The Best Of The Year - Medical Romance

‘It’s not what you think—’

‘I don’t want to hear about it,’ Gracie said crisply.

Matt straightened his tie, cleared his throat and moved past us both. ‘I have patients to see,’ he said, and left.

I closed my eyes for a second. My life was such a farce.

‘Bertie, how could you?’ Gracie said in a shocked voice.

‘Nothing happened,’ I said. ‘We were just … talking.’

‘I saw you lean towards him,’ she said. ‘What’s wrong with you? You’ve just come back from your honeymoon, for God’s sake. I never would’ve taken you for a player.’

‘Who’s being a player?’ Jill asked, as she came breezing in with a stack of paperwork. She looked between Gracie and me and raised her artfully pencilled brows. ‘You’re not talking about Matt Bishop, are you? The man’s entitled to have a private life, you know. Mind you, I’d give my back teeth to know whom he’s seeing. No one seems to know but I’m sure it’s someone from the hospital.’

I mentally rolled my eyes. Could this get any more ridiculously entangled?

‘I believe he has a thing for married women,’ Gracie said, shooting me a hard look.

Jill gave a disbelieving cough of laughter as she rolled back her chair to sit down. ‘Can’t see him following in his old man’s footsteps.’

‘What do you know about his father?’ I asked.

Jill swivelled her chair to face me. ‘Richard Bishop’s a well-known womaniser, the younger the better, apparently. His wife Alexis turns a blind eye, has been doing so ever since their other son died.’

My insides lurched. ‘What other son?’

‘Matt’s brother.’

I could feel my eyes popping. ‘He has … had a brother?’

Jill gave me an odd look. ‘Lots of people have siblings, Bertie.’

I brushed her comment aside with an impatient wave of my hand. ‘I know that, it’s just he told me he was an only child.’

‘Well, he is now,’ Jill said flatly. ‘Tim died when Matt was fifteen. Tim was two years older. He had a rock-climbing accident. He was in a coma for over a year before they finally turned off the ventilator.’

‘How did you find out all this?’ I asked.

‘My sister-in-law went to school with Alexis,’ Jill said. ‘They’d lost touch over the years but recently reconnected on Facebook. I mentioned we had a new boss and when my sister-in-law heard Matt’s name she gave me the background.’

Gracie was still eyeing me as if I were Jezebel incarnate but I was beyond caring about that right now. I was still trying to get my head around Matt’s tragic background. The loss of his older brother, the long stint in ICU before Tim was finally allowed to die. Was that why Matt was so adamant patients’ relatives should be told the truth straight up? Had his parents clung to hope for months and months on end because they hadn’t been told—or hadn’t taken in—the reality of their eldest son’s irretrievable condition?

Gracie muttered something about changing a patient’s IV fluids and left.

‘So, who do you think Matt’s seeing?’ Jill asked.

‘I hardly see how it’s anyone’s business.’

She let out a little sigh. ‘You’re right. Hospital gossip is like a virulent virus. Once it starts you can’t stop it.’

Tell me about it , I thought.

Jill looked up at me again. ‘Speaking of which, I heard in the tearoom there’s a twenty-four-hour bug doing the rounds. They’re isolating the cardiac ward. I reckon we might be next. Don’t come into work if you get it.’

Right then I wished I never had to come to work ever again.

Gracie was in the change room when I went in to get my things before leaving for the day. She was getting her bag out of the locker and turned as I came in. ‘Well, I’ll say one thing. As new brides go, you have far more reason than most to blush.’ She slammed the locker door. ‘And here I was thinking you were different. More fool me.’

‘Gracie—’

‘I suppose that’s why you didn’t want to show me the wedding photos,’ she went on. ‘You didn’t want to be reminded you were married while you’re sleeping with another man.’

‘I’m not sleeping with—’

‘Do you know what it feels like to be cheated on? Do you?’ Her eyes watered and her voice shook. ‘It’s the worst feeling in the world.’

I knew all right. I took a deep breath. ‘I didn’t show you the photos because there aren’t any.’

Her forehead puckered. ‘What do you mean? Did they get deleted or something? That happened to a friend of mine. The photographer accidentally deleted them. If it hadn’t been for other people’s phone cameras, there would’ve been no photos at all.’

‘They weren’t deleted,’ I said. ‘They weren’t taken in the first place.’

