His eyes searched hers, and she saw desire flicker to life in their ice-blue depths.
‘Sally,’ he groaned, and his head lowered towards her.
He’s going to kiss me, she thought, and a shiver of desire rippled through her.
A scream cut through the air, and she shot backwards out of his arms.
‘What was that?’
‘Molly,’ he said with a groan.
‘Oh, God.’
She ran trembling hands through her hair, then turned on her heel and headed for the stairs.
‘I should put the chicken in the microwave for about ten minutes to speed it up,’ she yelled over her shoulder, then took the stairs two at a time to sort out the chaos in the bathroom.
CHAPTER FIVE
SALLY was on duty on Saturday morning till midday, covering an emergency surgery and a few visits. One of the calls she had to make was to David Jones, the man with shingles.
‘I can’t believe how painful it is,’ he told her miserably. ‘I can’t sleep, I can’t find a comfortable position, and every time I doze off I turn over and wake myself up.’
Sally turned back the bedclothes and inspected the rash. It was extremely angry and the spots had turned yellow and were beginning to crust over. Once they had dried, the crusts would fall off and the worst would be over—provided he didn’t then suffer from post-herpetic neuralgia, a distressingly painful condition that was notoriously difficult to treat.
Hopefully the prompt use of antiviral drugs would have an effect on the severity of that particularly nasty complication.
In the meantime, though, he needed painkillers, strong ones that would really work.
She wrote him up for a paracetamol and dihydrocodeine preparation that was usually sufficiently powerful to block most pain, and also warned him about the danger of constipation with the codeine.
‘That’s the least of my worries,’ he said unhappily, and Sally gave him a couple of the tablets to start him off until his wife was able to get the prescription at the chemist.
She had another call to make that morning, to Mr Lucas, the first patient she had seen at the beginning of the week who had got her return to work off to such a flying start with his grumbling sarcasm and thinlyveiled criticism of working women.
His bronchitis was playing up again, his wife said, and he could hardly breathe.
She found him in a very poor condition, and her instincts were immediately aroused. He looked awful, blue around the mouth, his eyes slightly glazed.
She took his pulse, listened to his chest, then sat back on her heels beside his chair and took his hand.
‘Mr Lucas, I want you to go into hospital. Your chest is in a very bad way, and I think you need oxygen and I’d like a consultant to see you. Is that all right?’
He shot her a dirty look. Nothing wrong with his temper, she thought drily.
‘I think it’s important to get you the right care, Mr Lucas.’
‘Your husband wouldn’t send me in,’ he told her bluntly. ‘Just because you don’t feel competent to deal with me at home—’
‘Are you refusing to be admitted, Mr Lucas?’ she asked him tersely.
‘Oh, Fred, please do go,’ his wife begged. ‘You had such a bad night, love—I really think she’s right—’
‘Mind your own business, woman!’ he muttered, then bent over, racked with a savage cough.
Mrs Lucas stood beside Sally, wringing her hands together in despair. ‘Oh, he must go in—he must!’
‘I’ll ring my husband. Perhaps he can convince him,’ Sally muttered. ‘May I use your phone?’
‘Of course, dear.’
She explained the situation to Sam in a few carefully chosen words, and he snorted. ‘I’ll be right over.’
He arrived a few minutes later, took one look at Lucas and shook his head.
‘Good lord, man, what are you thinking about? You should be in hospital already—probably days ago!’
‘She didn’t say anything about that on Monday,’ he croaked.
‘She’ clamped her teeth shut and said nothing.
‘You saw him?’ Sam asked.
‘Yes. His chest was fairly clear, but he was complaining of breathlessness. I put him on antibiotics, told him to give up smoking, and wrote to the hospital asking for an appointment with a chest physician. I also,’ she added, glaring at Mr Lucas, ‘told him to tell me if it got any worse.’
‘I was just as bad then.’
‘Not like this. Mr Lucas, if you’d been like this you couldn’t have got to the surgery.’
