Practically Perfect

by Caroline Anderson

  She eased away, tugging the edges of his dressing gown together again, and stepped back. ‘I’m going to bed,’ she told him. ‘I’ll see you in the morning. I’m glad you’re back safely.’

  And with that she fled to the relative sanctuary of her bedroom.

  She heard him come up and check Edward, then go into his room. After a few moments there was silence, then his voice, soft and low, said, ‘Goodnight, Connie.’

  She didn’t reply.

  It was one of the longest weeks of Connie’s life. She knew he was waiting to hear from Mike Bryant, and she kept busy and out of the way. Edward was set up with Penny now for two days of the week, and Connie spent those two days getting ready for Friday night when her parents came home.

  It was wonderful to see them again, and to see her father looking so well. He and Patrick spent a lot of time talking about the practice, and Connie just hoped that if Patrick went it wouldn’t be too soon, so her father was thrown back in at the deep end before he was ready.

  And then, because she couldn’t bear all the hanging about any longer, she packed up her things on Saturday and announced that she was going back to London.

  ‘Edward is already booked with Penny for Monday and Tuesday because I have to see the consultant again and have this scan, and he’s there on Wednesday and Friday, anyway, so I’m sure she won’t mind having him on Thursday too. That way I can go and sort out what’s going to happen with this arm, clear up my flat a little and make some decisions.’

  She didn’t see Patrick’s face, but her mother and father nodded.

  ‘Will you be all right on your own?’ her mother asked, fussing as usual.

  ‘Mum, I’m twenty-nine!’

  ‘I know, but—well, with your arm and everything.’

  ‘Mum, I’m fine,’ she said firmly. ‘I’ll be back next weekend. I’ll talk to you all then.’

  ‘I’ll take you to the station,’ Patrick said, but she shook her head.

  ‘I’ve ordered a taxi. It’ll be here at five.’

  Patrick opened his mouth to speak, but the phone rang. Mrs Wright answered it, then handed it to Patrick. ‘It’s for you. Mike Bryant.’

  ‘I’ll take it in the surgery, if I may,’ he said, and went through.

  Connie felt sick. It was a quarter to five, and she was about to go. She hoped to get away before the answer because she just knew they were going to offer him the partnership.

  ‘Oh, please, God,’ she mouthed silently.

  ‘Connie, are you all right?’ her mother asked.

  ‘I’m fine. I’ll just bring my case down.’

  She went upstairs and shut her bedroom door. How was she going to bear it? One day at a time, one hour at a time, one minute at a time—

  ‘Connie?’

  Patrick opened the door and came in, his face sombre. ‘He’s offered me the job.’

  ‘I knew he would,’ she said, and her voice sounded raw and scratchy. ‘Are you going to take it?’

  ‘I think so. I’ve asked to have till tomorrow night.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because there are other things to consider.’

  ‘Oh,’ she replied, wondering if she was one of the other things. ‘I have to go—my taxi’s here. Will you still be here next weekend?’

  ‘I think so. You are coming back?’

  She smiled brightly, knowing it was a lie. ‘Of course.’

  He drew her into his arms. ‘Goodbye, Connie,’ he said gruffly, and his lips brushed hers, just lightly.

  Then he turned and walked out of her door.

  CHAPTER NINE

  ‘PATRICK, could I have a word?’

  He looked up from the jigsaw he was doing with Edward. ‘Sure. Mrs Wright, would you mind keeping an eye on Edward for a moment?’

  ‘Of course not,’ she said, smiling with Connie’s smile, and his heart contracted. He missed her already, and it was only Sunday morning.

  He followed Dr Wright through into the surgery, and into the consulting room. The older man sat at the desk, in the chair Patrick suddenly realised he’d been beginning to think of as his, and looked around.

  ‘How’ve you got on here?’ Tom asked abruptly.

  Patrick wondered what was coming. ‘Fine. I like it.’

  Tom was doodling now on a freebie pad from a pharmaceutical firm. ‘More than Devon?’

  That was a loaded question if ever Patrick heard one. ‘It’s different,’ he replied carefully. ‘It’s a two person practice instead of a one-man band, for a start. It has its advantages, I suppose, but I’m quite happy alone and, on balance, I’d probably rather be here. Why?’

