‘I’ll come up in a minute.’
‘OK.’ She went, relieved to have a little space, but worried about Sam. He’d sounded so—lost, so sad. She blinked away the tears and climbed wearily up to bed.
Please, God, let it all come right.
Sam watched her go, his heart choked with emotion. Slowly, bit by bit, he sorted the feelings out.
Shock, first and foremost. Shock and disbelief. He hadn’t really expected her to promise not to leave him, but her reply—hell, it sounded as though she really felt she might go. Pain washed over him. Was he really so dense that he hadn’t even noticed her unhappiness all these years?
Probably. Evidently he was so lousy and selfish a lover that he hadn’t even noticed that her response was faked.
Faked.
God, that word hurt.
A year, she’d said. Hell. A whole year he had made love to her and she had just pretended, all of it, the warmth, the tender caresses—and the end, all those desperate little noises she made that drove him over the brink…
His gut clenched, desire ripping through him. Those noises had always finished him off, smashed through his control and left him helpless. She’d known that, of course. After twelve tumultuous years, she’d be well aware of her effect on him.
Frustration swamped him, sheer, unadulterated sexual frustration. He wanted her, needed her— needed her now, this minute, desperately. Not sex, but Sally, warm, willing, generous—the Sally he had fallen headlong in love with twelve years ago, the Sally he had married—the Sally he had used and abused and whose love he had all but destroyed.
He felt the desire ebb away. She was right. Whenever they had a row, he always tried to make love to her afterwards, but was it just to win her round, or because he couldn’t bear to see those lovely soft green eyes filled with hurt and confusion? He had always tried to apologise the only way that came naturally. Did she really see it as papering over the cracks?
Sorrow. That was the last emotion, a huge, terrible sadness deep inside. Was their marriage really dead? Had he lost her?
Dear God, no. Please, no.
He stood up, sucking in his stomach. He could do with losing a few pounds, tightening up a little. Perhaps he’d join Sally’s health club, go and work out a bit and tone up those muscles. Perhaps he’d jog a bit.
Perhaps that would help. And maybe, just maybe, he ought to follow her household routine and find out just how tedious and depressing it really was. He couldn’t believe it was that bad, but she seemed to think so. He’d try doing it properly and see how it was, and let her have a fair crack at his job. This three-week stretch should do it.
Then, surely, she’d realise how lucky she was.
Please God.
What if she discovered she loved being back at work and decided she could live without him and the kids?
He swallowed a sudden lump in his throat.
No. She would never abandon the kids.
But him?
He swore, softly but comprehensively.
‘You’re going to have to come up with some pretty fancy footwork this time, Alexander,’ he said softly, and, flicking off the lights, he followed Sally up the stairs to bed.
CHAPTER THREE
THE following day Sally didn’t have time to think about their conversation. She was on duty from her morning surgery through till the following morning, and it was one of those days that seemed to bring illness out in spades.
Her surgery was unusually busy, but after it was finished she called on Sue Palmer, a pregnant woman who had phoned the surgery requesting a visit.
‘I suppose I could have come to the surgery,’ she said, ‘but I felt so washed out—I hope you don’t mind?’
‘Of course not,’ Sally assured her. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘I just feel a bit tender low down on my tummy.’
‘When’s the baby due?’ Sally asked, flicking through the notes.
‘The end of April.’
‘That makes you about thirty-five weeks?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘And are you getting Braxton-Hicks contractions?’
‘The little practice ones? All the time. Today, though, it all feels a bit more tense.’
Sally felt her abdomen but couldn’t detect anything abnormal. ‘Any blood loss?’
‘No.’
‘Problems with the waterworks? Smelly urine, pain when you pee, anything abnormal?’
She shook her head.
‘Bowel problems?’
Again, she shook her head. ‘Only the usual fight with constipation because of the iron pills. Why? Do you think it might be a grumbling appendix or something?’
Sally shook her head. ‘It’s possible but unlikely. No, I think you might be going into labour.’
