Practically Perfect

by Caroline Anderson

  Connie dredged up a smile. ‘Thank you. I’ll go and see the physio and make an appointment.’

  ‘OK. And Connie? I’m sorry.’

  Connie’s smile wavered, and she left the room with as much dignity as she could muster. She was en route to the physio when a colleague accosted her in the corridor.

  ‘Hey, Connie, you’re back!’

  She shook her head, still too overcome to chatter. ‘Not really. Just had my cast off. It’ll be a while yet.’

  ‘But you are coming back?’ he persisted.

  ‘Maybe. I’ll let you know. I must fly, Doug, I’m late to physio.’

  She dived into the physiotherapy department, tried to pay attention to the exercises and then caught a taxi to the station. She was home within two hours, and because Penny had said she was happy to keep Edward until Patrick finished work she was free.

  She changed into jeans and an old jumper, pulled on her wellies and a thick coat and walked down to the river with the dogs. It was wet underfoot, but that didn’t worry any of them. The dogs didn’t care, and Connie hardly noticed.

  Her arm ached. Her elbow and wrist felt very weak and vulnerable without the cast, and she tucked her hand into her coat pocket for support.

  So that was that, then. She’d got her scan appointment for four weeks, just before she was to see the consultant, and she supposed there was the slightest chance that they might find something operable.

  It seemed highly unlikely, though, and clearly the consultant didn’t think there was a great deal of hope.

  Damn.

  Connie sniffed hard. Her nose was running in the cold. So were her eyes. It must be the wind.

  She sniffed again, scrubbing her nose on the back of her hand, and then finally she gave in, leaned against the trunk of a tree and howled.

  ‘Connie?’

  Patrick looked around, and found no sign of her. Surely she was back by now?

  The dogs were missing, he realised, and it dawned on him that she might have taken them out for a walk.

  ‘Is she here?’ Edward said worriedly. ‘She did come back, Daddy, didn’t she? She promised.’

  ‘Yes, she’s back,’ he said, noticing the missing coat and dog leads with a sigh of relief. He was right. ‘She’s walking the dogs. Shall we give her a surprise and order a Chinese take-away?’

  Edward nodded. ‘Can I have lemon chicken?’

  He ruffled his son’s hair. ‘Sure. We’ll order it now. Did you have a good day with Penny?’

  He nodded. ‘We did finger-painting. It was very messy,’ he said, wide-eyed, and giggled. ‘I made hand-prints all over my paper.’

  ‘Have you got it to show me?’

  He shook his little head. ‘No. It was wet still. She said I can bring it next time. When can I go again?’

  A success, Patrick thought, mildly surprised. ‘Whenever you like. We’ll talk to Connie about it, shall we?’

  They phoned up for the take-away, then went in the car to fetch it, leaving a note for Connie on the kitchen table that said, ‘Don’t cook!’

  They came back to find the dogs muddy and contented in their baskets, and Connie sitting at the table with her arm in her lap, sipping tea and looking a little forlorn.

  ‘Connie!’ Edward said with a cry of delight, and threw himself at her.

  She put her tea down in the nick of time and hugged him, her hand cupping the back of his head and holding it hard against her shoulder. ‘Hello, pumpkin. I missed you. Have you had a good day?’

  ‘Brilliant. I did finger-painting.’ He wriggled out of the hug and looked at her. ‘How’s your hand? Did you have the plaster off?’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘And is it better?’

  She wrinkled up her nose, looking young and vulnerable and fragile. ‘So-so. It feels very weird without the cast—all sort of bendy and tickly.’

  ‘Oh. I ’spect you’ll get used to it soon. We got a Chinese take-away.’

  Patrick was busy unpacking the meal and taking the warmed plates out of the oven which he’d switched on before they’d gone out. He was watching Connie and Edward out of the corner of his eye, and his heart was full.

  She seemed so sweet with him, so genuinely caring, and yet he could see she was hanging onto her control by a thread. He met her eyes over Edward’s head, and she gave a tight little smile.

  Later, it seemed to say.

  They ate the meal, Patrick very conscious of Connie pushing food round on the plate, and then he took Edward up, bathed him and put him to bed.