‘That’s true, Fred—you were nothing like this bad on Monday. Don’t tell lies to get Mrs Alexander into trouble, it isn’t fair.’
He harumphed and folded his arms across his thin, weedy chest, and Sam winked at Sally.
‘Right, you’d better call an ambulance and arrange his admission,’ he told her.
‘He hasn’t yet agreed to go,’ Sally reminded him.
‘Nonsense. You’ll go, won’t you, Fred?’
‘Might. Then again I might not.’
Sally quirked an eyebrow at Sam, but he just grinned.
‘Call them. He’ll go, if I have to knock him out.’
They waited together until the ambulance arrived to take him away, then stood on the kerb outside the house watching it retreat.
‘Looks nasty—more than just pneumonia.’
‘CA lung on top?’ Sally asked.
‘Very likely. He’s refused all tests and X-rays in the past, but this time I think he’s really scared.’
‘Hmm. Well, if it is lung cancer, he’s got something to be scared about now.’
‘Absolutely. I’d give him less than a week, frankly.’
She smiled up at him wearily. ‘You wouldn’t like to make that three weeks, would you, so you can deal with Mrs Lucas?’
‘I’ll deal with her anyway,’ he promised.
She was relieved. Terminal care of long-time patients wasn’t a job for the locum.
Her stomach, no respecter of persons or events, rumbled.
‘Hungry?’
‘Mmm. Have you cooked anything?’
‘No. How about a pub lunch?’
‘What about the children? Where are they? I thought you’d brought them.’
He shook his head. ‘I dropped them off at my parents’ this morning—Mum was taking them to the cinema.’
‘So we’re alone?’
‘Uh-huh. So, pub?’
She grinned. ‘What a good idea.’
‘The Dirty Duck?’
‘I’ll follow you.’
They swapped a smile, then Sally ran to the little Peugeot, started the engine and followed the Mercedes to the pub by the river where they had often gone before the children came along.
‘It hasn’t changed at all,’ Sally said wistfully, glancing round at the heavy beams gleaming with horse-brasses, the magnificent inglenook fireplace where they had often sat warming themselves in that first winter of their courtship. Not that they had needed much warming…
Her first day in general practice had been awful—busy, riddled with enigmas, peppered with the sort of trivia she had never met in hospital medicine. She had been terrified of doing the wrong thing, filling in the wrong form or just plain missing something vital in a sea of malingerers and hypochondriacs.
She finished her evening surgery after everyone else, of course, even though she only had a handful of patients.
She emerged from her surgery cautiously, half expecting to be mugged by half a dozen angry patients who had been filed in the wrong room and were furious about being kept waiting.
Instead she found Sam, slouched comfortably at the scruffy old table in the practice kitchen, a cup of tea in one hand and a paper in the other.
He looked up and grinned. ‘All done?’
‘At last,’ she said wearily and sank down on another chair, kicking her shoes off and wriggling her toes in relief. ‘What a lot of fuss-pots.’
&n
bsp; He laughed. ‘They just want to meet the new doctor. There probably wasn’t a genuine complaint among them.’
He folded the paper and set it down on the table, then stretched his arms up above his head with a satisfied groan.
‘All finished till tomorrow.’
She gave a weak smile. ‘I’m sure it will be just as endless as today.’
He chuckled. ‘You’ll soon get used to it. You’ll learn to work faster, and it’ll all fall into place in no time.’
He glanced at his watch. ‘Are you doing anything tonight?’
‘Dying,’ she said theatrically.
‘Anything else? Anything more pressing?’
She laughed, unable to resist his twinkling blue eyes and sexy grin.
‘Nothing more pressing, no.’
‘How about grabbing a bite in a pub I know? The food’s cheap, nourishing and plentiful, the atmosphere’s thick with history and the landlord’s a patient.’
She frowned curiously. ‘What does that mean?’
‘It means he treats me like royalty because he’s worried he might need me one day!’