The woman looked unsurprised. ‘I thought I possibly was, but it seemed rather early.’
Sally laughed. ‘Babies have a way of suiting themselves. Let me have a listen and see what I can hear.’
She took out the foetal stethoscope to listen to the baby’s heartbeat and, bending over, she placed her ear to one end of the funnel-shaped instrument, the other end resting firmly against the mother’s abdomen. After shifting the stethoscope a couple of times, she was able to pick up a lovely clear heartbeat.
She timed it at about a hundred and forty beats a minute, right in the middle of the normal range. The baby wriggled, and the heart-rate increased slightly, exactly as she would expect it to.
She straightened up with a smile.
‘Well, he-she seems fine,’ she said cheerfully. ‘I think we’ll keep an eye on you, though. Rest for what’s left of the day, get your husband to cook you a meal tonight, and see how you are tomorrow. If you feel more tender, or if anything changes, then ring the surgery immediately, or even the hospital. We’d rather be on the safe side but I think you might just be trying to go in to labour a little early.’
‘Will it matter?’
‘At thirty-five weeks? No. The baby’s almost fully developed now. There’d be no problem at all.’
She shut her bag with a snap and stood up.
‘Remember: rest, plenty to drink and get your husband to do the running around.’
‘He’ll love that.’
Sally grinned. ‘Do him good. Stay there, I’ll let myself out.’
She finished her rounds and went home at two for lunch.
‘You’re late,’ Sam said as he put a bowl of soup down in front of her. ‘Busy morning?’
‘Aren’t they all?’
He smiled understandingly. ‘Yes. Who’ve you been to see?’
She told him about the patients she had attended, and when she mentioned Sue Palmer his ears pricked up.
‘Might be nothing, but I’d pop back later and check her if it was me.’
‘Funny. I was thinking that. I don’t know why, but I think I just have a bad feeling about her.’
‘You could always admit her.’
‘On what grounds? There’s nothing obvious wrong, and not very much that’s not obvious! She’s just not feeling brilliant, but the baby seems fine. I don’t know, perhaps I’m just being neurotic.’
‘I don’t think so. Get that soup down you before the phone rings again.’
She had almost finished when the mobile warbled gently. With a resigned sigh she switched it on.
‘Dr Alexander.’
‘Sally? It’s Jackie. Two more calls have just come in, and one’s your way. I thought you might like to go out and deal with it on your way home. It’s a child with earache. I’ve checked the notes and there’s no history.’
‘Thanks, Jackie. I’ll do it on my way in. What’s the other one?’
‘Someone with vomiting, but they’re right by the surgery.’
‘OK. I’ll do the child, then come back to the surgery for the notes.’
She jotted down the details, then with a weary smile to Sam, she left.
He cleared away the soup bowls into the dishwasher, the
n checked his watch. Two-fifteen. There was just time to see about his exercise routine before he had to pick the kids up.
He drove the two miles to the country hotel where the leisure and fitness club was, and, slapping on his most winning smile, he approached the reception desk. There was a pretty girl perched behind the desk, small and dainty, her dark hair piled in tendrils on top of her head above wide grey eyes and moist, ruby-red lips. A badge pinned over her generous left breast announced that she was Amy, Fitness Instructor.
‘Hello, there,’ she said, her smile friendly, mildly assessing.
‘Afternoon—’ he leant forwards slightly and read her badge for effect ‘—Amy. I wonder if I could ask a favour?’
‘Sure—ask away.’
‘My name’s Sam Alexander. You probably know Sally, my wife.’
‘Oh, yes.’ The girl straightened and eyed him with interest. ‘How can I help you?’
‘Uh—we’ve swapped roles for a while. She’s doing my job, and I’ve got the kids, the coffee-mornings and the gardening.’ He grinned enticingly, and got a flattering response. Good. This was going to be a walkover.
