Practically Perfect

by Caroline Anderson

  He frowned. Why was he even thinking about getting involved with her? He must be mad. It was that bump on the head that had done it.

  He stood up. ‘I must get on—I’m taking surgery in half an hour. I’m going to have some breakfast—want to join me?’

  ‘I’m not hungry. I’ll have something later.’

  He held his tongue. It wasn’t up to him to tell her she was too thin. She’d probably take it the wrong way and bite his head off, anyway.

  Butt out, Durrant, he told himself. Go and eat and get yourself into the surgery and do the job you’re here for. Connie Wright isn’t your problem.

  Connie watched his back disappear through the door and blinked back the threatening tears. She’d had the most insane urge to throw herself into his arms and howl her eyes out, but it was the last thing he wanted or needed—and, anyway, she’d just thumped him over the head and accused him of running off with the family silver, so she could hardly expect a favourable response!

  Her stomach rumbled, and moments later she smelt the enticing and irresistible smell of frying bacon. She laughed. She knew countless vegetarians who said bacon was their only weak spot, and she could see why.

  Giving in to the inevitable, she went through to the kitchen and propped up the doorway. ‘Got any spare?’

  He threw her a grin over his shoulder. ‘How did I know you’d say that?’ he teased, putting two plates down on the table next to a pile of buttered toast.

  She eyed the scrambled egg sprinkled with chopped bacon and grilled tomato wedges with enthusiasm. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve put any coffee on?’

  ‘Of course. Tuck in—it’ll be ready in a moment.’

  She didn’t need two invitations. She dived into the plateful, using her left hand only for the—conveniently—forkable food, sipped the fragrant coffee when he handed it to her and then started on the already buttered toast.

  ‘I thought you weren’t hungry?’ Patrick said calmly as she demolished another piece of toast.

  ‘I’m a woman,’ she said with her mouth full. ‘I’m allowed to change my mind.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  She leaned back again and grinned. ‘That’s right. Especially after you’ve gone to all that trouble to cut everything up so I don’t have to struggle with a knife. Anyway, I’m too thin at the moment.’

  ‘You could do with a little more weight,’ he said carefully.

  She laughed. ‘It’s OK, I don’t have an eating disorder, I’ve just been off my food since the anaesthetic and I’ve been walking round Yorkshire with a backpack for the past week or two.’

  ‘Did it work?’ he asked, and she could see in his eyes that he understood. For some absurd reason it irritated her.

  ‘It passed the time,’ she said shortly, and then had to look away because, again, he understood. ‘Um, about me being here,’ she said, changing the subject. ‘Is it OK if I stay here if I keep out of your way? I can’t work, and at least if I’m here I can get to my parents easily to visit them and I can catch up with all my old friends in the area.’

  He shrugged. ‘Sure. You aren’t in my way, and it means I don’t have to worry about the dogs.’

  The dogs in question wagged their tails hopefully, and he laughed and stood up. ‘Sorry, boys, I ate it all. So did Connie. Still, if you ask her nicely she might give you breakfast and take you for walkies.’

  Their ears pricked, and they sat up and wagged their tails.

  Connie chuckled and pushed back her chair. ‘OK, I give in. You go and do surgery, I’ll do the dogs. I’ll see you later.’

  Her father looked well—which, considering he’d just had major surgery, made Connie realise how far downhill he’d slid over the previous couple of years without her really noticing. She felt hugely guilty, and her eyes filled as she walked over to the bed and looked down at him.

  His eyes were closed, and as she stood there they flickered open and widened in surprise. ‘Connie!’ he murmured, and lifted an arm towards her, drawing her down to the edge of the bed. ‘What a lovely way to wake up. Your mother said you were coming. Give your old man a hug.’

  ‘Oh, Dad, it is good to see you,’ she said emotionally, trying hard not to crush him and hurt his chest. Then she sat back on the edge of the bed and smiled at him again, banishing her sentiment.

  ‘So, you dark horse, how are you then?’ she teased.

  He smiled tiredly. ‘Oh, so-so. Chest hurts. Leg aches. The joker in the next bed keeps trying to make me laugh.’

  ‘Ouch.’

