By the time we arrive back at Bilbarra airfield I’m so totally confused I need time out. I manoeuvre Michael to one side and ask him to give me a lift, but GR stalls that idea, saying he needs to discuss tomorrow’s programme.
‘I thought, given neither of us want any involvement, we might be better off not being together any more than is absolutely necessary,’ I grouch, as we head towards town. ‘And, that being the case, I’m cancelling my visit to your property this weekend. Gran can go if she likes, or just drive out for a visit, but count me out.’
‘Scared, Blue?’ he says, flicking one of his quirky smiles in my direction.
‘Don’t call me Blue!’ I snap, driven nearly to desperation by this situation.
He grins again.
‘It’s my only defence. I need to keep thinking of you that way—as a kind of a mate rather than a woman.’
‘Heaven forbid you should think of me as a woman,’ I tell him. ‘A woman and, what’s worse, a female O and G specialist in training!’
He slows and pulls off the road, takes off his glasses, rubs his eyes, puts the glasses back on again, then scratches his head.
‘I’m sorry. Every time I open my mouth I make matters worse, don’t I? But you’ve got to understand, I’m used to being in control—of my life, my work, my emotions, everything. Then you breeze into town and turn me on my ear. I can accept physical attraction exists, but not to this extent. And you don’t believe it either—you said you couldn’t understand your ex’s bells-and-flashing-lights attraction to the woman he met.’
Well, I didn’t believe it then, I consider saying, but realise it’s better if he doesn’t know just how close I’ve come to reconsidering my opinion on the subject. OK, so he’s admitted feeling the same attraction I feel but, so far as I can remember, given the momentousness of the kiss, which has left sections of my brain distinctly hazy, I haven’t made any admissions.
‘So what do we do about your problem?’ I ask. ‘I’ve suggested avoidance tactics. Have you anything better to offer?’
‘My problem? You didn’t exactly push me away when we kissed.’
‘You took me by surprise,’ I tell him, but I can see he doesn’t believe it.
‘The kiss was mutual,’ he reminds me, then pauses, gazing through the windscreen as if the secrets of the universe—or even of mutual attraction—might be written up in a gum tree. ‘I don’t suppose you’d like a quick and very discreet affair? I don’t normally proposition my registrars and casual sex isn’t something I do, but, hell…’
I’m still bogged down at the ‘quick and very discreet’ part so don’t butt in when he pauses to take off his glasses and rub his hands across his face.
Nice face…
‘It might release the tension that’s humming between us and everything could return to normal.’
He hesitates again and I get the feeling he was speaking the truth when he said he doesn’t do it often. The man’s as muddled as I am.
‘I wouldn’t ask,’ he continues, ‘but I know a lot of women these days are advocates of healthy sexual relationships without hang-ups about commitment or feelings of guilt. They treat sex in much the same way men have always treated it.’
‘And you’re asking if I’m one of them?’ I’m startled by the request but intrigued as well, so I answer honestly. ‘No, I’m not. Not that I’ve ever really had the option of doing it, what with being with Pete and all, but, no, I can tell you, for sure and certain, I am not an affair kind of woman—no matter how quick or discreet it is. Which, given the fact my grandmother is staying with me, is probably a good thing.’
‘Pity,’ he says, and disappointment that he doesn’t press me on the matter—suggest ways and means of getting around the Gran situation—zooms through me.
I’m so angered by this absurd reaction—or maybe by his assumption I won’t attract him for long—that whatever it is between us is purely physical, I go on the attack again.
‘Pity? You were actually considering it? Didn’t you say you were nearly engaged? Nice one, GR! Just how long after we end the quick and very discreet affair would you be proposing? One day? A week?’
‘What did you call me?’
Hell, what did I call him? I try to think, but my mind’s gone blank.
‘What did it sound like?’ I mumble weakly. What could I possibly have called him? Let it not be ‘darling’ or something equally revealing, and if it was, could a lightning bolt, please strike me now.
‘It sounded like “GR”,’ he says, and relief floods through me.