‘I just wondered, as Sally won’t have time to come, if we could swap membership for the next couple of weeks—nothing official, but just let me use the gym instead of Sally. I know it’s irregular, but…’
He held her eyes, and the girl dithered most gratifyingly before crumbling. ‘Oh, OK, just for the next couple of weeks, though—and provided you don’t tell everyone. Do you want me to go over the equipment with you?’
‘Could you?’
She slid out from behind the desk and wiggled most attractively through into the gym. He followed her, burying his grin.
‘Right, this is the Schwinn bike—it’s a warm-up bike that works on air resistance. I’ll give you two minutes on that before your five minutes of stretching—’ she made a quick note on a chart ‘—and then three groups of ten at—’ she eyed Sam thoughtfully ‘—forty kilos to start on the chest-press. Know how to use it?’
Sam nodded. She went over the other equipment in the same way, then got to the treadmill.
‘Ever used one of these?’
He nodded again.
‘It’s easy to programme. Do you want to walk or jog, and uphill or on the flat? You can programme in an incline, or a set course that gives you a variety of terrain and speeds.’
‘Let’s just go for jogging on the flat at first. What does Sally do?’
‘Sometimes the course, but usually she just does thirty minutes on the flat at seven miles an hour.’
Sam was impressed. He hadn’t realised she actually worked hard at keeping fit. ‘I’ll—er—I’ll do the same, I think. Perhaps a bit faster, as my legs are longer.’
The girl eyed him doubtfully. ‘Are you aerobically fit?’
He laughed. ‘Reasonably, I hope.’
‘OK, well, try that and see how you get on, but any stress and just stop. Oh, and keep an eye on your heartbeat—there’s a monitor over there that works on handgrip. The instructions are dead simple. Then five minutes of stretches again and wind down on the bike for another two.’
‘Fine.’
He went to change, then came back and climbed on the bike. Great. No problem. He pedalled happily, the rev counter showing fifty-four revs a minute, and was very pleased with himself until a skinny little woman jumped on the bike beside his and he caught sight of her rev counter. Seventy-two? Good grief!
His time came to an end then, but he was due back on it at the end of his routine and he vowed to do better next time.
The weights were no problem. All the exercises that relied on power to weight ratio were easy for him, because he was and always had been very strong. Alternating upper and lower body exercises, he worked until he had completed the programme set for him.
Feeling disgustingly pleased with himself, he walked over to the treadmill. Thirty minutes at seven mph, eh? Well, he’d give it a whirl.
He started up the tread, pushing the speed up gradually until he broke into a run, then started the timer.
One minute—no problem. This was going to be a breeze.
Two minutes—was it his imagination or was it warmer today? He wiped his forehead against his shoulder, then concentrated on pacing himself. Longer strides, he thought.
Three minutes—a tenth of the way there. God.
He could feel his heart pounding, and the muscles in his thighs were beginning to scream. This was ridiculous. He’d soon get his second wind and he’d settle into the routine.
Four minutes. Hell’s teeth. He could feel the sweat pouring off him, the T-shirt clinging to his back. He was breathing hard—no, he was panting like a hot dog in the sun, for God’s sake, but he was damned if he was giving in. He’d hang on to the rail, get a bit of support.
No. No arm swing. Bad idea.
Five minutes yet? No. Four and a half only. Not even a sixth of the way. He swallowed, his mouth dry, and ran his tongue over his top lip, catching the beads of sweat.
Pain—his legs, his chest—got to keep on—got to keep going…
‘I think you’ve had enough,’ a voice said calmly in his ear, and suddenly, blissfully, the treadmill was slowing.
He stumbled to a halt and glared at Amy. ‘I hadn’t finished.’
‘Yes, you had. Come on, Sam. Over here, let’s check your heartbeat.’
He almost fell off the treadmill and followed her across the room. His legs felt like jelly, his heart was pounding like a steam-hammer and his lungs were screaming for air.
‘Hold that firmly but not too hard.’