  Connie’s father looked up from his doodle. ‘Because I’ve decided to retire and sell the practice. I know Connie isn’t interested—she’s made her feelings about general practice more than clear. I asked her the other day if she’d got any interest in taking over when I retired and she laughed at me. “When are you going to give up, Dad?” she said. “I’m a paediatrician, not a Mr Fix-It.”

  ‘So, I know she doesn’t want me to hang on while she trains. That means I have to find a buyer—and I know you’re looking for somewhere to buy. I also know, because you told me, that the Devon practice has offered you a partnership, and I know you haven’t given them an answer yet. Before you do, I just wanted to give you first refusal on this one.’

  Patrick almost pinched himself to see if he was dreaming. It was all his wishes come true—and if he took it, he would still see Connie when she came up to visit her parents, assuming they stayed in the area.

  ‘Is the house included?’ he asked, trying to stay calm.

  ‘Oh, yes. The house and surgery all go together. There’s a new bungalow just beyond the orchard—we thought we’d buy that. It’s very pleasant, easy to run and maintain, no ties and strings. We’ve had fun together for the past few weeks, and I suddenly realised I didn’t want to come back to work. I’m ready to stop, and I’ve got a sensible pension plan. We can manage, especially with the sale of the practice.’

  He stood up and rested his hand on Patrick’s shoulder. ‘Think about it, son. Talk to Connie.’

  ‘Connie?’ he said, puzzled, then shook his head. ‘Connie and I aren’t…ah…well, we’re just not. She’s gone back to London.’

  ‘Only for a check-up.’

  Patrick shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. I think she’s gone to see what she can do, what contacts she’s got to get her back into paediatric medicine. I don’t think she’ll be coming back.’

  ‘Do you want her to?’

  The question was searching and Patrick wasn’t sure he wanted to answer it, but his natural honesty wouldn’t let him lie. ‘Yes—but I know she won’t. She’s a career doctor. That’s what she wants.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ the older man said thoughtfully. ‘I don’t think Connie knows what she wants at the moment. She went into surgery after Anthony died, and I’m certain it was just for us—to make up for the fact that we’d lost him.’

  ‘She told me,’ Patrick said, remembering the revealing conversation.

  He nodded. ‘We worried about that because she was happier as a physician, but she’s been driven since he died. Maybe this arm injury is just what she needs to set her free. I don’t know.’

  It was a novel thought, but it didn’t change anything. If she went back to paediatric medicine, she would still do it in London. It wouldn’t matter if he was up here or down in Devon—except that up here he’d see her from time to time.

  Sweet torture, he thought, because it was too far to conduct a romance and expect it to last, and he couldn’t go back to London, not to live, not permanently. He’d hated it all the time he’d been there, and couldn’t wait to get away, something Marina had found quite unbelievable.

  ‘Do you have any idea how much you want for the practice?’ he asked, because that was another consideration, of course. There was no house with the Devon practice, but he would have had to find one. However, with just
the two of them it could have been more modest than the Wrights’ big four-bedroomed home.

  ‘I’ve had it valued, but we can always talk about the price. I wouldn’t cheat you.’

  ‘I know that. It’s just that I don’t know if I can afford it.’

  ‘We can discuss it. I can always retain an interest and come in for the odd day. In fact, I might like to do that, if you wouldn’t find it an intrusion.’

  ‘Not at all. I wouldn’t change anything major, certainly not any of the staff, if you were concerned about that.’ He listened to himself as they discussed details, and realised that he was going to accept, regardless of the price.

  If it killed him financially to buy it, so be it—it was where he wanted to be.

  Even if Connie’s image would lurk around every corner…

  He took the rest of the afternoon to think about it, although he knew what he wanted to say, because he needed time to consider his relationship with Connie and whether it would be untenable to live there and have her visiting next door, possibly in the future with a husband or boyfriend. Children of her own, maybe.

  Oh, God, no.

  Not that he wanted to deny her happiness.

  He turned into the out-of-hours centre and parked the car, then went in.

