And Daughter Makes Three
Caroline Anderson
Falling for a single Dad . . .Now that she’s talked herself into the junior registrar post, Dr. Frankie Bradley is determined to prove she’s got what it takes! Only, she hadn’t counted on working with the irresistible consultant, Robert Ryder! It’s not long before Frankie realises she’s falling for this handsome single-dad, and his young daughter, too… But if there’s any chance of this duo becoming three, Frankie must first convince little Jane of her love. Without his daughter’s approval, she knows she’ll lose Robert forever!Audley Memorial Hospital - where romance is the best medicine of all.
And Daughter
Makes Three
Caroline Anderson
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Table of Contents
Cover (#u621cc16d-5098-5af7-a636-0aecb4b4053a)
Title Page (#u08d44540-3b69-5a35-bf86-0f8d54491c87)
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#u0739085e-b34e-5f10-9115-2245af2b9ea6)
‘YOU aren’t taking this interview seriously, are you?’
Robert blinked in astonishment. ‘I beg your pardon?’
The girl sighed and rammed the long fingers of her right hand through once tidy mousy hair. Well, not really mousy. There were actually some rather beautiful gold lights lurking in it, he noted absently, just waiting for a stray sunbeam to bring them to life—
‘I’m just your statutory woman interviewee, aren’t I? Why can’t you admit it? I’m only here because you have to appear unbiased, but I can tell by your questions that you think I should be curled up somewhere behind a desk chatting to pregnant mothers and peering down children’s throats!’
Robert shifted uncomfortably and cleared his throat, embarrassed at being so easily read by the young woman in front of him.
‘Not at all,’ he demurred, but her fine dark brows shot up sceptically and he ‘sighed. ‘All right, perhaps a little. I’ve got nothing against women doctors; I think they’re a necessary—’
‘Evil?’ she supplied helpfully.
He sighed. ‘I was going to say balance. The problem isn’t so much your gender as your physique. Orthopaedic surgery is physically demanding—’
‘So is general practice. The point is, I don’t want to do general practice, I want to do orthopaedics, and I want you to give me the chance.’
Stubborn little cuss. Robert eyed her with fresh interest. ‘So what makes you think you’d be any good?’
‘I can spot fractures on X-ray plates that other people miss—’
‘So you can diagnose. But can you treat those fractures? Have you got the strength to reduce them, to realign the bones and reduce dislocations?’ He studied the slender hands lying on the edge of the desk, palms down, the long, fine fingers outspread as if she was ready to spring up and dash off. ‘Look at your hands. I doubt if you could even wring a chicken’s neck.’
She smiled wryly. ‘I doubt if I could, but that’s probably because I’m vegetarian and nothing to do with brute force and ignorance.’
‘I never mentioned ignorance.’
‘You didn’t mention skill, either. Or patience and persistence. You need those too, and on that score I’m definitely your man—so to speak.’
Robert was beginning to think that her patience and persistence would be the death of him. ‘What evidence have you got to support that extravagant claim?’ he asked drily.
‘I can do jigsaws,’ she told him.
His jaw sagged slightly. Jigsaws? She could do jigsaws? He could play badminton, but it was hardly relevant—
‘You know, the double-sided baked bean variety that nobody has the patience for? I don’t give up. I persist until whatever I’m doing is done to my satisfaction. I’m a perfectionist, but I know how to compromise. I’m strong, I’m fit and I’m prepared to go to any lengths to do the job well. I won’t let you down.’
‘Won’t’, please note, not wouldn’t, he thought wearily. As if he’d offered her the job.
‘It’s physically punishing,’ he warned. ‘Long hours in Theatre, bending over shattered limbs, piecing them together—’
‘Like jigsaws. Exactly.’
‘Can you bang a nail in straight? Saw straight? Drill and screw with total accuracy?’
‘Yes,’ she said. Just like that, without any hesitation.
‘Yes?’ he pushed.
‘Yes. I’ve been practising. My brother’s got a Victorian house. I’ve been helping him do it up. I’m a dab hand with an electric drill, and I can hammer and chisel and paint in straight lines—’
‘How useful,’ he said drily.
‘Well, if I can paint in straight lines I can cut in straight lines, which might be relevant, I suppose?’ she replied, just as drily.
He sighed. ‘Look, Ms—’
‘Bradley. Frances—Frankie, for preference—and it’s Miss but Dr will do. Please, Mr Ryder, give me a chance. I won’t let you down.’
‘Won’t’ again. Damn her. He rammed his own fingers through his own hair and sighed again. ‘Look, Dr Bradley, I won’t lie to you. I’ve seen another applicant who looks ideal—’
‘A man?’
Robert groaned inwardly. ‘As it happens. As I was saying, I’ve seen him, he’s right for the job, and I was simply waiting until I’d interviewed you to offer it to him. He’s got more surgical experience than you—’
‘I can learn. I loved my time in surgery—check my references. I was good at it.’
‘Slow, it says. Good, but slow.’
She swallowed, but, damn her, she didn’t give up. ‘That’s because I’m thorough. The SR I was working with missed a thrombosis in a mesenteric artery, and the patient would have died if I hadn’t pointed it out. He’d just removed her perfectly healthy appendix and said that must be the trouble, and some people didn’t know what pain was. He was so busy flirting with the scrub nurse they could have sewn up the rest of the surgical team inside the woman and not noticed. A loop of necrotic bowel was far too subtle!’
He bent over her references again, cupping his chin in his hand and using his fingers to cover the little smile that wouldn’t be suppressed.
‘What if I gave you the chance and you couldn’t do the job in the end?’