Sally laughed again. ‘Ok. Do I need to change?’
‘No, you’re fine, unless you’d rather?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m starving.’
‘Me too. Come on. Is your car here?’
She shook her head again. ‘No, my flat’s only round the corner so I walked.’
‘We’ll take mine, then.’
He ushered her out of the door, locking up and setting the alarm as he went, and then helped her into the car.
He had manners, she had to give him that. There was no question of leaving her to fend for herself.
She watched, fascinated, as he slid behind the wheel and started the engine, then pulled smoothly out of the car park.
He had very sexy wrists, she mused, lightly dusted with gold hairs to match the soft, thick mane on his head. His hands were strong, she noted. Strong and straight, the fingers long and blunt, square-tipped and confident on the controls.
She wondered how his hands would feel on her body, and was shocked at herself.
Heavens, she’d only met him briefly during the day— once before at her interview, but that was hardly protracted.
Still, she could hardly take her eyes off those hands, and when they turned into the pub she had to force herself to look quickly away before he caught her staring.
The pub supper was excellent—a rump steak in a squashy bap with salad on the side, and apple pie and cream to follow.
She ate every scrap, to Sam’s approval, and then they sat and talked for hours.
He was witty, charming, fun to be with and yet serious when the conversation got round to medicine as it inevitably did.
She discovered that he was deeply compassionate, committed to preventive medicine and very much against the willy-nilly prescribing of antibiotics.
‘There are so many things now that are resistant to antibiotics just because of over-use,’ he told her. ‘Often all patients need is reassurance that they will get better and nothing awful is wrong, then they can go home and get on with the business of being ill in peace. It’s all quite natural, and did we but remember it, our bodies are well-equipped to deal with it.’
‘It’s all so different from hospital medicine.’
‘It needs to be—the patients aren’t that ill, or they wouldn’t be in our care.’ He tapped her glass. ‘Another one?’
‘I’d better not, I have to concentrate tomorrow and having a hangover won’t help me at all,’ she said with a smile.
‘You’ll cope,’ he told her confidently.
They went out into the cold, bright night, and he drove back towards the town, parking outside her flat in the quiet side street.
She didn’t want the evening to end. It had been such good fun, and she had really enjoyed his company. She turned towards him in the car.
‘Would you like a cup of coffee? It’s only instant with powdered creamer, but you’re welcome if you want.’
He grinned. ‘It’s all I have at home. Housekeeping isn’t one of my skills.’
She laughed. ‘Nor mine. Oh, well, I’ll have to find a wife to look after me.’
‘I hope you have better luck than me. I’d love a wife to look after me, but I’ve never found anyone I’d like to spend my life with, and I’d rather do my own cooking, lousy though I am, than compromise on something so important.’
She met his eyes, surprised and pleased by his genuine response to her flippant remark.
‘Me, too,’ she said softly.
Their eyes held for an age, then Sam drew in a slow breath and opened the car door. ‘Coffee?’
‘Good idea.’
She let them into her flat and put the kettle on before heading into her bedroom and kicking off her shoes. She felt uncomfortable in her clothes, too formal for slouching about.
‘Put the fire on, I’ll be with you in a tick,’ she called, and, pulling off her clothes, she dived quickly into jeans and a sloppy sweater and her scruffy old slippers.
That was better. Tugging out her ponytail, she shook her hair loose and brushed it quickly, then went back into the little living-room.
Sam was sitting on the floor by the fire, flicking through a home interiors magazine.
‘Bit of a contrast,’ he said, his grin wry as he glanced round the room.
She chuckled. ‘Dismal, isn’t it? Still, it’s only for a year, then hopefully I’ll get a real job somewhere and put down some roots.’
‘You might end up staying on here,’ he said. ‘I did. Martin Goody’s senior partner trained me, and when he retired at the end of my year Martin became the senior partner and took me on.’
‘Are you happy here?’
