked at me that night. But I was swaddled in nylon, my Temple of Lady buried behind a wall of plaster and bandage, a coterie of fierce nurses, the sick and injured metres away. There would be no sex. No passion. Just the agony of John’s hand in mine and the possibility of absolutely nothing further until a later date.

  As I tried to douse the Furnace of Hope in my chest – not to mention the one in my gynaecological parts – it began to dawn on me that physically I was feeling terrible. I had no sensation in my left leg, my throat was still on fire and I was freezing cold. John swam before me for a few seconds.

  ‘Charley? Are you OK
?’

  His face was a lot closer to mine. I could smell toothpaste and a very light, delicate man perfume. (Toothpaste? Scent? Surely significant?) ‘Yes,’ I said weakly. ‘I just suddenly felt tired. I … I think I need to sleep.’ Offer to hop in and spoon me, my eyes implored.

  John put his hand on the side of my face. ‘I’m going to bugger off,’ he said. ‘Promise you’ll get some rest. Work can wait, OK?’

  ‘I can work from here till I’m on crutches –’ I began, but he put a finger over my mouth. Had I not been feeling so nauseous I might have bitten it. ‘OK,’ I said meekly. ‘I’ll rest.’

  We both knew that I would do no such thing.

  Then something even more incredible happened. John leaned down and kissed me gently on the mouth, lingering for just a second before straightening up, smiling at me. My brain went funny and fizzy. I had just received a Tender Kiss. From John MacAllister! The man who, I was quite happy to admit, was the only reason I’d been single since I’d split up with Dr Nathan Gillies six years ago. Too busy for love, my arse. I just wanted John.

  John MacAllister, John MacAllister! my head sang, to the tune of ‘Bread of Heaven’. Kiss me till I want no more! (Want no more …)

  ‘John MacAllister!’ said a voice that was not in my head. My jubilation dispersed rapidly into the stale hospital air. It was a voice that was rather pleased with itself; a voice that I did not under any circumstances want to hear. Please, let it not be Dr Nathan Gillies, I prayed, as the curtain was swished grandly to one side and in strode Dr Nathan Gillies.

  Of all the wards in Edinburgh, I’d had to end up on his? Seriously? He smiled briefly and picked up the chart at the end of my bed. ‘Hi, Charley,’ he said briskly. ‘John.’ They shook hands.

  I closed my eyes. The last time I had seen Dr Nathan Gillies, in 2006, he had told me that I was ‘dysfunctional and remote’ and a ‘messed-up workaholic’, who was entertaining ‘a pathetic obsession with a boss who will never get together with you’. Too stunned to say a word, I had sat on my bed and watched him round up the belongings he had kept at my flat during our time together – a solo toothbrush – and march out of my life.

  After twenty-four hours spent sobbing on the sofa with Ness patting my hand, Hailey telling me to get a grip and Sam, my flatmate, staring awkwardly at me from the furthest corner of the room, I had come to the conclusion that Dr Nathan Gillies was a cunt. Once this had been established, I had got over him almost immediately but, deep down, my pride had remained bruised. I had formulated several revenge plans, the best of which ran along the lines of

  John and I got married (reported in the nationals).

  We ran Salutech together (ditto).

  We oversaw the discovery of a complete cure for cancer (reported in the internationals).

  We therefore saved the world (same).

  Dr Nathan Gillies read about us and choked slowly and painfully on his own bile. (Reported nowhere because no one really cared.)

  So the fact that he was currently standing in my cubicle, my fate in his hands, chatting pompously away to John (who had indeed declined to get together with me – thus far) was pretty devastating.

  ‘Congratulations!’ Dr Nathan Gillies said to John, doing that pointless elbow-clasping thing that men do. He must have read the medical-profession-only introduction to our new breakthrough drug, Simitol, which I had recently started circulating. It was easily the biggest story the pharmaceutical industry had seen in the last twenty years.

  ‘Thanks, Nathan,’ John said, looking uncomfortable.

  ‘We’ve been awaiting this news a long time,’ Dr Nathan Gillies barked. There was something ratty in his eyes that I didn’t like. Clearly, John felt the same for, without further ado, he nodded curtly to us both, swished back the curtain and strode off. I closed my eyes and listened to the clip of his leather loafers striding off down the corridor. Things were happening in this cubicle, I screamed silently at Dr Nathan Gillies. He just kissed me! And didn’t you see the way he was looking at me? He was about to Say Something! You rotten bastard, just marching in here!

  When I opened my eyes again, Dr Nathan Gillies was looking at me over the clipboard with an ever-so-slightly malevolent expression. ‘So, Charlotte,’ he said. The only people who called me Charlotte were Granny Helen, when she was being terrifying, and myself, when I needed a pep talk. Dr Nathan Gillies was enjoying this situation immensely.

  ‘So, Nathan. This is a nice surprise,’ I said awkwardly. It was nothing of the sort and he ignored me.

  ‘You’ve fractured your tibia in two places. It’s going to take a long time to heal. But the good news is that the operation was a success and you should be out of here in about a week.’