‘You’d face that possibility with anyone,’ she said fairly. ‘I was good on fractures in my time in A and E, and God knows I saw enough of them. It frustrated me to bits not to be able to follow them up to Theatre and finish the job. What if you got someone whose only asset was his strength? What about the jigsaws?’
He looked up at her again and her eyes trapped his, mesmerising him. He cleared his throat and tried again. ‘As you haven’t met the other applicant I can’t see how you can make that judgement—’
‘I’m not making any judgements, just putting forward for instances.’ She leant towards him, resting on those long, elegant fingers, her energy vibrating in her voice. ‘Look, I’m prepared to do it on a trial basis. If you give me three months, I’ll do everything I can to justify your faith in me.’
He stared at her in amazement. ‘You’re prepared to do it on a trial basis?’ he repeated, unable to believe the brass neck of the woman. ‘You want me to turn away a perfectly good applicant so I can give you a trial?’ He was stunned. Justify his faith, indeed! What faith? He had no faith in her, none at all!
She surged to her feet, nearly six feet of willowy, tormenting woman, and paced to the window. She was so slender he could have snapped her in half with his bare hands, he thought disgustedly. How did she imagine she could cope?
The sunshine caught her hair and for a moment she looked like an angel, the gold strands surrounding her enthusiastic, lovely face like a shimmering halo. Then she turned, a coil of energy that made him feel exhausted just to watch her, and came back to the desk, bracing those beautiful, slender hands on it and leaning towards him, her eyes earnest.
‘That’s right. It will give us both long enough to see if it could work. If it doesn’t, then I’ll give up and go quietly.’
He couldn’t stop the little snort. The very idea of this young woman giving up and going anywhere quietly was laughable.
She jerked up straight and glared down at him. ‘You don’t believe me, do you?’
He met her eyes, serious now. The last time he had believed a woman had been his wedding day. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.
‘Why should I?’
‘Because I’m honest. I’ll try, and try hard. If it doesn’t work, I’ll admit it. What I won’t accept is not being given a chance just because you think I won’t stick at it or won’t be strong enough to do it.’
‘And will you?’
‘Of course. Give me your hand.’
Warily, a little bemused, he held out his hand and her warm, slender fingers curled softly round it and gripped with surprising strength. She settled herself into the chair again, said, ‘Ready?’ and at his nod he felt the power in her arm challenge his own strength.
She wanted to arm-wrestle? Far be it from him to spoil her fun, but he didn’t believe in hurting women—
‘Damn! How did you do that?’
She laughed. ‘You weren’t taking me seriously. You keep doing that, don’t you?’ She shook her head and laughed again. ‘Big mistake.’
He didn’t doubt it for a minute! He extricated his hand from her warm and enticing grip and leant back in the chair, regarding her steadily.
‘I let you win,’ he lied.
She snorted. ‘Fiddlesticks. You underestimated me, Mr Ryder. My point is this—I’m strong. I take care of myself—probably better than you do. I won’t let you down—I promise.’
Her eyes were grey, not the blue-grey of his but a soft, slightly greeny grey, wide and clear, and they locked with his and wouldn’t let go. He could still feel the strength of her grip, the warmth of her hand and he was achingly aware of the soft rise and fall of her very feminine curves under her fine wool sweater as she waited for his answer.
‘Please?’ she coaxed, and her voice whispered over his senses and did unbidden things to his normally ordered mind.
He felt himself crumble under that misty gaze, and the rigid set of his shoulders sagged slightly under the weight of his foolishness. ‘I’ll probably regret it,’ he found himself saying, ‘but yes, Dr Bradley, I’ll give you your chance.’
For a moment he thought she was going to jump over the desk and hug him, but with a massive effort she pulled herself together and smiled, and the smile set off little fires in her eyes that warmed the cold recesses of his heart.
‘Thank you,’ she said, with commendable control, and leant against the chair-back as if sheer will-power had been holding her up. ‘So—when do I start?’
He shuffled paper on his desk, still unable to believe what he had done. Was he quite mad? ‘The beginning of January? I’ll get my secretary to sort out all the details of your salary and so on—she might be able to help you with accommodation as well.’
He pushed his chair back and rose to his feet, going round the desk to usher her out, and as she stood and smiled at him with her megawatt smile a shock of heat coursed through his body.
He crushed it ruthlessly and forced a smile. ‘Welcome to the team, Dr Bradley. I’ll see you in the new year.’
Her eyes were dancing and a subtle hint of perfume, sensuous and filled with promise, drifted over him as she moved. ‘Thank you. I’ll look forward to it. Happy Christmas.’
‘Thank you. And to you.’
Her strong, warm fingers curled round his again, familiar now and somehow enticing, and with a mumbled goodbye he closed the door behind her and leant against it with a groan, grateful for the long white coat which disguised his body’s betrayal.
A knot of tension gripped his chest and he rubbed it absently. What had he done?
Ah, well, it was only three months. Hopefully he could survive.
He wasn’t convinced. Her perfume lingered on the air, conjuring a memory of her smiling eyes and soft, lush figure. Frances Bradley, he realised with a sinking feeling in his gut, was one complication he could frankly have done without …
She found him in the sister’s office, dressed in green theatre pyjamas, his feet, in white anti-static boots, up on the desk, a file open on his lap. The remains of a cup of coffee lurked beside him, and she could see by his shadowed jaw that he had been up all night.
He looked forbidding and rather cross, she thought, and her heart sank. Oh, well, it was all her own fault, and if he proved a pig to work with she had only herself to blame. After all, he hadn’t wanted her.
