Practice Makes Perfect

He woke suddenly when the room was still in darkness, and lay for a moment wondering what had disturbed him.

Then he heard it again, a thin, high moan, an animal keening that cut through him to the bone.

Untangling the blankets, he stumbled off the sofa and into the bedroom, but it was empty. The sound came again, and he followed it downstairs and into the surgery.

He found her, curled into a ball on the old leather armchair at the desk, with her arms wrapped tightly round a cushion, rocking gently back and forth while the terrible sound of grief was torn from her throat.

Her eyes were dry and sightless, and she ignored him as he lifted her from the chair and sat down with her cradled against the broad expanse of his chest. She was wearing his dressing-gown but still she was shivering, and he hadn’t taken the time to pull on any clothes, so he stretched out and turned on the electric heater. It could be a long night.

Then, holding her close, he rocked her, brushing the hair from her eyes and pressing his lips to her crown as if he could take away the pain.

He could feel the tension building in her, and then suddenly the dam burst and the tears came, accompanied by huge, racking sobs that gradually died away to leave her spent and weak against his shoulder. She slept then, relaxed into the curve of his arms, and he stayed where he was, holding her quietly, until the dawn lightened the sky.

Then she stirred and sat up, embarrassed and bewildered, and he smiled slightly and let her go.

‘I—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you. I couldn’t sleep. I just felt…’ Her hands fluttered helplessly for a moment before she clamped them together, ‘I wanted to be near him.’

‘I know. Don’t apologise, I often feel the same. Would you like a cup of tea?’

She nodded. ‘Please. I think I’ll just wash my face—perhaps I’ll feel better then.’

He led the way upstairs, and while she cleaned up he put the kettle on and pulled on his jeans and a jumper, suddenly conscious of his scanty attire.

When she emerged from the bathroom, her face pink and scrubbed, her hair brushed and tied back in a pony-tail, and looking about seventeen, he was shocked to feel himself respond to her.

Technically speaking, she was a scrawny little thing for all her height, weighing next to nothing, her face too small for those ridiculously large eyes, her mouth full and soft and vulnerable, and yet he wanted her. His dressing-gown was wrapped tightly round her slim frame, the belt accentuating her tiny waist. He was sure he could span it with his fingers, and his palms tingled with the need to cup the soft jut of her breasts in his hands. She should have looked ridiculous, but there was something about her, her quiet dignity, the graceful way she moved those absurdly long legs as she walked towards him, that lifted her above criticism and made her beautiful. Sam felt the unbidden surge of desire, mingled dangerously with the urge to protect and nurture, and when their eyes met it was as if she saw right through him, and he felt ashamed.

Tea,’ he said economically, and thrust a mug into her hand, taking his and standing by the window.

She sat down among the tangled blankets and sighed.

‘I’m sorry you had to sleep on this; it can’t have been comfortable,’ she offered, and he shrugged.

‘I’ve known worse. Don’t think about it. You needed the bed more. I’ll put the heating on in the house today and get it aired for you. You can sleep in your own bed from tonight.’ He turned to face her, and found himself trapped again in the clear grey pools of her eyes.

‘I’m sorry about your grandfather,’ he apologised, dragging his eyes away from hers with difficulty. I didn’t realise you hadn’t got the letters. I suppose the post is a little primitive?’

Her mouth lifted in the beginnings of a smile. ‘Something like that. And the clinic is mobile, so that makes us even harder to find. We only got the Christmas cards last week!’

Sam’s shoulders sagged. ‘I’m sorry, I—I would never have told you like that.’

She lifted her hand. ‘Please, don’t worry. It really doesn’t matter. The end result would have been the same.’ She fiddled with the belt of his dressing-gown for a moment, then looked up. ‘Is his car still in the garage? I’d like to go——Is he buried——? Oh, hell!’

She fumbled in the pockets, and Sam thrust a handful of tissues into her hands and waited while she pulled herself together.

‘He was buried in the churchyard. If you can hang on until after surgery I’ll take you later, but first I have to go down to the village shop and get some food in before I can offer you breakfast.’

She nodded, and drained her tea. ‘Do you mind if I have a shower?’ she asked.