  ‘Thank goodness you’re here—it’s bedlam,’ the receptionist told him.

  Just what he needed. He shrugged off his jacket, went into the consulting room and hung it on the back of the chair, then pressed the button for the first patient.

  He was a man in his sixties, who’d suddenly developed a huge bruise on the front of his biceps.

  ‘Can’t understand it,’ he said. ‘I haven’t done anything that I can think of, although I played golf yesterday and felt a little ping in my arm, like twanging a rubber band.’

  Patrick nodded, and asked the man to remove his shirt. The two arms could then be compared, and it was immediately obvious that the biceps of the damaged arm was bunched up like a little tennis ball, lower than normal and looking very rounded. Just above the ball-like bump was a very colourful bruise.

  ‘You’ve ruptured your biceps tendon,’ Patrick told him, half his mind on the job and the other half on Connie and whether he should buy the practice. He told the man the bruising would subside, the muscle would continue to function and that he would be fine, although it might look a little odd for a while, and then he sent him away happy.

  ‘Give me a difficult case,’ he thought out loud as he reached for the button. ‘Something to really take my attention, not just this run-of-the-mill stuff. Something nice and challenging.’

  It was not to be. The next patient was a woman with mastitis, suffering from a very sore inflamed breast. It had hot, reddened areas which were very tender, and she was almost in tears with the pain.

  ‘I just don’t know what to do,’ she wept. ‘I can’t feed the baby, and she keeps crying and crying!’

  ‘How’s the other side?’ Patrick asked, gently palpating the affected breast.

  ‘Fine—ouch!’

  ‘Sorry. I think you’ve got a cracked nipple, which is where the infection has got in, so I want you to do several things. First, I’m going to give you a nice simple antibiotic which should knock this on the head and hopefully won’t affect the baby too badly, although she might get the runs a bit and feel a little colicky. Secondly, I want you to bathe the nipple in warm olive oil with a drop of tea-tree oil in it as a topical antibacterial, and thirdly—and I know it sounds like an old wives’ tale—but I want you to poultice it with cabbage leaves.’

  ‘What?’ she said, looking faintly disbelieving.

  He smiled. ‘Truly. Just put a few Savoy cabbage leaves in a pan, pour over boiling water, then when they’ve just wilted lift them out and use them to line your bra. I know it sounds like a second cousin to witchcraft, but I gather it really works.’

  She looked sceptical, but promised to try it. ‘Frankly, I’ll try anything,’ she said fervently. ‘Can I carry on feeding her?’

  He nodded. ‘Yes. If you get any pus from the nipple then stop feeding from that side, but I would have thought it would get too painful to feed before that happened. If you use a hot poultice and steam when she’s crying to be fed, you’ll find the milk will naturally run from the nipple anyway with your let-down reflex, and once it’s started flowing the pressure will ease and you should be able to latch the baby on. The idea is to empty the breast completely.’

  She nodded. ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘Fine. And if you have any more problems, go back to your own GP.’

  She quickly dressed while he was typing in the details for the prescription, and then left, with a joke about going home via the supermarket for her organic bra-pads and tea-tree oil. ‘I might see if they’ve got eye of newt and leg of toad,’ she said with a grin.

  ‘Not in England,’ he laughed. ‘You need France for frogs’ legs.’

  Oh, Connie, he thought sadly, I wish I could find you such an easy cure.

  She was seeing the consultant the next day. He knew without waiting to hear the results that nothing could be done. It was such a shot in the dark, such a slight chance.

  He ached for her, and the steady flow of trivia and general malaise did nothing to distract him.

  He arrived back late in the afternoon, and went into the sitting room. The Wrights were there, bracketed by their adoring dogs and smothered in sleeping kittens, with Edward dozing on a chair, and he wondered how they would bear to leave their home.

  ‘I’ve decided to take the practice on from you, provided we can agree on the price,’ he said without preamble.

  ‘I’ve got a valuation. A man looked at it this summer, and I contacted him the other day and he says the situation hasn’t changed. Here are the figures.’

  He passed Patrick a piece of paper with the total figure, and a breakdown of the valuation to help him see how it had been arrived at.