  I stared at him, stunned. ‘I’ve broken my leg in two places?’

  ‘Yes. You also had a potential fractured skull, which turned out to be OK. You’ve suffered quite a lot of soft-tissue damage, with various superficial wounds on your arms and legs from the rocks you fell on. Oh, and I suspected you may have fractured your pelvis, too, so I’m sending you for a CT scan shortly.’

  ‘So – and you operated on me?’ I asked. He nodded curtly.

  Even worse.

  My mind was racing, trying to figure out the implications of a properly broken leg and maybe even a broken pelvis. Dr Nathan Gillies watched me with malignant amusement, knowing full well what was happening in my head. ‘No, Charlotte, you will not be able to run again this year. Possibly never. No, you cannot go back to work soon. And, no, I do not recommend that you transfer to a private hospital.’

  I had yet to come up with a satisfactory explanation for why I had gone out with Dr Nathan Gillies for so long. Hailey had insisted that it was because of my obsession with men of medicine but I wasn’t convinced. Deep down, I suspected it had more to do with the fact that he was so chronically unavailable, both mentally and physically, he was actually my perfect man. During our relationship I’d got all the nourishment I needed from work, and for four years we had seen each other three times a week (sex on Wednesdays), with my emotional state remaining entirely unaltered.

  But today my emotional state was in grave danger. Don’t give in to the fucker, I imagined Hailey hissing in my ear. ‘So … just to clarify, how long until I can get back to work, more or less?’ I asked him.

  He seemed bored. ‘I don’t know. A few weeks. Longer if your pelvis is fractured.’

  I stared dumbly. ‘Weeks? But … we’re just launching Simitol! It’s going to change the face of medicine!’

  He interrupted me with an upturned hand. ‘Charley, this is non-negotiable. I’m sure John will be able to find someone else to do your job while you’re recuperating.’ Aware that this was just about the worst thing anyone could say to me, he positively beamed.

  I felt my face crumple. ‘This is the most crucial time in Salutech’s history,’ I whispered. ‘I can’t not be there. I just can’t.’

  Dr Nathan Gillies shook his head. ‘It’s as I said, Charley. And I will be making sure John MacAllister is fully briefed, should you be tempted to return to work earlier than advised.’

  I swallowed hard, my eyes stinging. This was too much. ‘How many weeks. Three? Four?’ I whispered.

  He put my chart back at the end of my bed and shrugged noncommittally. ‘We’ll see.’ He shot a shrewish look in my direction. ‘Speaking of John, what do you think? Interesting news, eh?’

  I felt exhausted. ‘What? Us getting the health secretary behind Simitol?’

  ‘No. John and Susan Faulkner getting engaged,’ he said, watching me intently.

  I stared at him. ‘Susan Faulkner is married,’ I said uncertainly. ‘It’s just a silly little affair.’ I didn’t acknowledge the fact that John had been having this silly little affair for three years.

  Dr Nathan Gillies smiled. ‘Not any more! John called Fraser Cassidy earlier to tell him the good news. Apparently Susan’s divorce came through yesterday and John proposed to her on the spot. I’m surprised
he didn’t mention it.’

  I swallowed, bolts of pain shooting down the back of my throat. Dr Nathan Gillies pressed on, smelling blood. ‘At long last, eh? John’s been begging Susan to leave her husband for, what, three years now?’

  ‘But …’ My voice caught in my throat. I no longer cared what Dr Nathan Gillies thought. ‘But … he invited me out on a date … A date tomorrow night … It was going to be our first date together …’

  Dr Nathan Gillies clipped my chart to the end of the bed with a triumphant grin on his face. Revenge, finally, was his. ‘I rather doubt that, Charlotte.’

  Chapter Three

  Someone was playing ‘You Are My Sunshine’ on a banjo in my cubicle. It was a very poor rendition, made still poorer when a thin, reedy voice started singing along about a semitone sharp.

  ‘For God’s sake, Christian,’ Mum’s voice said. ‘The poor girl’s in trauma.’

  ‘It’ll help her,’ Dad replied with certainty. ‘Tomatoes grow if you sing to them. Look, Jane! She’s waking up! It worked!’

  Mum, tall and tanned, broke into a smile. Looking at her standing above me, all strong and capable, I felt safe. Mum would sort this mess out.

  ‘Hello, my poor love,’ she said gently.

  ‘Charlotte! My dear girl!’ Dad bounded up, thumping his banjo down on the bed next to my healthy leg. Mum sighed despairingly as he swooped in and kissed me on the forehead. ‘Christian … will you please be careful with her?’

  I laughed, then winced as a monstrous wave of pain shot up from somewhere below my hips. ‘Hi, Dad. Hi, Mum. Um, sorry.’

  Mum smoothed my hair out of my face. ‘Charley, darling, there’s nothing to apologize for. We’re sorry. We got back as quickly as we could but you know what it’s like, trying to make something happen quickly in India –’ She broke off, alarmed, as a series of beeps started going off somewhere above my head. ‘What does that mean, Christian?’ she asked.