Frankie approached him cautiously.
‘Happy New Year,’ she ventured.
He lifted his head and stared at her, then gave a tiny snort of disbelief. ‘Is it?’
‘I hope so. So, what’s on the menu today?’ she said brightly.
Robert Ryder scowled, his blue-grey eyes as chilly as the January wind that sliced across the Suffolk countryside. ‘Emergency theatre work, mainly. Several casualties after last night’s festive stupidity—I thought you weren’t coming in until tomorrow? It’s a bank holiday today.’
She shrugged and smiled. ‘Thought I’d come and find out where everything was, see if I could help.’
She could see he wasn’t convinced. The scowl lurked in the back of his eyes, and her heart sank even further.
‘It’s all under control,’ he said shortly, snapping the file shut. ‘You should have stayed in bed while the going was good.’
‘It wasn’t that good—the bed. Cold and lumpy, really. Most unappealing. It was no hardship to get out of it.’
His scowl worsened. Oh, damn, she thought, he regretted his impulse. She stifled the sigh and let her smile slip a little. ‘Well, then, if there’s nothing else I can do, do you mind if I watch you operate?’
He shrugged his broad shoulders slightly, and a cynical little smile touched his lips. ‘Oh, I think you can scrub—you never know, I might find a use for you since you’re here. We might as well find out sooner rather than later if you aren’t going to be able to cope.’
Oh, hell. Frankie dredged up a smile. ‘Oh, I’ll cope, Mr Ryder; don’t you worry.’
‘I’m not worried, Dr Bradley—just unconvinced.’
‘Then give me a chance to convince you. What’s the first case?’
He dropped his feet to the floor and stood up, stretching wearily and kneading the back of his neck with one large, long-fingered hand. ‘Here.’ He snapped some X-rays up onto the light box and stood back. ‘What can you tell me about this?’
‘Ouch,’ she murmured.
‘Would you care to be more specific?’ he said drily.
‘Sure.’ She pointed to the radiograph of the right thigh and indicated a long, diagonal fracture of the shaft of the femur. ‘This, obviously, and also here.’ She moved her finger up to the femoral neck, where it angled across to the pelvis. ‘There’s a slightly impacted fracture here, and the hip joint’s gone on the other side, I think,’ she murmured, looking at the other plate of the left side. She peered more closely at it, and frowned. ‘Is there another view of this?’
He snapped it up onto the screen and she nodded. ‘Yes. The pelvis has a slight fracture across the acetabulum, here—’ she pointed out the fine line across the socket of the hip joint ‘—and the whole joint has probably destabilised a little in the collision.’
‘Collision?’
‘Oh, yes, I think so—hasn’t the patient been involved in a car accident? Looks like a telescoped front end, with the bulkhead pushing up against the knees and transmitting the force of the impact through into the thighs and pelvis. I expect she was on the left side of the car and the pelvic fracture resulted from her being slammed against the door or the door slammed against her by another vehicle, perhaps? Were there any other injuries?’
‘Such as?’
She shrugged. ‘Foot or lower leg? Facial? Whiplash to the neck and upper spine? Ribs, maybe, if she was the driver, but I don’t think she was.’
‘She?’
‘Yes, it’s a woman,’ Frankie said confidently. ‘You can tell from the pelvis—and the name on the X-ray plate!’
His mouth twitched and she felt a ripple of relief. At least he appeared to have a sense of humour in there somewhere!
He nodded thoughtfully and answered her previous question. ‘Yes, there were some minor facial and cervical spinal injuries and bruising from the seat belt. The other leg was all right. She was a passenger, travelling on the left of the car in a front right quarter impact. The car then slewed round and hit a wall. The driver was killed outright; so was the rear-seat passenger behind him who wasn’t wearing a seat belt. She was lucky to get away with it so lightly.
‘So,’ he said, leaning back against the desk and bracing his hands on the edge at each side, ‘how would you deal with her?’
Frankie chewed her lip slightly. ‘I’d fix the femur internally, both because it’s a spiral fracture and unstable with traction alone and because the neck of the femur looks stable and I wouldn’t want to go and tug on it. At the moment it isn’t displaced so I’d want to manage it conservatively if possible and just watch it.
‘Also I’d put the other leg in traction to relieve pressure on that acetabulum and rest the damaged tissues in the hip joint.’
‘Just like that.’
‘If the skin’s intact or in good enough condition for the operation and if the soft tissues aren’t too badly damaged. I can’t tell that, of course, from the X-rays.’
‘No. Right, well, she’s our first customer.’
‘And?’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘And what?’
‘Was I right with the treatment?’
A grudging smile touched his eyes. ‘Yes, you were.’
She had to stop herself forcibly from heaving a sigh of relief. Instead she turned to the pile of X-ray envelopes on the desk. ‘What’s next?’
He took down the woman’s X-rays and put them away, then snapped another set up onto the screen. ‘This man.’
He sat back on the edge of the desk again, and Frankie could feel his eyes boring into her. ‘Um—he’s got lower leg fractures—ah—is that an old one?’
She swivelled round to look at him and he shrugged nonchalantly. ‘You tell me—you’re the diagnostician.’
She stifled her retort, turned back to the plates and nodded, running her fingertip down the shin bone and the finer bone—the fibula—beside it. ‘Yes—there’s an old non-union of the tibia, a mal-union of the fibula and another fracture of the tibia and fibula higher up, a new one this time. Looks like a fracture from a direct blow, and as one end of the tib’s free it’s probably caused havoc in the soft tissue.’