  ‘The house would be worth more without the surgery, because that rather spoils it as a straightforward residence, although not for a doctor, of course. It’s one of those silly things—and, of course, I can’t sell the goodwill. The local health authority have to approve your application to take over the list, but that’s a technicality. What do you think?’

  He thought he could cope—just—and said so. ‘I think it looks very fair. I have to talk to the bank, of course, but I don’t see it will be a problem. I’ve got a fair amount of equity from my house in London, and that’s been earning interest. I should be able to make it.’

  ‘Will you mind having Tom peering over your shoulder?’ Mrs Wright asked sagely. ‘Because he will, of course. He can’t leave it alone, whatever he says.’

  Patrick chuckled. ‘I’m sure I can bear it. I’ll have to find him something to do—and rely on you to make sure he gets enough rest.’

  ‘So we’re agreed?’

  He nodded, and took Tom’s extended hand. ‘We’re agreed. Thank you.’

  ‘No. Thank you. You’ve been wonderful—so helpful and considerate. It’s made it all so much easier. I feel as if the practice will be in safe hands—and I really will try very hard not to interfere.’

  His wife laughed, stood up and reached for the sherry decanter. ‘How about a little drink to seal it?’ she said, and Patrick took his glass from her, raised it and sipped. Then he lowered the glass and looked at the Wrights.

  ‘Now all we need is a miracle for Connie,’ he said quietly.

  ‘So there’s nothing that can be done?’

  ‘I’m sorry, no. The neurologist has studied it closely, and there’s no simple quick-fix answer. You’ll just have to give it more time and wait—and in the end, I’m afraid, there will still be a fairly substantial neurological deficit.’

  Connie nodded, unable to speak for a moment. She hadn’t realised how much she’d been banking on a miracle.

  ‘OK. Thanks.’

  She stood up, grabbing her bag and heading for the door, but the consultant wasn�
�t finished.

  ‘What will you do now, Connie?’

  She hesitated. ‘I don’t know. Go back to being a physician?’

  ‘Here?’

  Suddenly she felt a terrible failure. ‘Maybe not. I don’t know. Thanks for your help.’

  And she all but ran away, hurrying down the corridor, ignoring the old friends and colleagues that hailed her, getting out into the street and walking fast along the pavement. It was too far to walk to her flat, but she did it anyway, letting herself in, making a cup of tea and kicking off her shoes before curling up on one of the chairs in the chilly sitting room and staring at the wall.

  She didn’t want to cry. Well, she probably did, but she couldn’t somehow let go. Her phone rang, and she saw the message light on the answer phone blinking. She let the machine get it, then scooped up the receiver when she realised it was her father.

  ‘Hi. How are things?’ she said brightly.

  ‘All right. How are you? What did the consultant say?’

  She gulped, suddenly ready to cry after all. ‘As we thought,’ she said very matter-of-factly. ‘There’s no quick-fix solution. Dad, I have to go—someone’s here. I’ll speak to you soon.’

  And she hung up the phone, slumped back into the corner of the chair and let go.

  ‘Mrs Bailey! You’ve lost a bit of weight!’

  The young woman chuckled and smiled at him, clearly very happy. She had a lovely, well baby in her arms, and she showed him off to Patrick proudly.

  ‘He looks fit enough,’ he said, settling back in the chair. ‘So, what happened? The last time I saw you, you were thirty-two weeks pregnant, huge and very worried. I take it he did have oesophageal atresia?’

  She nodded. ‘I managed to hang on to thirty-four weeks, but then I was so wretched they took me in and induced me, and the baby had the operation the same day. And it was exactly as Dr Wright’s daughter said it would be, and I am just so grateful to her for going through it with me and explaining it so carefully because I knew just what to expect and what they were doing to him.’

  ‘I’ll tell her. So, what can I do for you today?’ he asked.

  She laughed, surprised. ‘Nothing. I just came to show him off and to say thank you.’ She pulled a box of chocolates out of her bag and handed them to him. ‘Perhaps you’d like to share these with Miss Wright. They’re from baby Patrick—I hope you don’t mind. We borrowed your name.’