Her eyes were as round as the top of the linen bin next to the washbasin. ‘Why not?’

My shoulders went down on a sigh. ‘The wedding was called off. Andy was having an affair. I found out the night before the ceremony. It’d been going on for months.’

‘Oh, my God!’ Gracie clasped her hands over her mouth.

‘I walked in on him with one of my bridesmaids’ sister,’ I said. ‘It was … Anyway, there wasn’t a wedding.’

She dropped her hands and asked, ‘But why didn’t you say something? You sent a postcard saying what a wonderful time you were having. Why have you let everyone assume—’

‘Because I’m stupid, that’s why.’ I sat down on one of the bench seats and looked at my feet. I was wearing my piglet socks. There was a hole in one of the toes from Freddy chewing them. I should have darned them but I hadn’t found the time.

‘But surely you could’ve told me?’ Gracie sounded so hurt I could barely bring myself to look at her. ‘I know we’ve only known each other a few months but I thought we were mates. I told you all my stuff. And yet you didn’t say a word. What sort of friendship is that?’

‘I know. You’re right. But I was too embarrassed,’ I said. ‘I didn’t want everyone to feel sorry for me. To pity me. Poor old Bertie, dumped the night before her big day. The day she’s been planning ever since she was five years old.’

Gracie’s eyes were almost popping now. ‘He dumped you?’

‘Yeah.’ I let out another despondent sigh. ‘That’s the most embarrassing thing. If he hadn’t pulled the plug I probably would’ve gone through with it to keep up appearances. Sick, huh?’

Gracie took one of my cold hands in hers and clasped it warmly. ‘It’s not sick. It’s completely understandable. All that money, all those guests, all that food and—’

‘God, don’t remind me,’ I groaned. ‘Lucky it wasn’t a huge wedding. We travelled around so much as kids I don’t have a lot of friends.’

‘You have more than you realise, Bertie,’ she said, giving my hand another squeeze.

I looked into her china-blue eyes and somehow managed a vestige of a smile. ‘Thanks.’

Gracie chewed her lip for a moment. ‘Sorry about what I said back in the office. But don’t you think you should let people know? I mean, what about that thing I saw between you and—’

‘You didn’t see anything.’ I stood and wrapped my arms around my body as if the temperature had dropped twenty degrees. ‘I was the one at fault. He was just standing there. I don’t know what came over me.’

‘So you’re not involved with him?’

‘How can I be even if I wanted to?’ I asked. ‘He thinks I’m married.’

‘Then you should tell him and everyone else you’re not.’

I swung back to face her again. ‘No. I can’t. What will everyone think? You have to keep it a secret. Please, Gracie, don’t tell anyone. Promise me?’

She gave me a worried look. ‘I’m hopeless at keeping secrets. I always leak stuff. I can’t help it. It comes spilling out.’

‘You have to promise me, Gracie.’ I was almost to the point of begging. It was pathetic. I was even thinking of offering her money. ‘You can’t tell anyone. No one must know. No one. Do you hear me? No one.’

‘But—’

‘No one will be interested in my private life in a month or two,’ I said. ‘You know how it is with everyone here. We’re all so busy we hardly have time to chat about what’s going on in our home lives. After a couple of months I’ll tell everyone I’m separated or had the marriage annulled or something.’

Gracie chomped on her lower lip again, her expression doubtful. ‘But what if you want to date someone else? Dr Bishop, for instance.’

I tried to laugh it off but I didn’t sound convincing even to my ears. ‘He’s not interested in me. Not in the long term anyway. I’m too out there for him.’

‘I’ve seen the way he looks at you,’ Gracie said. ‘And he was the one who organised for Jason Ryder to be transferred to your room that first day. It was a heck of a job moving the ventilator but he insisted it be done. Not only that, if anyone dares to make fun of your project he cuts them off quick smart.’

Something in my chest spilled like a cup of warm treacle. It was the thing I found most attractive about Matt. Although he had reservations about my project, he still managed to keep an open mind. That, and the fact he stood up for me. How could I not find that the most appealing trait? For as long as I can remember I had dreamed of a knight in shining armour. The sort of man who would protect me, shelter me and support me in everything I attempted to do. Someone who believed in me, in my potential, who helped me reach it without hindering it with their own self-serving interests.