  Connie eyed the dressing over the ‘zip’ of staples running up the centre of his chest, holding the two halves of his breastbone together, and resisted the urge to lift the dressing away and check it out.

  ‘Where’s Mum?’ she asked, looking round the small ward for any sign of her mother.

  ‘Oh, nipped out to the shops. She’ll be back in a minute. So, where did you get to, you naughty girl? You disappeared.’

  She smiled guiltily. ‘Sorry. I went to Yorkshire for a few days—I broke my arm and couldn’t work, so I thought I might as well make a bit of a holiday of it. I’m sorry, I should have let you know.’

  And, please, God, don’t let his medical mind kick in and start quizzing me about the fracture.

  Fat chance.

  ‘Let me see,’ he demanded, and felt her fingers, looking at them, turning her hand over carefully and studying the skin, the cast, the reaction of her hand to his touch. Then he put it down and met her eyes frankly. ‘How bad is it?’

  ‘Just a break—’

  ‘Connie? Don’t lie to me.’

  She sighed. ‘It was quite bad,’ she said, giving him some of the truth—just enough to keep him quiet and take the edge off his curiosity. ‘They had to pin and plate it, but it should recover pretty much—’

  ‘Nerve damage?’

  ‘A little,’ she admitted reluctantly. ‘Nothing that won’t mend. Look, I’ve brought you some grapes,’ she said, changing the subject. ‘Where can I put them?’

  She fussed about on the locker with the grapes, washed a few at the basin in the corner and shared them with her father.

  ‘So, how’s Patrick getting on?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, all right,’ she told him, and wondered why she felt a sudden little rush of adrenaline at the sound of his name. How very odd. ‘He seems quite happy.’ Apart from the bump on the head. Still, he seemed to have recovered and had survived morning surgery and his visits by the time she’d left.

  ‘He’s been a huge help. He’s stayed with us in the past several times.’

  ‘When you had your heart attacks?’

  He coloured slightly. ‘Ah. He told you about that.’

  ‘Yes, he did, and you’re very naughty not to tell me yourself. How could you keep it from me?’ she asked, a little crossly.

  ‘I didn’t want to worry you. I knew you’d panic and fuss over me.’

  Connie smiled wryly. ‘OK, I forgive you. I didn’t tell you about my arm for the same reason, so I can understand—’

  ‘Connie! Darling, you came! Let me look at you.’

  Oh, here we go, Connie thought. You’re too thin, you’re too tired, what did you do to your arm?

  It was all of that and more, a mother hen clucking over the only surviving member of her brood. Connie tolerated it patiently, glossed over her fracture and changed the subject.

  ‘What did you buy at the shops?’

  Her mother laughed. ‘Oh, just some fruit and a few pairs of tights. Nothing exciting. So, how are you getting on with Patrick? I hope you won’t do anything to upset him.’

  The same funny little surge, the same kick of her heart, this time accompanied by another wave of guilt. ‘Mum, we’ve hardly met!’ she protested. ‘Why would I do anything to upset him?’ Apart from clubbing him over the head, of course, for which she still felt racked with remorse. That and half accusing him of pinching the silver. She changed the subject again swiftly.

  ‘Tell me all a
bout this op, then, you two. When was it, how did it go, when are you coming home? I want all the answers.’

  ‘They say two weeks,’ her father said, ‘but I can’t imagine I’ll feel up to it. Still, it’s early days. I only had the op on Wednesday, so it’s a week tomorrow, and I must say I feel a darned sight better now than I did five or six days ago!’

  ‘I’m sure,’ Connie murmured, wondering what it was about families that fostered such huge feelings of guilt and responsibility.

  Not that it would have made any difference at all to the surgeon’s skill if she’d been around, but she just felt as if she’d abandoned him. Heavens, if she ever got the chance to find out, she was sure she’d be a dreadfully clucky mother! Perhaps it was just as well there was nothing on the cards in that direction.

  Inexplicably she thought of Patrick, and a whole row of little Patricks with dark hair and grey eyes and cheeky smiles, and something inside her ached in the most curious way.

  It must be your age, she told herself, and tried to pay attention to what her father was saying about his operation.