‘Oh, that,’ I say. ‘That’s OK. That’s how I think of you. I missed the Gregor part when you first introduced yourself, and the initials kind of stuck in my head.’
‘Like Blue,’ he muses, and because I don’t want him thinking I use the initials to distance myself from him, I zero back in on an earlier bit of the conversation. The bit he conveniently didn’t answer.
‘Anyway, given all that guff you told Gran the other night about believing in love—how can you be “nearly” engaged? Surely, after waiting all this time for love, you must know whether you’ve found it. And if you have, why the “nearly”?’
The fascinating tinge of colour creeps into his cheeks.
‘This is different,’ he mutters, then frowns at me. ‘Look, I wasn’t lying when I said those things to your grandmother, though I don’t know why it all came out when I’d barely met the woman—’
I do—Gran does that to you.
‘But I’m thirty-five and I can’t help wondering if it might not happen for me. If what I was waiting for isn’t in the grand plan that’s guiding my life. Maybe fate’s decided it’s not for me, and I’m waiting for nothing. I have a friend here in town, a good friend, and she’d like to get married, and to tell you the truth, Blue, I’m getting tired of going home to a slow-cooker.’
‘And of quick, very discreet affairs?’ I can’t help asking.
‘No!’ he says, then glares when I chuckle. ‘You know perfectly well what I mean. I mean, no, I don’t indulge in quick discreet affairs—or any kind of affairs. I’ve had relationships with women, but recently, well, living in a country town is like living in a fishbowl, so…’ He pauses then smiles so radiantly it’s as if a light has just flicked on in his head.
The smile stuns me, then fires frenzy along my nerves, but fortunately the effect can’t be obvious because he doesn’t notice, just explains the brilliant revelation he experienced to cause the smile.
‘That’s what this is, Blue. It’s my libido reminding me just how long it is since I’ve had sex. It’s lust, pure and simple.’
‘I didn’t think there was anything pure about lust, and this situation isn’t exactly what I’d term simple,’ I mutter, and he laughs.
‘But doesn’t understanding something always make it clearer?’ he demands with great delight. I don’t bother telling him it hasn’t made it any clearer for me. It’s not that long since I split up with Pete! Five months or so, not years and years.
‘It doesn’t make how to handle it easier,’ I remind him. He fixes me with a certain look he gets—as if he’s faced with a new species of animal life—or maybe he’s just trying to read more into my words. Or maybe it’s just his glasses that make him look intent and he’s not thinking anything at all.
‘Avoidance won’t be easy, given we have to work together,’ he finally says, showing me just how far off the mark I was in my guesses. I told you he isn’t an easy man to read.
‘So what’s your solution?’
I’ve been the only helpful one so far in this conversation and I’m getting sick of it.
‘I haven’t got one,’ he admits, ‘so I guess we’ll just have to practise self-restraint.’
‘We’ll have to practice self-restraint? It wasn’t my half of we who initiated that kiss.’
‘You responded,’ he reminds me, and I refrain from comment, too embarrassed by the intensity of my response to even want to think about it.
>
Then suddenly he’s moving closer, and another kiss seems inevitable. My heart rate accelerates so drastically I’m shaking, and my head’s whirling with too much delirious anticipation to even consider not kissing him back, and my lips quiver with excitement.
Then he’s talking, not kissing, and I’m so confused I barely hear the words.
But I get the sense of them. We’re two mature adults—thank heaven he can’t see beneath my skin, because right now I’m about as mature as a randy teenager in the throes of first love—and as such should be able to handle what is nothing more than a chemical reaction.
‘So we’re back with the pheromones and glitch again,’ I think, then realise I’ve actually said it when he straightens up and frowns at me.
‘Well, you have to admit that’s all it can be,’ he says. ‘Love can’t strike like a thunderbolt and zap through the nerves like lightning.’
I nod, because rationally I do agree with him. If people fancied themselves in love every time their pheromones got zapped, the world would be a mess. Being a living example of that kind of behaviour, I know this for a fact!