But wasn’t I dreaming an impossible dream? I was twenty-seven years old. I’d already wasted a chunk of my life on a man who wasn’t right for me. Could I risk squandering another period of my life with a man who had offered me nothing but a behind-closed-doors … what? A fling? He hadn’t exactly been specific about the terms. ‘We’d make an interesting pair,’ sounded more like an experiment than a relationship. Was that how he saw me? As a test sample?

What if I failed?

I’d had a full day in Theatre the following day so didn’t get to ICU until we had to transfer the last patient. None of the other cases needed high dependency care so they went straight to Recovery. Once I was finished with the transfer I went to Matt’s office. The door was closed and I gave it a tentative knock. There was no response so I knocked louder.

‘He’s gone home.’

I jumped about a foot when Jill Carter spoke from behind me. ‘Oh.’

‘He left a couple of hours ago,’ she said. ‘He was in most of the night with Rosanne Finch, the leukaemia patient. I told him to go home. I told him he looked worse than some of our patients.’

I frowned. ‘Is he unwell?’

‘He wouldn’t admit it but I reckon he’s got the bug. Gives you a blinding headache and a fever for twenty-four hours, give or take nausea and vomiting.’

‘Sounds like a heap of fun.’

Jill smiled wryly. ‘At least our husbands have us to wait on them hand on foot. What’s yours like as a patient? If he’s anything like mine, you’d rather be at work.’

‘That just about sums it up,’ I said.

CHAPTER EIGHT

I FOUND MATT’S great-aunt’s house without any trouble. I asked one of the neighbours who was walking by with an overweight labrador which house had a corgi called Winnie.

Here’s what I’ve found out recently. Dog owners have their own network. It’s like the medical community—everyone knows everyone. The only difference with dog owners is they only know the dogs’ names, not each other’s. They call each other things like Fifi’s mum or Milo’s dad. Weird but true.

The house was a lovely Victorian mansion—personally, I thought it was way too big for a single old lady—with a lovely knot garden at the front, which was currently covered in snow. There was a light on downstairs but the upper floors were dark. I pressed my finger to the brass doorbell and listened as it rang throughout the house. I heard Winnie bark and then the click-clack of her claws on the floor. After what seemed a long time I heard someone coming down the stairs. They weren’t happy footsteps.

The door opened and Matt stood there dressed in nothing but a pair of drawstring cotton pyjama bottoms. I stared at his chest and abs. He was so cut it looked like he had stepped off a plinth in the Uffizi in Florence. My fingers itched to touch him, to trace my fingertips over every hard ridge and contour. I dragged my eyes up to his. His weren’t pleased to see me, or at least that was the impression I got. ‘I thought you might like some company,’ I said.

‘Now’s not a good time.’

I looked at his forehead, where beads of perspiration had gathered. The rest of his features looked pale and drawn. ‘Consider it a house call,’ I said.

He managed to summon enough energy to lift one of his eyebrows but I could tell it caused pain somewhere inside his head by the way he winced. ‘I thought you didn’t make house calls?’

I pushed past him in the door. ‘I’m making an exception.’ I bent down to ruffle Winnie’s ears. ‘Besides, this old girl could do with a walk, surely?’

‘It won’t hurt her to miss a day.’

I turned back to face him. ‘Stop frowning at me like that. It’ll make your headache worse.’

‘How do you know I have a headache?’

I gave him a look. ‘Have you taken something for it?’

He dragged a hand down his face, wincing again. ‘Paracetamol.’

‘You probably need something stronger.’

‘What I need is to be left alone.’

I put my hands on my hips. Jem calls it my ‘taking-charge pose’. I can be quite bossy when I put my mind to it. ‘Come on, off to bed with you. I’ll sort out the dog and rustle up something for you to eat and drink.’

He made a groaning noise. ‘Don’t mention that word in my hearing.’

‘When was the last time you ate?’

He gave me a glare but it didn’t really have any sting in it. ‘Yesterday.’

I shifted my lips from side to side. ‘Fluids?’

‘A couple of sips of water.’

‘When?’

He let out an exhausted-sounding breath. ‘You don’t give up easily, do you?’

‘I’ve been playing doctors and nurses since I was three,’ I said. ‘Now, where is your bedroom?’