‘“Havoc” is putting it mildly,’ he told her, shrugging away from the desk and coming to stand behind her. ‘He was a pedestrian. He was hit by a car bumper at this point—’ His arm reached round her and as he carried on describing the result of the impact his finger pointed out the area of soft tissue damage, invisible on the X-ray.
It would have been invisible to Frankie anyway, because she was suddenly, chokingly aware of him, of the enticing smell of his skin lurking under the smell of antiseptic, the warmth of his arm against her shoulder, the lean, sinuous forearm dusted with dark curls so very, very close to her face …
He muttered something under his breath and moved away, and she released the block of air trapped in her lungs, letting it out on a long, silent sigh, and focused on the X-ray again.
‘So what are you intending to do with him?’ she asked in what she hoped was a normal voice.
‘Open up the leg at the sight of the old fracture, repair the soft tissue damage and realign the old break, pack it with slivers of bone and put an external fixator on to hold the whole thing. I can’t fix it internally because of the risk of infection with the soft tissue injuries, so we’ll put screws into all the various fragments, pull them out into line with a little judicious twiddling, and fasten the whole lot onto a rod outside his leg and let it get on with it.
‘Hopefully the old one’ll heal this time, and the new one’s got two chances. I’m not so worried about the fibula; I want to sort the tibia out once and for all.’
He flicked off the light, returned the plates to the envelope and gestured towards the door. ‘Shall we go? They’re all prepped up and ready for us.’
Watching him operate was a joy. He was careful, precise and meticulous, and Frankie realised with a surge of humility how much she had to learn. Oh, she knew the theory—she’d studied it endlessly—but it was nothing compared to watching the real thing.
And he made it look so easy! Fixing the femur with an intramedullary nail driven down inside the bone had always sounded fairly brutal. In his hands it became a skilled procedure, using imaging techniques to see the nail slowly descending through the femur until it reached the fracture, then the ends aligned so that the nail continued on down the second section.
Finally they were fixed in place with screws through the bone into the nail, and so the bone was held, unable to rotate or slip, with the ends in perfect alignment, and all without disturbing the break in the neck of the femur.
He checked on the image intensifier to ensure that all was as he wanted it, then closed the wound on the thigh and at the top of the femur and straightened up with a sigh.
‘Thank you, everyone,’ he murmured, and turned to Frankie, peeling off his gloves and dropping the mask down off his face. ‘How about a cup of coffee while they prepare the operating room for the next onslaught?’
‘Sounds good.’
She followed him out, accepted the cup and listened as he talked to the anaesthetist, Peter Graham. From the conversation she gathered that this was far from the first operation they had performed in the last few hours, and there were at least two more ahead—the man with the fractured lower leg and another new admission from A and E.
Robert Ryder turned to her. ‘I don’t suppose you’d like to pop down there and have a look at the plates, would you, and report back? Perhaps bring the plates back here and we can study them together.’
‘Sure.’ She put down her untouched coffee and stood up. ‘Um—where is A and E?’
Peter grinned. ‘Out the door, turn left, down the corridor to the end and turn left again. You can’t miss it.’
She followed his directions and found herself in the busy bustle of a typical accident and emergency department. She found the desk in the middle, collared a staff nurse and introduced herself.
‘Oh, you’ve come about the cyclist. He’s in here—it’s a nasty mess.’
She opened the curtain to reveal a young man on a trolley, the cot sides up and a drip running in. He was lying motionless, his face pale and clammy, and he looked very shocked.
The staff nurse eased off the thick gauze pad covering the wound on the outside of his left foot, and Frankie’s mouth tightened slightly. It was very badly mangled, bent in at an unnatural angle and with extensive soft tissue injuries. There was a great deal of grit and tarmac ground into the exposed bones, and she winced.
‘Not nice, is it?’ the staff nurse agreed. ‘His X-rays are here.’
Frankie studied them thoughtfully. The bones were nearly all intact, amazingly, but one or two were broken through the ends and would need fixing. The main damage, she could see, was to the soft tissues.
‘Do you know what happened?’ she asked the nurse.
‘He was knocked off his bike and dragged along the ground for a few yards by a car. Luckily for him he had a helmet and leather jacket and gloves on, or he’d be a lot worse off. His little finger’s broken as well, by the way—just a minor fracture. We’ve put a garter strapping on to support it. We’ve done chest X-rays but there didn’t seem to be anything on them. He’s complaining of pain in the left shoulder, though.’
‘May I see?’ she asked, and, studying the plate, she ran her finger lightly along the left collar-bone to the outer end. ‘The clavicle’s partially dislocated,’ she said quietly. ‘Must have happened as he landed on that shoulder. We’ll have to support that for a while as well. OK, thanks—can I take the plates up to Theatre to show Mr Ryder?’
‘Sure. What do you want to do with the patient?’
She turned back to the foot and studied it again. The soft tissue injuries were nasty, infection was likely and the toes were looking discoloured. ‘I’m inclined to think he’ll want this one next. Is the consent form signed?’
‘Yes—his wife’s here. Do you want to talk to her?’
She shook her head. ‘Not until I’ve spoken to Mr Ryder. I think I’ll ring him and ask him to come down.’
She contacted him on the phone, explained the situation and then had to defend her suggestion that he go in next.
‘The soft tissues look awful. I think the circulation could be compromised,’ she told him.
‘The other man’s soft tissues look awful.’
‘Is the circulation affected?’
She heard him sigh. ‘Apparently not. So you want me to come down?’
‘I think you should.’
The phone clicked and she replaced it thoughtfully. Was he cross with her? Perhaps she should have just tacked the man on the end of the list, but she wasn’t even officially working and the last thing she wanted to do was blow her chances at this job by fouling up in the first few hours!