‘Oh, yes. Martin’s great to work with, and so is Eliza. She won’t be here for ever, though, so you might well fill her shoes in time.’
Sally laughed. ‘If I make it.’
‘You’ll make it.’
‘You’re very confident. How do you like your coffee?’
‘White, no sugar.’
She rinsed out the only two mugs and made the coffee, then went back and joined him in front of the fire.
They talked more about the practice, and Sam told her about his training and his hospital experience, reducing her to tears of laughter with details of his howlers and exploits.
He was now twenty-nine, two years older than her twenty-seven, and he’d only been a partner in the practice for a year.
That comforted her, because he seemed so confident and relaxed about general practice already. Maybe there was hope for her, too.
She told him about her training, her hopes and fears and disasters, and after a while they fell silent, with nothing but the hiss of the gas fire between them.
Their eyes met, and Sam took her cup and put it down on the hearth, then drew her gently down on to the rug beside him.
‘I’m going to kiss you,’ he told her, his voice deeper, husky.
She watched, mesmerised, as his head lowered slowly towards her. His eyes were open, glittering like bright blue flames, but as their lips met, his lids drifted down and a soft sigh rose in his throat.
His lips were tentative at first, seeking her permission in a gentle exploration that was totally unthreatening. They brushed and sipped and coaxed, until with a little sigh she opened to his persuasion and felt the velvet caress of his tongue.
She wasn’t without experience, but nothing in her twenty-seven years had prepared her for the power of that first kiss.
Her blood seemed to sing in her veins, her heart pounding, and deep within her something wild and elemental came to life. Her arms crept round him, her fingers delving into his hair, and he shifted againt her, bringing their bodies closer together.
Desire like white-hot arrows darted through her. With a shattered groan, Sam deepened the kiss, plundering her mouth again and again until she thought she would die of wanting him.
Finally, though, he lifted his head and stared down at her, his expression dazed. ‘My God, Sally,’ he said raggedly.
He lifted a trembling hand and smoothed her tangled hair away from her face. A gentle finger traced her lips, its touch wondrous, and moments later his lips replaced it, this kiss quite different from the last. It soothed where the other had inflamed, reassured and calmed her where the other had left her shaken and filled with longing.
He rested his head against hers, his arms still round her, holding her passively now as their passion stilled.
After a while he lifted his head and she met his eyes. A rueful smile touched his lips.
‘I ought to go,’ he said gruffly.
‘Mmm.’ She was beyond resisting him. If he tried to make love to her, she was powerless to stop him.
But he didn’t. Slowly, reluctantly, he got to his feet and held out a hand to her, helping her up.
‘Thanks for this evening,’ she said unsteadily, remembering her manners at last, ‘and thanks for waiting for me after your surgery.’
He grinned, a sexy, boyish grin that plucked her heart-strings.
‘My pleasure,’ he told her, and with one last, lingering kiss he left.
Two weeks later they were lovers, and within a year they were married and Ben was on the way.
Now, little more than eleven years later, they were back to square one.
Sam and Sally were working in the garden that Sunday afternoon when the hospital phoned to say that Fred Lucas had died. X-rays had shown that he had had widespread cancer that had invaded almost all of his lungs. The pneumonia had simply finished the job.
Sam had phoned the hospital a couple of times, and as soon as he knew of the old man’s death he went to see Mrs Lucas at home.
‘I knew he was done for weeks ago,’ she told Sam sadly. ‘He was such a stubborn old fool, what with his smoking and all…’
She broke off, sobs shaking her frail shoulders, and Sam gathered her into his arms and held her while she cried.
She didn’t allow herself the luxury for long, straigtening up and dashing the tears from her cheeks with a muttered apology.
‘Let me get you a cup of tea,’ she suggested, and Sam was too aware of her loneliness to refuse. So he stayed and drank two cups of tea and let her talk about Fred and their life together and his stubborn ways, and also his gruff kindness and patience with their granddaughter, the apple of his eye.
Taken For Granted Page 7