He glanced at his watch. ‘No, do it now. The water’s hot. I’ll go and sort out the heating in the house.’

He disappeared through the door on the landing, and Lydia stayed where she was for a moment, nursing the still-warm cup and trying to sort out her feelings.

He had been so foul to her last night—understandably, really, if he had thought that she had come back just to claim her inheritance. And yet today he was patient, kind, understanding … She could see now why Gramps had spoken of him in such warm words, almost as if he were the son her father had failed to be.

Which brought her to the next problem.

Sam came back into the room, and she voiced her thoughts almost unconsciously.

‘How long do you think it will take you to find another practice?’

CHAPTER TWO

As AN opening gambit, it was not an unqualified success.

Sam froze in his tracks, turned slowly to Lydia and glared at her with hostile disbelief.

‘Let me get one thing perfectly straight,’ he said coldly. This is my practice. Understand? Mine. Officially, legally, all signed and sealed and recognised by the relevant authorities. It is not up for grabs, I am not going anywhere, and it is not open to discussion. If you want a job I suggest you pick up a professional journal and find out what’s available—because this one isn’t.’

He ran down the stairs, and she yelled after him, ‘How dare you speak to me like that in my own house?’

He stopped halfway and ran back up, pointing at the connecting door. ‘That’s your house, Miss Moore. The heating’s on, so’s the electricity. I’m going to the village shop. I suggest you get your things moved off my property by the time I get back.’

He turned on his heel and ran back down the stairs, and a few seconds later Lydia heard the surgery door bang and then the revving of a car engine.

He shot off the drive with a spray of gravel, and the sound seemed to release her from her trance. She leapt to her feet and ran into the bedroom, wrenching off his dressing-gown as if she could distance herself further from him by doing so. Then she snatched up her things, dashing away the tears that would keep gathering on her lashes and clogging up her view.

Damn him! How dared he speak to her like that? How dared he throw her out? First thing on Monday morning she was going to see her solicitor to find out about the will, because one thing was certain—living next to him was going to be insufferable!

She dragged her cases along the floor to the landing, opened the door and half dragged, half carried them up the three steps to the main part of the house. She got them as far as the door of her bedroom, and then collapsed on the landing floor in tears.

Why was she always rejected? First her father, then her mother, then Graham; even Jim Holden had found someone to replace her. And now the one person who had always had time for her was gone, and in his place was a cruel, unfeeling career doctor, who was probably hideously efficient and hated by all her grandfather’s patients. Well, damn him!

She forgot his kindness of this morning, his caring and compassion, the way he had given up his bed for her. Gone was all memory of his arms cradling her against his chest, soothing her until her grief had run its course and she was quiet. Instead she remembered only his harsh words, and the fact that he had thrown her out.

‘Your practice, indeed! We’ll see about that!’ she yelled at the door, and, scrubbing away the last of the tears, she pulled on her clothes, ran downstairs to the hall and picked up the phone, dialling with shaking fingers.

‘Hello? Sir James? Hello, it’s Lydia Moore. I’m sorry to disturb you at home,’ she began, all ready to launch into the fray.

‘Lydia, my dear! How are you? I was so sorry to hear about your grandfather—a tragic loss to the medical profession, not to mention you … tragic loss.’

Lydia swallowed. ‘Yes, it was. I wish someone had let me know——’

‘We did try, my dear, but there was no time. The end was quite quick, I gather. And of course Dr Davenport was wonderful to him. Got a locum in at his own expense so that he could be with your grandfather till the last. Like a son—better than a son, if you’ll forgive my saying so.’

Lydia could. She had grown used to the idea that her father had been a cruel and unfeeling man, but she really didn’t want to listen to Sir James praising Sam, either!

He continued, ‘Harry was extremely fond of him, y’know. They became very close over the months, and nothing was too much trouble. I understand he’s left him the practice premises—very appropriate, don’t you think? He certainly deserves them. What are you going to do about the rest of the house?’

Lydia frowned. In the face of so much praise from the chairman of the local branch of the FHSA, she could hardly criticise Sam without sounding whining and ungrateful, so she stalled. ‘I haven’t made a decision yet, Sir James. It all depends on where I end up working——’

‘Nice little practice up near Diss needs a new partner—might consider a young woman, given the right encouragement. Want me to have a word?’