  ‘I want Connie to read me a story,’ he said.

  ‘Not tonight,’ Patrick told him. ‘Connie’s tired out after her day. I think her arm’s aching. Why don’t I read you a story for a change?’

  Edward nodded, quite happy with that. He snuggled down with Teddy Edward and by the time Patrick closed the book he was fast asleep.

  Now for Connie, he thought.

  She was still at the kitchen table, sitting there amongst the litter of empty metal cartons, pushing a grain of rice round on the table with her left forefinger.

  He scooped the debris off the table, gave it a quick wipe, poured her another glass of wine and sat down opposite.

  ‘You were right,’ she said without preamble, her voice hollow. ‘The median nerve is damaged beyond repair. She’s going to check with a scan, but it looks pretty grim.’

  ‘Can I see?’ he asked softly, and she laid the thin, pale little limb on the table. He pushed up her sleeve and studied it, turning it gently this way and that, looking at the scars, the range of movement, the weakness. Orthopaedically, he supposed, it was a success. Neurologically, though, it was a complete disaster.

  ‘The skin’s very dry—have you got any hand cream?’

  ‘There’s some over the sink,’ she said woodenly.

  He fetched it, smearing a generous dollop on the back of her wrist and working it carefully all round. Her arm lay in his hand, lifeless, a limb once so clever and responsive, so accurate, so deft. He smoothed it lovingly, pouring all his caring and tenderness into the touch. ‘My poor Connie. Poor little arm,’ he murmured gently under his breath, and then he felt her shake.

  Very carefully, he put the arm down, went round and drew her to her feet, then led her through to the sitting room. Then he sat down, pulled her onto his lap and held her while she cried.

  ‘Oh, Connie, I’m so sorry,’ he murmured, tucking her hair behind her ears and wiping away the tears with his thumb.

  She sniffed hard, rummaged in her pocket for a soggy tissue and blew her nose. ‘It could have been worse,’ she said philosophically, scrubbing at the reddened tip. ‘I could have killed myself falling. It was definitely the lesser of two evils.’

  So brave, so silly. Such a waste.

  She looked up into his eyes, and he saw a hunger in them that matched his own. ‘Patrick?’ she whispered.

  She didn’t need to ask twice. His heart was already drumming behind his ribs, and he thought if he didn’t taste her soon he’d die.

  She licked her lips, the tip of her tongue flicking out uncertainly to moisten them, and he gave a ragged groan and lowered his mouth to hers. Despite the raging fire inside him, he hardly touched her, his lips brushing hers softly, sipping, teasing, tormenting, until she cried out, a tiny whimper of need that undid him.

  ‘Connie,’ he whispered, and then there was no holding back, no teasing, just a wild hunger that wouldn’t be satisfied.

  He’d wanted to kiss her so much, for so long, and his imagination hadn’t even begun to do her justice. His hand lay against her side and he moved it up, curling his thumb over the soft peak of her breast.

  Her little cry was trapped in his mouth, and it made him bolder. He was so afraid to frighten her, to push her too hard in this fragile state, but then he remembered how tough she really was, how brave and determined and indomitable, and he forgot about being tame and gentle and taking it slowly.

  His hand covered her breast compl
etely, the fingers brushing against her ribs, the thumb lying in the soft shadow of her cleavage. She arched against him, begging for more, and he had to remind himself where they were.

  ‘Edward,’ he muttered, dragging his mouth from hers and hauling in lungfuls of air. His hand slid down to her waist, holding it tight. ‘Connie, we can’t.’

  She went still, then her hand came up—her left hand, the strong one—and cupped his cheek.

  ‘No, we can’t. What a shame.’

  He closed his eyes. He wanted her so much—not just for the physical reasons, but to hold her, to be close to her.

  Dear God, he thought, I can’t fall in love with her. I have Edward to consider now.

  He dropped his head back against the wing of the chair and sighed. This was supposed to have been a cuddle for comfort, not a heavy petting session or a prelude to a wild affair.

  He propped his head up again and looked down into her molten, honey-gold eyes. ‘Are you OK? About the hand, I mean.’

  She nodded. ‘I suppose so. It was nothing I wasn’t expecting. And, anyway, there’s still a glimmer of hope, I suppose.’