She needn’t have worried. He came down, took one look at the foot and nodded.
‘Let’s do him next,’ he agreed, and Frankie’s fragile ego heaved an enormous sigh of relief. The relief quickly turned to horror, however, when he told her that if she liked jigsaws so much she could do this one.
‘Me?’ she squeaked.
He rolled his eyes above the mask. ‘Sure, you. Why not? Don’t worry, I’ll tell you blow by blow what I want you to do.’
And so she did her first orthopaedic jigsaw, carefully reinstating the circulation by reconnecting the damaged blood vessels as well as possible. When the foot turned pink again she could have wept with delight.
Ryder, however, kept her feet firmly on the ground and her optimism in the dirt—literally.
‘Right,’ he said, ‘now you can set about picking all those bits of tarmac out of the bone-ends and cleaning up the field before closing the skin.’
It took ages, with both of them working although the area was quite small, and finally it was cleaned up to his satisfaction.
‘Right, we need to screw back that small chip of bone with its ligament attached and we’re done,’ he told her. ‘We won’t close it because of the danger of infection. It was a very dirty wound.’
It was indeed, and once the healing was under way it would need skin grafts to cover the area. In the meantime it would be covered with a non-adherent dressing.
Finally he declared the operation finished, and Frankie sagged against the wall outside and looked at the clock in disbelief. It had taken nearly two hours, but she was very pleased with herself—until her boss pointed out that it could and should have been done in half the time.
‘Still,’ he added with a slight smile that softened his weary eyes, ‘you did a good job. Well done.’
High praise. She could have hugged him, but thought better of it and concentrated instead on pouring them another cup of coffee and this time drinking hers quickly before the phone could ring again.
They were lucky. His bleeper didn’t squawk until later, when they were back on the ward following up the post-ops, all of whom were doing well.
Mary O’Brien, the ward sister, handed him the phone and he spoke to the switchboard briefly before being connected.
Frankie wasn’t really listening, but it was impossible not to hear what he was saying, and anyway she was fascinated.
‘What do you mean you’re at the station? Jane, you can’t do this to me! I’m at work—yes, I know it’s a bank holiday. It just means that we’re even busier—no, I didn’t get the day off; my senior registrar did. He worked Christmas, remember?
‘You’ll have to get a taxi to the house—what do you mean you haven’t got any money? Get a taxi here, then. What about your train fare? Oh, Jane, for heaven’s sake!’
He looked at Frankie doubtfully. ‘Can you hold the fort? Just for half an hour? My daughter’s got herself in a mess.’
‘Of course,’ Frankie assured him, far from confident. She didn’t know the hospital, she didn’t know all she felt she should about orthopaedics, even though she’d spent the past month reading solidly on the subject, and she felt totally at sea. In, as they said, at the deep end.
‘Mary, look after her for me,’ he said to the kindly ward sister, and then, with a wry smile and a weary shake of his head, he strode quickly off the ward and away to his errant daughter.
At least, Frankie assumed she was errant. It certainly sounded as if she was, at least a little.
‘Can’t his wife drive?’ she found herself asking.
Mary O’Brien snorted. ‘Oh, yes—but she’s in London and it’s her the child’s run away from yet again. They’re divorced—have been for years.’
Frankie blinked, part of her mind registering with interest the fact that his wife no longer lived with him. Then her mind belatedly latched onto the information about the child. ‘Run away?’ she queried.
‘I expect so. I should think there was a wild party last night and she hates it. Nice kid. I expect you’ll meet her in a while; he often has to bring her in when she does something like this, poor little scrap.’
Poor little scrap? ‘How old is she?’ Frankie ventured, suddenly concerned for a little girl torn in the war between irresponsible adults.
‘Oh, thirteen or so. Twelve, perhaps?’
So, not a little girl at all but quite a big girl—which meant either that Robert Ryder was wearing better than he had any right to or that he had started a family somewhat younger than was prudent.
Remembering the warmth of his body and the intoxicating scent of his skin as they’d stood side by side for hours in the theatre, she thought the latter most likely.
As sure as eggs is eggs, she thought, he wasn’t any less attractive in his early twenties. It would have taken a very level-headed girl to turn him away if he had switched on the charm. Heavens, even when scowling the man is absurdly attractive!
The door opened and a staff nurse popped her head round the door. ‘Mrs Jenkins is in pain—any chance of a boost to her painkillers?’
Mary O’Brien turned to Frankie. ‘Would you?’
‘Of course.’ She stood up and followed the staff nurse out, and was joined a moment later by Mary O’Brien with the keys to the drugs trolley.
‘What would Mr Ryder normally give her?’ Frankie asked the ward sister.
‘Oh, just some stronger tablets—a paracetamol and codeine combination, usually. What did she have yesterday?’ They checked the drug chart and then Frankie filled it in and Mary dished out the pills and gave them to the patient.
‘Soon have you feeling more the thing,’ she said kindly, plumping up the pillows and settling the patient more comfortably against them. She had had osteoarthritis for years and had been given her second hip replacement three days before, Mary told her. She had refused any opiates and so it was proving difficult to get her pain under control, but she was being very brave about it and the situation was gradually improving.
‘She gets tired by the end of the day, though, and in the middle of the night she suffers from it. If we could give her pethidine it would be better, but it makes her terribly sick and she says she’d rather be in pain than be sick.’
‘Can’t the anaesthetist do something to make her pain-free without nausea?’