Here was her chance. ‘Well, actually, Sir James, I was rather hoping to have taken over from my grandfather——’

Yes, I know. Pity about that. Given another couple of years’ experience, we might even have considered you, but it’s a big practice, and very widespread. We’d even suggested that Harry should take a partner, but young Davenport seems to be managing admirably on his own. He’s set up links with Hastings three miles away to cover each other’s on call, so they’ve got their free time sorted out. Maybe if the population increases we could justify another post, but I don’t think there’s any likelihood of his leaving in the foreseeable future. However, Harry’s patients all seem to be delighted with his successor, and I must say, from this end, he seems much more efficient than Harry ever was!’

Lydia sighed. More praise! Was there no end to the virtue of this paragon?

‘I think Gramps found the paperwork of the new contract all a bit daunting——’

Sir James laughed. ‘Don’t we all, my dear? Still, if it helps to make a more efficient health service—let me know what you decide about that other job, won’t you? It’s a big group—they could afford to take someone without too much experience. In the meantime, we could always use another locum in the area.’

‘Yes, I’ll consider it. Thank you, Sir James.’

She hung up, her last hopes dashed.

Sam Davenport was obviously a well-liked and respected member of the professsion already, and it wouldn’t help her case at all to go making waves.

She wandered slowly through the house, touching familiar things, hearing the past echo in her mind, until she found herself in the conservatory again.

Tucking her feet up under her bottom, she curled up in the old wicker rocking-chair and stared sadly down the neglected garden.

She had come home before she had really got over the shock of Graham’s defection, to take up the reins of her future with Gramps because she had had an uneasy suspicion about him—only to have her world snatched out from under her feet at a stroke.

Her unease had been too little, too late, and now he was gone; her dreams lay in the dust, trampled underfoot by a man whom everyone else seemed to hold in almost reverent awe—and who clearly despised her as a gold-digger.

If he only knew! She didn’t want the terrible responsibility for the crumbling old house—God knew how she would maintain it. She supposed it was worth quite a bit, but it was entirely academic because she would never sell it unless driven to it in absolute desperation.

As if to press home the point, the skies opened again and she noticed that the guttering was leaking near the corner—well away from the practice end, otherwise no doubt the highly efficient Dr Davenport would have dealt with it!

Suppressing a shiver, she turned back to the house and walked round it again, this time looking with the candid eyes of an estate agent instead of through the rose-tinted lenses of nostalgia. Everywhere there were signs of neglect. It was clean enough, but the paintwork was old and chipped, the wallpaper faded, and some of the upstairs ceilings showed signs of damp, unlike the surgery and flat, all of which had been recently decorated and recarpeted throughout. She cast another despairing glance around the sitting-room.

Well, looking at it wasn’t going to improve things, she decided, straightening her spine, and she needed something to take her mind off Gramps.

She found his car keys on the pegboard by the back door, and let herself out. Mercifully the old Rover started first time, and she drove into Ipswich and found a DIY store. There she bought paint, brushes, wallpaper paste, a job-lot of sale wallpaper, a hot-air stripper and a wallpaper steam stripper.

Three hours later she was standing at the kitchen sink cleaning up the steam stripper and wondering what she’d started. The sitting-room was now reduced to chaos, and as for Lydia, she was covered in peeling paint and strips of soggy wallpaper, her jeans were caked with paste, lumps of gooey paper were stuck to her knees and she looked a fright.

She was not, therefore, terribly pleased to see Sam darken the kitchen doorway.

‘What do you want?’ she snapped, shoving an escaping tendril of hair out of the way with the back of her paste-covered hands, and jutting her little chin out in an unconsciously endearing gesture.

‘I just wanted to apologise——’

‘Good. Fine. Accepted. Now please go, I’m busy.”

‘I brought you some food. I don’t suppose you have any.’

Her stomach growled in response, but she would rather have starved than admit it.

‘I’m going out later, thank you,’ she said stiffly.

‘Really?’ He dumped the heavy box down on the worktop and dusted off his hands. ‘Well, now you won’t need to.’