He starts the car and pulls back out on the road. I’m not sure we’ve solved anything, but knowing he’s feeling the same electrical impulses as I am will certainly make me much more cautious.
We drive back to the hospital, only more slowly than he usually drives, and I wonder if he feels the same sense of loss—as if something special is finished—which I’m feeling.
Finished before it began…
Lights are shining through the louvres so at least Gran’s at home. Maybe some normal conversation and just a little bit of grandmotherly fussing will make things right again.
Gran comes rushing down the steps as GR stops the car, arms waving to attract someone’s attention. And as I’ll shortly be walking into the old quarters I assume it isn’t mine.
‘Oh, Gregor,’ she says, as he climbs out of the car. ‘I’ve been waiting to see you. I know you’ll probably call in at the hospital to see your patients, and you’d hear there anyway, but in case you didn’t I thought you should know Charles is in hospital.’
Hear there? Hear what?
And who the hell is Charles?
I’m wondering these things as Gran rushes on.
‘He had a fall. Silly man tried to get something off a high shelf and tipped his chair over. He put out a hand to save himself and fractured his wrist. It’s been plastered and he could have gone home, but the doctor wanted to keep him in. And, anyway, it’s his right hand so he’ll really need some help in the house when he does come out.’
‘Independent old bugger!’ GR growls. ‘I’ve been trying to convince him to get help in the house for years, but will he listen? Now he might be forced to accept someone. Thank you, Mrs Green.’
He turns away, climbs into the car and reverses across to the car park behind the hospital. I watch him disappear into the rear of the building, then turn to Gran.
‘And what was that all about? Who is Charles? How do you know him? And exactly where does my boss fit into the situation?’
Gran laughs. No, it’s more an embarrassed kind of giggle. And she flutters her hands in the air, then finally says, ‘Charles is an old friend. He was married to Esme who nursed with me here. His family owned the property where your grandfather worked. Anyway, Esme and I kept in touch then about eight years ago they had a car accident. Esme was driving and she was killed and Charles was seriously injured and very sick for a long time. He ended up more or less permanently in a wheelchair.’
‘He’s the friend you visited yesterday?’ I ask, remembering the blush and intrigued by the possibility of my grandmother and Charles eventually being more than friends. Was it something in the air at Bilbarra that had even middle-aged hormones twitching?
‘Yes,’ Gran says, recovering from her agitation and leading the way inside. ‘It’s a small world, isn’t it?’ she adds, positively glowing with goodwill. ‘It turns out he’s Gregor’s uncle—his mother’s brother. His mother grew up on the property, which is one of the reasons Gregor bought it after Charles had the accident. Charles and Esme only had one daughter and she married a city man, so it would have passed out of the family.’
I go right off the idea of my grandmother having any kind of a relationship with Charles. Avoiding GR whenever possible over the next six months is one thing, avoiding him for ever if his close relation ends up in a close relationship with my nearest and dearest relative would be impossible.
Not even the fiendish fate that’s currently got me in its sights—Pete’s defection and the transfer to Bilbarra being testament to this—could entangle me with GR for a lifetime!
I’m thinking about this, so I’m not really listening to what Gran’s saying when she says, ‘Well, now Gregor’s had time to see him, I might go back over. I only left because I wanted to catch you when you got back, to let Gregor know. I made a nice shepherd’s pie. You just need to pop the plate in the microwave. Aren’t microwaves blissful things?’
And on this note the grandmother I thought had come down to Bilbarra to see me—and perhaps nurture me just a little—departs to pursue her own agenda.
Charles.
Uncle of GR.
My throat tightens and I know I’d choke on shepherd’s pie so I find a box of chocolates I was keeping for a very special occasion and eat a couple of them. Because of their smooth texture and ability to melt, they slide down tight throats quite easily. To prove this theory I eat a couple more. Then, because it was a very small box and there are only two left, I finish them off.
I’m now feeling slightly ill, so I have a shower and get into my pyjamas. I’m a class act in pyjamas. Gran sends me some for Christmas every year—ordered from a catalogue and usually featuring either hearts—I should have guessed she was a romantic before Charles entered the picture—or flowers. This year’s pair is a vivid violet colour that hasn’t faded in a hundred washes, and they’ve got hearts—big purple hearts—splashed across them.