  ‘You could always go into general practice,’ he suggested.

  Connie laughed. ‘You are kidding, aren’t you? Tonsils one minute, cardiac arrest the next? You have to be a business manager as well as a physician, you need the constitution of an ox, the willing nature of a pack-horse and a brain like Einstein. No, thanks.’

  He chuckled, diffusing the tension a little. ‘I’m not sure if that was complimentary or not. I’m still working on it.’

  ‘So am I,’ she said, and laughed. Then her laugh turned to a sigh. ‘I was thinking of going back to paediatric medicine, but even for that I might not have enough motor control in my hand for things like putting in IV lines and so on, never mind writing up notes!’

  ‘You could teach the other hand.’

  She snorted. ‘I’m not the slightest bit ambidextrous. I was finding it difficult in surgery, the amount I had to do with my left hand. I’m very definitely right-handed, to an almost absurd degree.’

  ‘But you’ve survived without your right hand for weeks.’

  ‘Just about.’ She chuckled. ‘I have to say it’s the stupid, intimate little things you take for granted, like going to the loo, getting dressed, eating with a knife and fork. Such simple, everyday things, and they just become a nightmare. I haven’t been able to wear anything with buttons or zips for ages, I can’t tie laces—it’s crazy!’

  She went quiet, chewing her lip thoughtfully for a moment. ‘I don’t know what to do about my flat,’ she said after a while. ‘It’s only rented, but it’s in London and it’s quite expensive to keep it going while I’m not there.’

  ‘Why don’t you wait until after the scan result?’ he suggested. ‘Just a little longer?’

  ‘I suppose I could,’ she agreed. ‘It’s only four weeks. It would be silly if they found they could relieve some pressure with a minor op and hey presto! Not that it’s likely, but I buy lottery tickets every now and again. The odds probably are somewhat better.’

  He chuckled, then patted her bottom. ‘Come on, up you get. We need another glass of wine, and there’s a programme on television I want to watch about general practices using co-operatives to cover their out-of-hours work. It might be quite interesting.’

  She slid to her feet. ‘I think, actually, I’ll turn in. I’m tired. I’ll go and have a long soak in the bath and then have an early night. Thanks for the Chinese.’

  He stood up, cupped her shoulders in his hands and drew her against his chest, wrapping his arms around her and hugging her close. ‘My pleasure, Connie. Sleep well. Wake me if you need anything.’

  She nodded, went on tiptoe and pressed a quick kiss to his lips, then ran lightly up the stairs. Patrick followed her out, retrieved his glass and the bottle of wine from the kitchen and went back to watch his programme.

  Funny. He couldn’t seem to pay attention to it at all. All he could think about was the soft feel of Connie’s breast under his hand, and the taste of her mouth, and the ache she was going to leave behind when she moved on like a ship in the night.

  Because she would move on. She was a career doctor, and if and when her hand recovered enough, or even if it didn’t, he was sure she would go back to London and leap back into the rat race.

  And if and when he married again, it would be to a woman who wanted, above all, to be a mother. He’d made that mistake once before, and it had cost Edward dearly. He wouldn’t make the same mistake again—and that meant not marrying Connie, no matter how much he was beginning to realise he might want to.

  Suddenly it didn’t bear thinking about.

  ‘Connie?’

  She looked up from her book, her heart leaping at the sight of Patrick, and felt a smile curve her lips before she could control it. ‘Hi,’ she said softly. ‘Going out?’

  ‘I’m going to see Tim Roberts. I thought you might like to come along for the ride, as Edward’s at Penny’s.’

  She put the book down and got up, shuffling for her shoes and finger-combing her hair at the same time. ‘Sure. I’m ready.’

  He chuckled. ‘Do you have any idea how refreshing that is?’ he said wryly. ‘Marina used to take two hours to get ready for the supermarket!’

  Connie fell into step beside him. ‘How long did you stay together?’ she asked, amazed that it had been more than a few days—hours, even!

  ‘Three years,’ he told her. ‘Edward was two and a half when she told me she wanted a divorce. I was more than ready to agree, but at the time I thought I’d get Edward.’