Mary smiled. ‘I’m sure, but she won’t let him try. She’s got a bee in her bonnet since she had the other hip done ten years ago, and she can’t believe things have moved on that far. She’s convinced she’s better off like this, and so the poor old dear will just have to suffer for it. It won’t be for long. She says bad as it is it’s better than her old hip was, so all in all she’s quite happy most of the day!’
They went back into the ward office, Mary to do some paperwork, Frankie to scan the notes and try and bone up, so to speak, on some of the cases.
They were sitting quietly working when the door burst open and a tall, slender girl with long, straggly fair hair flounced into the room.
‘I suppose I’ve got to sit here and wait till you’ve finished—I said I’d be all right at the house!’ she grumbled.
Her father followed her, his scowl firmly in place, lines of strain etched round his mouth and eyes.
‘Jane, for God’s sake, just for once in your life do as you’re told, could you? Unlike your mother I have a job to do and responsibilities—’
‘Yeah, like me.’
He sighed and stabbed his hands through his hair. ‘Yes, like you, and the countless patients out there waiting for a little piece of me, and all the others for whom fate has a little treat in store tonight—I’m afraid, like it or not, you’ll have to share me, and for now that means sitting there while I ring Mrs Bailey and see if she can come and look after you this evening—’
‘I hate Mrs Bailey!’ the girl wailed. ‘I don’t need a babysitter—I’m thirteen, for heaven’s sake! You always baby me—’
‘Well, you should have thought of that before you got on the train, shouldn’t you?’ he said irritably as he punched numbers into the hapless phone.
‘Why is it always my fault?’ she said unhappily, and Frankie, watching out of the corner of her eye, noticed a gleam of moisture on her lashes. Her father, drumming his fingers on the desk, either didn’t see or wasn’t impressed. His mouth tightened into an even grimmer, tighter line than before.
‘You tell me— Ah, yes, Mrs Bailey. It’s Robert Ryder—I wonder if you could do me a favour and keep an eye on Jane for me? No, it was quite unexpected—yes, I know it’s a bank holiday— Oh, I’m sorry.’ He sighed and ran his hand wearily over his face. ‘Forget it. I’m sorry to disturb you. Have a good evening with the family. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
He cradled the phone in his hand and turned back to Jane.
‘She’s got her family for the day. Look, I’ve just got one or two people I’d like to see, then if Frankie wouldn’t mind I could take you home and sort things out.’
He turned to Frankie, a weary entreaty in his eyes. ‘Will that be all right?’
She smiled faintly. ‘I did say I wouldn’t let you down,’ she reminded him. ‘If you take your bleeper so I can get you in a real emergency I’m sure I can cope.’
He smiled, a tired, grateful smile that didn’t quite reach those weary eyes, and left the room.
‘So, young lady,’ Mary said quietly, ‘what’s it all about this time?’
‘Oh, Mum’s latest boyfriend—he and his chums were all sitting about the place doing drugs. It makes me feel sick to see them all giggling and talking rubbish. It’s just such a waste of time.’
She rolled her eyes, and Frankie quickly stifled a smile. It was no laughing matter, but the girl seemed at least to have the issue of drug-taking in perspective.
Frankie supposed Jane’s father should be grateful for small mercies …
CHAPTER TWO (#u0739085e-b34e-5f10-9115-2245af2b9ea6)
THE rest of that afternoon and evening was relatively quiet. The A and E staff called Frankie once about an elderly lady who had had a fall and broken her hip, and it was decided to admit her for surgery the following day.
After that there seemed to be nothing to do, so armed with her bleeper Frankie made her way back to the doctors’ residence and to the room that for now, at least, was home.
She hadn’t unpacked property the night before, so now she opened her suitcases and put the things away in the drawers, hung up her few dresses and put the cases under the bed. Her books she set out on the shelf above the scarred and battered table, and she was done.
Standing back, she surveyed the room critically and sighed. There wasn’t much to show for twenty-eight years, she thought with a touch of melancholy, and then banished it ruthlessly. Pictures were what she needed, she decided—pictures and perhaps some flowers to brighten up the dismal little cell. Maybe a pot plant.
She went and made herself a cup of tea in the communal kitchen, added a kettle to the list of necessities and curled up against her pillows with a book.
She couldn’t concentrate. All she could see was her new boss’s weary eyes, and osteomyelitis simply couldn’t handle the competition.
She put the book down.
So, he was divorced—and living alone, if he’d had to ring someone to look after his daughter. What a waste, she thought, and then chastised herself for making assumptions. Maybe he liked being alone?
And pigs flew. Nobody liked being alone. Sometimes it was better than an existing bad relationship, but given the choice she imagined most people would choose a good relationship over none at all.
Given the choice. Sometimes, of course, one wasn’t given the choice. She wouldn’t be alone by choice, but fate had played dirty tricks on her and she had ended up alone, in this dismal little room—
She snorted in disgust. The room was temporary, just until she had convinced Mr Ryder that it would be a good idea to take her on permanently. Then she’d get herself a nice little flat and start acquiring some little bits and pieces.
If Mr Ryder took her on.
She shook her head. ‘Mr Ryder’ was so formal. She wondered if he would expect her to call him that, or if ‘sir’ would do …!
Robert.
She tried the name, and decided it suited him. Solid, dependable, utterly trustworthy. No frills or flounces, just a good, honest name that could have been made for him.
She wondered if he resented the responsibilities that had been thrust on him, and decided that even if he did he would never admit it, not even to himself.