He fastened on to the grips like a lifeline, and she switched on the monitor. After a few seconds a number flashed on the screen.
‘Hmm,’ Amy said.
Sam was appalled. ‘A hundred and ninety-two?’
‘Rather high, Sam. I think you ought to start a little more gently, don’t you?’
He nodded dumbly, shocked, and watched as his pulse slowly dropped to a hundred and fifty.
Amy ushered him out through a fire door into the fresh air, and brought him a paper cone filled with icecold water.
‘Sip it,’ she advised, and pushed him down on to a low wall.
He slumped over, elbows propped on his knees, and listened to the screaming in his body subside to a steady wail.
‘You’re going to hurt tomorrow,’ Amy said.
Sam snorted. ‘If I live that long. My God, I don’t believe I’m that unfit!’
‘When did you last exercise? And I don’t count sex.’
He ignored her grin. ‘Years ago.’
‘Now how did I know that? You need to start gently after such a long lay-off. Why don’t you go and lie in the spa bath for a while and ease those muscles? Then I’ll work on a programme for you to do, starting tomorrow. If I can get you to a point where you and Sally can go for a run together a couple of times a week, then you should be able to maintain your fitness easily at home. But now…’
She ran her eyes over him, and this time he recognised the assessment for professional and not personal interest. If he hadn’t already been scarlet from his workout, he would have blushed at his stupidity. Of course she wasn’t interested in him.
Damn, he was forty-one, unfit, overweight—well, only slightly, perhaps, but enough to put her off—and although he still had all his hair, there was the odd touch of grey in the gold. What the hell would she see in him?
He gave her a grateful smile. ‘Thanks for rescuing me from my stupidity.’
She grinned. ‘My pleasure.’
‘One thing—don’t tell Sally. She’d kill me.’
Amy’s smile widened. ‘I’ll see. Depends how well you behave yourself.’
‘I’ll be totally obedient,’ he vowed.
He stood up, horrified to find he was already stiffening up. ‘I’ll go and lie in the spa,’ he told Amy, and headed for the changing-rooms. God, he hurt. At least his heart had slowed down now. Only for Sally, he th
ought painfully. He wouldn’t do it for anyone else in the world—not even himself. But he would do it for Sally.
Amy watched him go, tall, his head held high, shoulders square, hips lean and taut above those long, powerful legs. Give him a few days working out and he’d be fit again. It was only his aerobic fitness that was questionable. The rest of him—well!
He was too old for her, of course, and anyway he was married, but he was still unquestionably a very attractive man. In his youth he must have been a real heart-breaker. Even now, she thought, with those gorgeous blue eyes and that very sexy smile…
She’d enjoyed flirting with him. Little games helped to pass the time. She glanced at her watch. Only one hour to go and she could go home. She’d phone Rick when she got in. There was a film she wanted to see, and then later…
Sue Palmer’s condition hadn’t changed when Sally checked on her before evening surgery. She was still slightly tender, but there was no evidence of contractions. Appendicitis was looking more likely, but Sally didn’t want to jump the gun, and the baby seemed well enough, with a good steady heartbeat.
Giving strict instructions to phone her with any change, she went back to the surgery. The waiting-room was crowded—surprise, surprise, she thought.
She went into Sam’s consulting-room and flicked through the notes quickly, but there was no point in delaying the issue. She pressed the button to call for the first patient, and settled down to a hectic couple of hours.
Towards the end of her surgery David Jones, a man in his late forties, came in looking very uncomfortable.
He sat down in front of Sally, his left hand wrapped round the right side of his ribcage, and told her he was in pain.
‘It started a couple of days ago—well, it had been a bit sensitive on the skin for a day or so before that, but now—well, Doctor, the pain! Right in the ribs, like they’re on fire or something.’
Sally asked him to remove his shirt, and he did so with extreme caution. There was nothing to see, and nothing to hear with the stethoscope. ‘Have you had a cold recently? Any other virus?’
He shook his head.
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