He scored his fingers through the tousled thickness of his hair. ‘Second floor. First on the right.’

I made my way to the kitchen and boiled the kettle and made a cup of chamomile tea, which is really good for settling an upset stomach. I had brought herbal tea bags with me as I know from experience that not everyone has them in their pantry. I was right about Matt’s aunt. She only had English Breakfast and Lady Grey. I took the steaming cup up on a gorgeous silver tray I found in a display cabinet and carried it upstairs. I felt like one of the chambermaids in Downton Abbey.

Matt was lying in a tangle of sweaty sheets, his forearm raised at a right angle over his eyes. I got a good look at his chest and abdomen. Ripped muscles, just like an old-fashioned washboard, lean and toned with just a nice sprinkling of chest hair that fanned from his pectoral muscles into a V below the drawstring waist of his pyjama bottoms.

I hadn’t realised how sexy male pyjamas could be, way more sexy than sleeping naked. It was the thought of what was hiding behind that thin layer of cotton that so tantalised me. He was lying with his legs slightly apart, his feet and ankles turned outwards, his stomach not just flat but hollowed in like a shallow cave. I looked at it in unmitigated envy. My stomach was more domelike than the one on St Paul’s Cathedral. I sucked it in and approached the bed. ‘I have a cup of tea for you.’

He cranked open one eye. ‘You don’t have to do this.’

‘Here.’ I held the cup up to his mouth. ‘Just take a few sips. It’ll help with the nausea.’

He raised his head off the pillow and took a small sip but then he sprayed it out as if it were poison. ‘What the freaking hell is that?’

‘Chamomile tea,’ I said.

He gave me a black look. ‘It tastes like stewed grass clippings.’

I put the cup on the bedside table and mopped the front of my jumper with a tissue I’d plucked from the box near the bed. ‘You won’t feel better until you get some fluids on board. Maybe I should bring an IV set from the hospital and run a couple of litres into you.’

‘Don’t even think about it.’

I got up from the edge of the bed and went through to the ensuite bathroom. It was a beautiful affair, with black and white tiles on the floor and a freestanding white bath with brass clawed feet. The shower was separate and had brass fittings the same as the bath taps. There were black and white towels hanging on a brass rail, although there were another couple on the floor next to the shower, as if Matt hadn’t had the energy to pick them up after he’d showered.

There was shaving gear on the marble counter where the washbasin was situated and one of those shaving mirrors, the one with one side magnified. I absolutely loathe them as they always show up my chicken-pox scar above my left eye. You guessed it. My parents went through an anti-vaccination phase.

I ran the tap to dampen a facecloth. I wrung it out and sprinkled a couple of drops of lavender oil, which I’d brought with me, on it and took it back to the bedroom.

Matt was still lying in that body-fallen-from-a-tall-building pose. I swear I could have drawn a chalk line around him like in one of those film noir murder mysteries. I gently pulled his arm away from his eyes and laid the facecloth over them. He gave a deep sigh, which made his whole body relax into the mattress.

‘Did you hear that?’ he said.

‘What? Your sigh?’

‘That hiss of steam.’

I laughed. ‘You certainly are running a fever. Do you have a thermometer anywhere?’

‘I have a doctor’s bag in the study downstairs.’

I got up from the bed. ‘I’ll be back in a tick.’

I was at the door when his voice stopped me in my tracks. ‘Bertie?’

I turned and looked at him. ‘Yes?’

He opened his mouth to say something but then he closed it. ‘Doesn’t matter.’

‘No, go on, tell me.’

He looked at me for a beat or two. ‘Why did you come here tonight?’

I pulled at my lower lip with my teeth, not quite able to hold his gaze. I’m not sure I knew exactly why I’d come myself. I had acted on automatic, as if it had been programmed for me to walk the block that separated our places of residence and call on him. ‘I know what it’s like to come home to an empty house when you’re feeling rotten.’

There was a little pulse of silence. I was feeling pretty proud of myself for not trying to fill it.

He closed his eyes. ‘Forget about the thermometer. I need to sleep.’

‘If you’re sure.’

‘I’m sure.’

I left him upstairs sleeping and took Winnie out for a walk. I found a spare key on the hall table so I didn’t get locked out. Matt looked so exhausted I thought he might not hear me on my return. Winnie and I didn’t go far as it was freezing but she seemed to enjoy the outing. She stopped at just about every lamppost for a sniff and a minuscule pee, before trotting on to the next one and doing it all over again. That is quite some pelvic floor she has, I thought.