Her brother had resented the responsibility of his younger sister. He loved her, but providing her with a home for the past ten years had taken its toll of their relationship. And now his wife was on the scene …
With a sigh she picked up her book again and tried to read, but her eyelids were drooping. She took off her skirt, slipped under the quilt and settled down for a rest. She wouldn’t sleep for long. Inevitably her bleeper would squawk and she would have to get up again.
Her breathing slowed, her body quickly adapting to rest. After years of practice it had learned to snatch sleep when it was offered, and cat-napping was a gift she treasured. Within seconds, she was asleep.
Robeert knuckled the sleep from his eyes with one hand, the other clutching the receiver as he struggled to cast aside the dream. ‘Have you called Dr Bradley?’ Hell, even saying her name made it worse—
‘Yes, she’s with the patient now. She asked if I could contact you and get you to come in. I’m sorry.’
Robert sighed. ‘I’ll be right over,’ he promised, and throwing the bedclothes off he pulled on his clothes and went into his daughter’s room.
‘Are you going out?’ she mumbled.
‘Yes—sorry. Will you be all right?’
‘Mmm.’
He dropped a kiss on her cheek, ran downstairs and picked up his jacket and keys on the way out of the door. As he drove the short distance to the hospital, he ran the case through his mind again.
It was the man with the damaged lower leg, the one with the old unhealed fracture who had been hit sideways by a car the night before. They had operated just before lunch and put a fixator on the tibia to support the fractures externally, but the leg had swollen and was now apparently showing symptoms of compartment syndrome, where the sheath surrounding each of the muscles refused to allow sufficient swelling and so caused severe constriction to the muscles and underlying tissues, with resulting serious consequences if they were not rapidly decompressed.
He would require a minor operation called a fasciotomy, literally a slit cut in each of the muscle sheaths to allow for the swelling—assuming that Frankie had got it right.
Dr Bradley. He must remember to call her that. The temptation to call her Frankie was mixed up with all sorts of other forbidden temptations that he didn’t even dare consider except in his dreams—and they, he thought disgustedly, should be censored.
He turned into the hospital car park, pulled up in his usual space and headed for the ward. She was there, in the office with the night sister, her head thrown back and a delicious, deep chuckle bubbling up from her throat.
She turned to him with a smile and said, ‘Hi,’ in her warm honey voice, and his pulse rate soared as the dream came screaming back full force. Damn.
He ignored his body, tugged on his white coat from behind the door and rammed his hands deep into the pockets.
‘So, what’s the situation?’ he asked gruffly.
‘Mr Lee’s leg. It’s started to swell more, and he’s now got a tense calf with loss of extension and diminished sensation in the foot.’
‘Damn. What have you done?’
‘Elevated it, ice-packed the muscles and alerted Theatre. He’s had a premed and he’s ready when you are.’
‘You’re confident of the diagnosis?’
One eyebrow arched delicately, and she stood up and gestured to the door. ‘He’s your patient—I’d be delighted for you to check.’
He grunted and followed her to the patient’s bedside. Mr Lee was lying with his leg raised in a ‘gutter’, packed round with soft wadding to support it off the calf, and Robert could see the tension on the skin. The patient was restless, clearly in pain and the foot was looking discoloured. The calf was certainly swollen all round, and there was no question about the diagnosis.
He swore, softly and comprehensively, and then met Frankie’s eyes.
‘Well done, Dr Bradley,’ he murmured. ‘Ever done a fasciotomy?’
She shook her head, the soft, fine hair swinging round her face. ‘Not yet,’ she said, and the faintest smile touched her eyes.
It was the middle of the night, he was exhausted, and yet still she made him want to smile back. He felt his eyes crinkle. ‘Well, as the saying goes, there’s no time like the present. You didn’t really want to go back to that cold, lumpy bed, did you?’
This time she really smiled. ‘Actually I was getting used to it,’ she said ruefully.
‘Tough,’ he growled, but he was unable to stop the quirk of his lips, and she smiled again.
‘Come on, then, let’s go and do this fasciotomy.’
She was a willing pupil, he had to admit. What his grandfather would have called ‘a quick study’. She did only what she was told to do, exactly as she was told to do it, and with skill and sensitivity, as if the scalpel were simply an extension of her fingers. Immediately she released the affected compartments the muscle bulged through the space, colour and warmth returned to the foot and the situation improved.
‘Excellent,’ he murmured. ‘Right, he can go back down as soon as he’s recovered from the anaesthetic. I’ll be in the hospital for a while—I want to see him after he’s come round and make sure we’ve done enough.’
He stripped off his gloves and gown, dropped them in the bin and turned to Frankie. ‘You did a really good job. Well done.’
Wonders would never cease. The man who hadn’t wanted to give her the job dishing out such high praise? Frankie was faintly dumbstruck. She peeled off her gloves and gown, dropped them in the bin on top of his and marvelled at her beginner’s luck.
‘Thank you,’ she murmured. ‘It wasn’t really difficult.’
‘No, but it’s still possible to make a mess of it.’
She forced herself to meet his eyes. ‘I said I wouldn’t let you down.’
He smiled, a slow, lazy smile that made her heart thump a little harder. ‘So you did. Coffee?’
‘Tea?’
‘Whatever. Shall we go to the canteen? They usually have various things to eat and I’m starving.’
‘I’ve got a fruit cake,’ she said rashly.
‘Home-made?’
She should have denied it, but his eyes were so hopeful, as if it had been years—possibly forever—since anyone had made him a cake.
‘Yes, home-made,’ she said gently. ‘It was my Christmas cake, but it never got iced. There didn’t seem to be a lot of point—I was on duty so much coming up to Christmas that I didn’t have time to ice it, and I was too busy over Christmas to eat it, so it didn’t really matter. It was a bit ambitious bothering to make it anyway, I suppose.’