  ‘Thank you, Doctor.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’ Patrick smiled and said goodbye to his last patient, then stood up and stretched. It was ten past six—pretty good going, really, considering the inauspicious start to the day. He gingerly explored the bump on his head, wincing as he pressed a little too hard, but it was early days. At least his headache had worn off.

  There was a light tap on the door and Jan, the cheerful, middle-aged senior receptionist, popped her head round it. ‘Would you mind doing a visit, Dr Durrant? A little boy with tummy ache. He’s been sick and he’s a bit hot. It’s just in the village. I know you’re not on call but it sounded quite urgent.’

  Patrick nodded. ‘Sure. They can’t get in, I take it?’

  ‘I think he’s being quite sick. She didn’t like to move him.’

  ‘OK, I’ll go. Got the notes?’

  Jan smiled and handed them to him, together with the directions. ‘Here you are, you can’t miss it. Burnt House Farm. Tim Roberts.’

  It was only five minutes away in the car, and when he arrived and saw the child Patrick was profoundly grateful that he’d finished so promptly and that he hadn’t had far to come, because the child was very ill indeed. Mrs Roberts ushered him into the sitting room. ‘Tim? The doctor’s here, darling,’ she said softly.

  He didn’t move. Patrick sat carefully on the edge of the sofa beside the boy and studied him. He was pale, sweaty, his eyes closed, and he was breathing very carefully. Every now and then he gave a little grunt, and Patrick found his pulse was rapid and thready.

  ‘Tim, can you tell me where you hurt?’ Patrick said, but the boy just moaned softly. No help there, then. He looked up at the mother. ‘When did he start feeling ill?’

  ‘Yesterday? Maybe even the night before. He didn’t eat much supper, and yesterday he said he had a bit of tummy ache and he felt sick. Then today he seemed to go suddenly downhill after lunch, and now he looks awful.’

  He certainly did. Patrick turned back the covers and gently eased down the boy’s pyjama trousers so he could see his abdomen. It was rigid, held motionless by the tension of the muscles, and there was an area of warmth and a slight reddening down on the right hand side.

  ‘Is it appendicitis?’ the mother asked anxiously.

  ‘Possibly. I’m just going to have a little listen to your tummy, Tim.’ Patrick took out his stethoscope and checked for bowel sounds, but there were none. He pursed his lips and folded the instrument up again, covering the child lightly.

  ‘Is he usually brave?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Mrs Roberts said ruefully. ‘He broke his arm once and didn’t make a murmur. If it hadn’t have been for the funny angle, we wouldn’t have known.’

  Patrick nodded and stood up, motioning her out of the room and out of earshot. ‘I think he might have a burst appendix,’ he said softly. ‘I want him into hospital as fast as possible, just in case I’m wrong and it hasn’t gone yet. Do you have a phone so I can ring for an ambulance?’

  Mrs Roberts pressed her hand against her chest and swallowed convulsively. ‘Burst—Oh, my. Um. Phone. Yes, of course. Can I go with him?’

  ‘Sure. Let me ring the hospital as well and tell them you’re on the way, and they’ll sort out a bed for you. Have you got any other children to make arrangements for?’

  She shook her head numbly. ‘No. Only my husband—he’ll be in soon. He’s out feeding the pigs at the moment. I’d better leave him a note.’

  She left Patrick phoning and went to pack some things, and when he’d made the calls he went back and set up an IV line, running in saline to boost the boy’s flagging circulation. He was shocked, and Patrick was glad it had happened during the day and not at night, because by the morning the child might have been dead. These little toughies were often the hardest to look after, he thought, glad that the boy was now stable and seemed not to be deteriorating any further.

  He waited till the ambulance came, then left at the same time as it did to go back to the surgery. A taxi turned into the drive just ahead of him and Connie got out, paid the taxi driver and then turned to him with a smile as he locked his car.

  ‘Hi. How are you feeling?’

  ‘Better, thank you. You can relax, Connie, I haven’t called the police.’

  She gave a wry grin. ‘Just checking. Mum and Dad send their love and want to know if we’re getting on all right and if you’re coping. I told them not to worry.’

  ‘How does he look?’

  ‘Good. He looks better than he’s looked for ages. I can’t believe I didn’t pick up on it.’