  ‘And you didn’t?’

  He shrugged. ‘She went for custody. The judge thought the mother at home was naturally better than the father who was out at work all day. Superficially it all sounds quite plausible, doesn’t it? The fact is, Marina had a full-time nanny and spent all of her day in the beauty salon, shopping in Kensington or “doing lunch, dahling”.’

  His mimicry was wicked, and Connie chuckled despite the seriousness of the subject. ‘So, in fact, there was no difference in the amount of time you could give him, just the amount of love?’

  ‘Apparently,’ he said, and slid behind the wheel, slamming the car door with unnecessary force. ‘Anyway, it’s all over now. He’s with me, and if I have anything to say about it he won’t ever spend another night under her roof.’

  ‘Would the fact that you’re still single make a difference to the judge if it goes back to court?’

  He looked across the car at her, his face puzzled. ‘You mean, would he consider it more favourably if I were married again? Possibly. Why?’

  Connie shrugged. ‘Just curious. I don’t know how their minds work.’

  ‘I think it depends on the judge. Ours was particularly blinkered. However.’ He fired up the engine, dropped the car into gear and headed off towards Burnt House Farm and little Tim Roberts, thus ending the discussion. Connie let it drop. She didn’t want to make him dredge up the messy details of his divorce, but she was curious as to what had influenced the judge to come to such an ill-advised conclusion.

  Whatever. It was water under the bridge. What mattered now was that Edward was happy, and that Patrick had another chance with his son.

  They pulled up outside the cream farmhouse, and Jackie Roberts opened the door to them with a smile. ‘Hi, there. Come on in. Hello, Connie, how are you? How’s the arm?’

  ‘Oh, so-so,’ Connie said, fielding the question. ‘And how’s Tim? Home, I gather. Is he better?’

  ‘Oh, much,’ Jackie said with a laugh. ‘He’s so bouncy I can hardly believe he was so sick. Come on through and see him.’

  She was right, Connie thought, amazed at the change in the boy since she’d last seen him in a hospital bed a few short weeks ago. He was sitting in the kitchen, playing with a Game Boy, and he grinned as they came in.

  ‘Auntie Connie!’ he said, and looked past her to Patrick, frowning in concentration. ‘Are y
ou the doctor?’ he asked, looking at his bag.

  ‘’Fraid so. Still, I’ve only come to check that you’re both happy with being home. I’m going on another call nearby in a minute, so I thought I’d drop in. How is it now?’

  Tim slid off the chair and stood up, hitching up his top and pulling down his tracksuit bottoms a little. ‘Cool. I had a—lapa-something.’

  ‘Laparotomy,’ Patrick supplied helpfully. ‘To discover the extent of the problem.’

  ‘That’s right. Well, whatever. Anyway, it’s healed and I’ve got this cool scar now.’

  So different, Patrick’s eyes said as he shot her a smile. They didn’t stay long. As he’d said, he had another call round the corner, but it was good to see a success story.

  ‘Who next?’ Connie asked him.

  ‘Mother of five—says the baby’s got earache. I’m visiting because I can’t bear the thought of six of them descending on the surgery, and because I hate babies with earache. I feel so sorry for them and they always look so wretched.’

  ‘Do you prescribe antibiotics?’ she asked, curious as to how he treated under these conditions, because the current guidelines seemed to be only to use antibiotics in a life-and-death situation because of the threat of superbugs.

  Patrick obviously didn’t believe in that. ‘Yes, for this, and for little children,’ he said. ‘I’m much tougher on adults, and encourage homeopathy and self-help remedies and patience, but with the littlies I just can’t bring myself to be so mean,’ he added with a grin.

  They stopped outside a seedy, run-down little mid-terraced house in the country, with toys and sand and old bits of cars scattered all the way up the front garden to the door.

  The woman opened it with one hand, a baby in the other, and let them in. They were straight into the main living room of the house, and there were three children lined up in front of the television, arguing about the channel, and another kicking a football against the back wall of the house. It bounced off the window, and Connie wondered how long it would be before the ball came through the glass.

  ‘I’m Patrick Durrant, and this is Dr Wright,’ Patrick said, introducing them. ‘And this must be Letty.’