I took her back and fed her and then had a good old snoop around. I love looking at other people’s houses. I get lots of ideas for decorating my own. Well, that’s my rationalisation anyway. Matt’s great-aunt had excellent taste and clearly money was no object. The place was decked out in the most luxurious soft furnishings and the furniture was mostly antique, and not just charity-shop antiques either. I mean real antiques, like centuries-old pieces that were heirlooms that looked like they should be in the Victoria and Albert museum.

But it wasn’t a house I could imagine a young family growing up in. I began to wonder what sort of house Matt had spent his childhood in. Was it like this one, a showpiece of wealth but without the warmth and heart of a house where children’s laughter was always welcome? I wondered too about his older brother. Whether they were close and how Tim’s death had impacted on him.

Was that why he was so driven and focussed on work? His blunt honesty about a patient’s prognosis made a lot of sense now I knew his brother had spent so long in ICU before he finally died. I had seen enough relatives do the long stints in the unit, watching for any sign of change, their hopes hanging in the air like fragile threads that could be destroyed with a look or ill-timed word from a doctor.

That final walk from the unit once a loved one has passed away is one of the saddest things to watch. Some people hold themselves together, walking tall and straight, or putting their arms around other family members, keeping strong for the rest of the family. Others cry and wail and scream in denial and some have to be physically escorted, as they can’t bear to bring themselves to leave. Others look for scapegoats, lashing out at staff or other relatives, apportioning blame as a way of dealing with overwhelming grief.

I wondered how Matt had handled his older brother’s death. Had he stood tall and quiet and dignified or had he railed and ranted against the injustice of a young life cut short? Or had he buried his grief so deeply it rarely got an airing?

He was a complex man, caring and considerate, strong and capable and disciplined, but with a sense of humour that countered his rather formal, take-no-prisoners demeanour. I wondered if he would have turned out a different, more open and friendly person if his brother hadn’t died. His real self was locked away behind layers of grief, only getting an airing when he felt safe enough to let his guard down.

I suddenly wished I were that person. The person he would open up to in a way he had never done with anyone else. Hadn’t he already let me in a tiny bit? He had mentioned all had not been well with his childhood. He had mentioned his father and mother’s relationship. Would he eventually tell me more, reveal more of the man he truly was? I hoped so. I had a sense we could be allies. Our childhoods couldn’t have been more different but there was an air of loneliness … of otherness about him I could definitely relate to.

I found Matt’s doctor’s bag in the study downstairs. It was a beautiful room kitted up like an English country estate library. There were wall-to-ceiling bookshelves and there was even one of those extendable ladder-like steps to reach the top shelves. There was an antique desk with a Louis IV chair and an old world globe. The only modern thing in the room, apart from the electricity and Matt’s doctor’s bag, was a laptop on the desk. I admit I like a little snoop from time to time but I draw the line at reading other people’s emails. Matt’s computer was in sleep mode in any case, but there was a part of me that dearly would have liked to know if he’d mentioned me to any of his friends.

But then I saw a handwritten note lying on the desk next to an old inkwell and quill. My reading speed was faster than my moral rectitude. I was halfway down the page before I realised I was reading something that was meant to be private, but by then it was too late.

Matthew,

It’s your father’s birthday next month. I know you’re not speaking to him after the last time you visited but he didn’t mean it. He’d had too much red wine. You know he can never remember what he’s said the next morning.

Anyway, I know you’re busy but it would be lovely if you’d pop in. You don’t have to stay long. I’m not doing anything too big. Just having a few friends around for cocktails. I wouldn’t want Eleanor Grantonberry next door to think I couldn’t put on a proper do for my husband.

Feel free to bring a date. Are you seeing anyone? You never tell me anything! Isn’t it time you got over Helena? She wasn’t right for you. You’re too much of a workaholic. She and Simon are very happy. Did you know she’s pregnant? The baby’s due in June. I wish you could find a nice girl to settle down and have babies with.

Love Mum x

I sat on the chair and looked at that piece of paper for a long time. I wished my mum were there to do a handwriting analysis. But I could pick up enough between the lines to realise Matt had a complicated background.