I wander up and down the veranda, regretting the chocolates and wondering what to do about the shepherd’s pie. If Gran returns and finds it in the fridge she’ll be upset.
And nag.
But if I scrape it into the kitchen tidy, she’s sure to see it there, even if I hide it under chocolate wrappers. No, I’d better hide the chocolate wrappers, too.
I’m wondering where the big industrial bins all hospitals have are situated, and considering a midnight dash to get rid of all the evidence, when there’s a footfall on the steps outside.
Damn! She’s back. Now I’ll have to eat the dinner.
I decide this isn’t such a bad idea as I know from experience that chocolate fullness wears off very quickly. Then GR appears, holding out his hand as if in apology for disturbing me until he catches the full glory of the pyjamas and laughs out loud.
‘Well, that’s certainly a better idea than avoidance,’ he says when he recovers enough to speak. ‘Passion-killer pyjamas. If your ex was subjected to them on a regular basis, no wonder bells and whistles happened when he met the other woman.’
I am so furious I want to stamp my feet, and possibly scream a little, or throw something. Then a better idea surfaces in my head.
‘They’re a turn-off, are they?’ I ask, in the huskiest voice I can manage. ‘I guess that’s what Gran intends when she sends me a pair each Christmas.’
I’m slinking down the veranda towards him as I speak—well, I’m going for a slink but, not having done much slinking in the past, I don’t know how it’s coming off. Whatever, he’s seemingly riveted to the spot, which is what I want because I need to be very close.
‘Passion-killers?’ I repeat, just to be sure he gets the point, then I stand on tiptoe and do the one thing I was determined not to do.
I kiss the man.
CHAPTER SEVEN
BIG mistake! His lips join in, parting mine, his tongue explores and a zillion nerves respond with a ferocity that scares m
e because I feel as if I’m truly alive for the first time in twenty-seven years.
Kisses can’t do this, I tell myself, still kissing because I can’t stop. Can’t bear the thought of not feeling the magic his touch generates in my body. His hands clasp my shoulders, steadying me but sending as many messages as his lips. I want those hands moving, exploring, touching all the acutely sensitised parts of my body he’s awakened.
Underneath the passion-killers my body heats with a subversive hunger so strong that common sense and self-preservation are all but swept away.
All but!
I remember my origins and the fear that’s always haunted me—that I might turn out to be like my mother after all. The kiss is kindling a desire so strong I want to tear off his clothes, and my clothes, and do something to ease the ache.
Is this how she felt?
Again and again, as Uncle Joel’s wife, Jill, claims? Or just with the polo player?
I don’t know, but the ‘again and again’ part terrifies me. If I give in once, will that be my fate?
‘I need to breathe,’ I whisper, and ease my body, which is practically glued to GR’s, a safe distance away.
Safe? Two hundred k. might be safe. Or two thousand.
He reaches out and touches my hair, flicking his finger at a strand of it.
‘Shall I tell your gran the pyjamas didn’t work, or will you?’ he says, the little quirk lifting the corner of his mouth in a rueful smile.
Once again the suspicion that this is a really nice man flutters through my head, but really nice plus zap-power is probably more dangerous than downright nasty.
Really nice can get a girl in trouble.
‘I don’t think we’ll mention it,’ I tell him, realising for the first time he’s had his glasses on right through the kiss.
‘It’s a wonder the rims didn’t melt,’ I mutter, and he reaches up to touch the frames then laughs.
‘Tell me I didn’t have them on the first time I kissed you. Surely I had enough class to take them off.’
‘They were off, because you were changing,’ I assure him, but I have to smile. He’s so obviously confused by what’s happening I’m beginning to believe he really meant what he said when he talked to Gran about love. Here he is, thirty-five and still waiting for the miracle to happen. Still putting off proposing to the dustbin to give love a chance to come along.
Doctors in Flight Page 10