‘Since you’ve already bought the things, I suppose you may as well leave them. You must tell me what I owe you,’ she muttered ungraciously, and he gave a small, humourless smile.

‘The receipt’s in the top of the box. Don’t lose it—I can appreciate that you would hate to be beholden to me!’

‘Oh!’ She glared crossly at him, and he turned on his heel and left, his mouth twitching.

She tried to remind herself that her grandfather had been a good judge of character and that Sam must, really, be a decent person, but she failed miserably.

‘Everyone’s entitled to one mistake,’ she said aloud. ‘Sam Davenport was obviously yours, Gramps.’

She screwed the tap off with unnecessary vigour, and screamed as the fitting came away in her hand and a fountain of water shot up and splattered all over the ceiling.

‘Dear God, Lydia, what the hell are you up to now?’

Sam barged her out of the way, dived under the sink and rummaged among the pots and pans for the stopcock. Seconds later the fountain slowed to a steady well, and then stopped altogether.

He emerged, dripping, from under the sink. ‘Pretending it was my neck?’ he asked with a wry grin, and her sense of humour, never far away, bubbled up and over. Giggling weakly, she sagged back against the worktop and gave in to her mirth. Sam joined in with a low chuckle, propping his lean hip against the front of the fridge and thrusting his wet hair out of his eyes.

‘You’re drenched,’ she said weakly when she could speak, and he looked down at himself, and then at her.

‘So are you,’ he said softly. Then their eyes met, and the laughter died away as he moved closer and brushed a drop of water from her cheek with the tip of his finger. He traced its path down her cheek, and then with his finger he tipped up her chin and looked down into her eyes.

‘Thank you for rescuing me,’ Lydia murmured breathlessly, and watched in fascination as his head lowered towards hers.

‘You’re welcome,’ he breathed against her mouth, and then his lips touched hers, shifting slightly against them before settling gently but firmly in place. His hands came up to cup the back of her head, and with a sigh she relaxed against him, giving in to the waves of warmth that lapped around her.

But the sigh was her undoing, because he deepened the kiss, and the warmth turned to a raging heat that swept up from nowhere and threatened to engulf them.

His lips left hers and tracked in hot open-mouthed kisses down her throat, lapping the water from her skin and sending shivers down her spine. She gave a wordless little cry, and he brought his mouth back to hers, cradling her willing body against his and drinking deeply from her lips.

Then he lifted his head slowly, laying feather-light kisses on her eyelids, and, placing his hands on her shoulders, he eased her gently away from him.

‘I’m really very sorry,’ he said gruffly.

Lydia shook her head. She couldn’t for the life of her see why he needed to apologise for kissing her so tenderly and beautifully. ‘Don’t be sorry. It was—just one of those things. Anyway, I liked it——’

‘Not the kiss. The awful things I said to you, the way I spoke to you. I hurt you, and I’m sorry. I never meant to. Can we start again?’

She was having difficulty thinking of anything but the feel of his lips on hers, the urgent need of his body pressed so close against her own, and his thumbs were tracing circles on her shoulders, turning her bones to water. She dragged her mind into focus. Maybe all was not yet lost.

‘Does that mean you’ll consider finding another practice?’ she asked quietly.

His hands fell abruptly to his sides, and he stepped back sharply, his face twisted with disdain. ‘I might have known,’ he said bitterly. ‘Women always use sex as a pawn, one way or another.’

She was stunned, hurt beyond belief that he could think that of her, so she snapped, ‘I could just as easily accuse you of doing that!’

‘Why should I?’

‘Why should you?’ Her eyes widened. ‘Because we both want the practice, and you’re trying to persuade me to give in!’

He gave a tired, humourless little laugh. ‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’ he asked wearily. ‘I already have the practice. And possession, as they say, is nine-tenths of the law. In fact, the way things stand, you don’t even have a tenth in your favour.’

Lydia watched open-mouthed as he turned on his heel and stalked out of the kitchen, then she snapped her jaws shut so hard that she nearly broke her teeth.

She mopped and blotted until her rage had subsided, then she sagged against the cupboards and closed her eyes.

Oh, Gramps,’ she whispered, ‘I can see why you were taken in. He’s very convincing, and so, so smooth! Just like a diamond—hard as rock, and when the light’s right you can see straight through him.’