  She sounded so disgusted with herself that Patrick felt sorry for her. ‘Don’t flagellate yourself,’ he advised. ‘Have you eaten?’

  She shook her head, sending the fine strands of gold-red hair flying in the evening sun. ‘No. Why?’

  ‘Because I’m starved and there’s nothing but dog food in the house. Fancy a Chinese?’

  ‘Only if you let me treat you.’

  ‘Why should I do that?’

  ‘Because I tried to kill you?’ she suggested with a rueful look.

  ‘Oh, that. Tell you what, we’ll go halves. You can treat me, and I’ll treat you. Deal?’

  She smiled, a warm, pretty, sexy smile that lit up her face and made his breath jam in his throat. ‘Deal,’ she agreed softly, and he wondered if he’d get through the meal without choking or making a complete ass of himself.

  Just then it seemed highly unlikely!

  Patrick was a wonderful dinner companion. Charming, witty, attentive—it was so long since she’d been exposed to the full force of an attractive man that Connie felt a little stunned.

  She also felt full, and belatedly realised that he’d kept her mind occupied so that she’d eat—and he’d sneaked food onto her plate over and over again while she’d been distracted by his charm and wit.

  How like a man to trick her. How could she not have noticed what was going on? She must be going senile.

  They split the bill fifty-fifty, although she was sure she’d eaten more than her share, and on the way back she reclined her seat, patted her distended stomach and gave him a jaundiced look. ‘You conned me into eating,’ she said comfortably, without any real rancour.

  He shot her a grin. ‘You noticed.’

  ‘Only when it was too late. I shall probably be sick.’

  He chuckled. ‘I doubt it. By the way, remind me to phone the hospital. I admitted a young boy just after surgery with a query burst appendix and peritonitis—I’d like to find out how he’s doing.’

  ‘Who is it?’ Connie asked, mildly curious. She knew most of the people in the village, and probably knew the parents.

  ‘Tim Roberts—Burnt House Farm.’

  She sat bolt upright. ‘Tim? He’s my godson!’

  Patrick shot her an apologetic look. ‘Ah. Sorry. I think he’ll be OK. He’s a toughie.’

  ‘He certai
nly is. He broke his arm last year and Dad couldn’t believe how little fuss he made. I’d better talk to them. Did Jackie seem all right?’

  ‘His mother? Fine. A bit shocked, but all right, really. She’s gone in with him.’

  She ran through her A and E training in her head. ‘Did you give him IV fluids?’

  ‘Yes, of course. There wasn’t time to do anything else. The ambulance came very quickly from the outstation. I didn’t have time to blink.’

  He swung into the drive and parked the car, and by the time Connie had struggled to undo her seat belt with the wrong hand he’d come round and opened her door for her.

  ‘I’m not a cripple,’ she said a little shortly, and he tutted and closed the door after her, locking the car with the remote.

  ‘I thought eating was supposed to improve your temper,’ he mused, ushering her to the kitchen door and letting them both in. The dogs bounced around and greeted them cheerfully, and he flicked on the lights, put on the kettle and met Connie’s eyes with a steady, searching look.

  ‘Tea?’

  ‘I can make it.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it. However, I was offering. Don’t get so defensive that you misread anything anyone does for you as patronage,’ he warned. ‘One day you might need help, and there’ll be nobody there for you if you’ve driven them all away.’

  Connie looked down, a heavy sigh escaping before she could stop it. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said tiredly. ‘I was just irritated because I couldn’t do the seat belt. I think I’ll go up to bed. Last night was a bit hectic. Are you OK to do the dogs and lock up?’

  ‘I think I’ll manage,’ he said drily. ‘Want me to bring you a hot milky drink?’

  She gave him a filthy look. ‘I haven’t had a hot milky drink since I was about eight.’

  He grinned. ‘Brandy, then?’

  Connie relented and smiled. ‘I’m sorry—again. No, I don’t want a brandy. I really am tired.’

  He nodded. ‘OK. I’ll see you in the morning. Sleep well, Connie.’

  She went upstairs and sat down on the edge of her bed, running back over the evening in her mind. She heard Patrick on the phone, and went back out onto the landing just as he came up.