She called a plumber, cleaned out the fridge and put away the food, and then wrote out a cheque for Sam, dropping it through the surgery letter-box.

As she turned away he opened the door and emerged.

Did you want me?’ he asked, and she felt a hot tide rise up her throat and flood her face.

Of course not,’ she said abruptly, and he paused for a second, and then laughed softly.

‘Funny, I was sure you did,’ he teased, and the flush deepened.

‘You flatter yourself,’ she muttered crossly, and turned away, but not before she saw his face crease into a smile.

‘Are you going to be in?’ he asked a second later, and she shrugged.

‘Maybe. Why?’

‘I’m going out on a call. Maggie Ryder’s in labour and may need me before I’m back, and I’m supposed to be covering for George Hastings as well. The answer-phone’s on, and it gives them the cell-phone number to contact, but it can be useful having someone here.’

To act as receptionist? Sorry, Dr Davenport, if you want a receptionist you’ll have to pay one. I’m afraid I have rather too much to do.’

She turned on her heel and walked away, leaving him tight-lipped on the drive.

‘Forget it,’ he called after her. ‘I thought perhaps I could appeal to your compassionate nature, but I was obviously wrong.’

She turned back to face him, hands on hips. ‘And what,’ she asked icily, ‘gives you the impression that I feel compassionate towards you?’

One eyebrow quirked mockingly at her. ‘Who said anything about me? I meant the patients. Why should you feel anything towards me?’

‘Apart from dislike? Search me!’

His lips twitched. ‘Later, if you don’t mind. I’m a bit busy at the moment.’

He ignored her outraged gasp and swung himself behind the wheel of his car, a new BMW.

‘I might have known he’d have a flash set of wheels,’ she grumbled to herself, and marched back to the house, head held high, back ramrod-straight.

He roared round behind her, and tooted the horn just as he pulled level with her, making her jump nearly out of her skin.

His laugh rippled back down the drive as he roared away, and it just served to fuel the temper that had been building all day.

“I’ll fix you!’ she muttered, and, going round to the back garden, she found the old wheelbarrow and filled it with bricks from the crumbling shed at the end.

Slowly, systematically, she constructed a barrier that divided her half of the in-and-out drive from his, so that it was no longer possible for him to drive across the front of the house. Then she found some whitewash and slopped it on the makeshift wall so that he would see it, and stood back to examine her efforts. A bit crooked, but it would serve its purpose.

‘Well, if it’s not young Lydia!’ she heard from behind her, and, turning, she recognised Mrs Pritchard from the village shop.

Oh! Hello, Mrs P. Just building a wall,’ she said lamely. Suddenly feeling rather foolish, she rubbed her hands down the sides of her jeans and attempted to explain that, since the surgery was no longer part of the house, it was sensible to separate it completely to avoid any problems over maintenance of the drive.

‘Seem a bit daft to me, dear. Never mind, I expect you young things know best, but I hope that nice Dr Davenport doesn’t mind.’

‘Hmm,’ she mumbled. She was actually hoping that he would mind very much indeed—in fact, she was counting on it!

She eventually excused herself on the grounds that the phone was ringing and, having gone in, despite her refusal to Sam, she felt obliged to answer it.

The caller was a young woman whom Lydia remembered from her childhood, who was going frantic because her baby wouldn’t stop crying.

‘Lydia, I don’t know what to do! He just won’t stop—it’s been going on for six hours! I must be doing something awfully wrong——’

‘How old is he?’ she asked, and established through careful questioning that the baby was four weeks old, had no history of colic, was apparently quite well, not suffering from constipation or diarrhoea, and had a normal temperature.

‘Where are you, Lucy?’ she asked, and when she found out that the woman was only three or four hundred yards down the road she suggested that Lucy put the baby in the pram and bring him up to the surgery. ‘Dr Davenport’s out at the moment, and I can’t leave the house because I’m waiting for the plumber, but if you like I can have a look at the baby just to make sure there’s nothing drastically wrong, and the break will probably do you good—me too. It’ll be nice to see you again. I’ll put the kettle on,’ she added, and it was only after she had hung up that she remembered she had no water.