He eyed her curiously. ‘Didn’t you go home for Christmas?’
She thought of Jeff and his new bride, wrapped up in each other to the exclusion of everyone and everything else. She certainly hadn’t been wanted.
Her smile probably didn’t reach her eyes, but she tried. ‘I don’t have a family home any more.’
‘I’m sorry.’ He sounded contrite, as if he regretted hurting her, and suddenly she wanted to comfort him, to explain that it was all right, it didn’t matter any more, it couldn’t hurt her now.
It was too soon, though. She didn’t know him. Maybe later, after a few weeks or months—if she was still here …
‘So, do you want to risk it?’
His eyes searched her face and he grinned fleetingly. ‘What do you think?’
She laughed. ‘Come on, then, or we’ll be having it for breakfast.’
They walked in silence through the hospital corridors to her room, and she opened the door with a flourish. ‘Voilà! Welcome to my humble abode.’
He went through the door and peered around. ‘God, it is, isn’t it? I’d forgotten what hospital rooms are like.’
She laughed and closed the door quietly. ‘Aren’t you the lucky one? Make yourself at home; I’ll get the drinks. Tea or coffee?’
‘Oh—coffee, please.’ He was thumbing through the textbook she had been unable to concentrate on, and she slipped past him, made the drinks and returned to find him sitting on the end of the bed, one leg hitched up and the book lying open on his lap, asleep.
‘I found it riveting too.’
He opened one eye and peered at her, then a slow smile tilted his mouth. ‘Sorry. It’s been a rather hectic weekend.’ He snapped the book shut and sat up, taking the coffee from her. ‘So, where’s this fabled cake?’
She rummaged under the bed and came out with a cake tin, worried now that it would taste awful and disappoint him.
‘I hope you’re not expecting Fortnum & Mason’s standard,’ she joked, stabbing a knife into the centre of the untouched cake and chopping out a wedge.
He winced. ‘I’m glad I’ve already seen you operate, otherwise that would really have worried me!’
She chuckled and handed him the crumbling slice. ‘Sorry there aren’t any plates—here, have the lid.’
He took the lid and sniffed the cake. ‘It smells wonderful.’
‘Brandy. Go on, then, try it.’
‘What about you?’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘I want to see if you die first.’ He grinned and took a bite, then shut his eyes and groaned, keeling slowly over onto the bed.
‘Ha ha.’
He opened one eye and mumbled something totally unintelligible, swallowed and tried again. ‘I said it’s worth dying for.’
Quite unexpectedly she felt her cheeks heat. It was one thing to be complimented for her work, and quite another when his remarks were personal—and somehow the fact that she had made the cake and he was impressed was very personal, almost intimate.
She was disgusted at how pleased she was, and yet she couldn’t hold down the happiness. It was absurd that it should matter so much, she thought, and hacked off another wedge for herself.
He was right, though—it was good, even if she said so herself. She finished her chunk, licked her fingers and looked up to find him watching her, a strange expression on his face.
Her breath lodged in her throat and she coughed slightly, looking away from those piercing blue-grey eyes. ‘More?’ she said, and her voice wavered, to her disgust.
‘Um—no, thanks. I thought I’d just go back to the ward and check on Mr Lee, then I ought to go back to Jane.’
He stood up, suddenly big in the tiny room, and she put down her cup and stood too. ‘Thanks for coming in.’
He laughed without humour. ‘I should be thanking you for covering for me so I could sort Jane out, not the other way round. Oh, well, I’ll see you in the morning. Thanks for the coffee and the cake—you can save me a slice for another time.’
He was right beside her now, just inches away, and he paused and lifted a hand.
‘You’ve got a crumb on your lip,’ he murmured, and she felt his fingertip like a butterfly’s wing against her mouth, easing away the crumb. It lingered, just a heartbeat longer than was necessary, and suddenly the butterfly’s wing burned against her skin.
Fire shot through her, and as their eyes locked for a long, aching moment she wondered if he was going to kiss her. Then his hand dropped, and with a muffled sigh he opened the door and was gone.
Robert wasn’t enjoying this telephone call, but it had to be made. However, he didn’t even try to keep the hard edge out of his voice. ‘I thought I made it perfectly clear that during the school holidays you wouldn’t entertain your lovers.’
‘Oh, Robert, for God’s sake, it was New Year’s Eve! Everybody entertains!’
‘I didn’t,’ he growled. ‘I was at work, earning your maintenance.’
‘Jane’s maintenance,’ his ex-wife reminded him with a bitter cut to her voice. ‘If you remember you declined to support me.’
Robert sighed. Not this again. He refused to get drawn in. ‘She tells me they were “doing drugs”.’
‘What a revolting expression, darling! Just a little smoke—’
‘I don’t care how you phrase it, Jackie, I am not having my daughter exposed to drugs and debauchery!’
There was a mock sigh from the other end. ‘Here we go—trotting out the moral outrage. Just because you don’t know how to enjoy yourself any more—’
‘I don’t consider getting drunk and smoking cannabis with a lover in front of my daughter enjoying myself, and I’m appalled that you should. I’m sorry, Jackie, but you’ve gone too far this time. Jane’s living with me now, for good. I’ll contact my solicitor and sort out visitation rights, but she’s slept the night in your home for the last time.’
He could feel the tension coming off her. ‘Robert, darling, you’re overreacting! I promise it won’t happen again—’
‘No, it won’t. I’ll arrange to collect all her things this weekend—’
‘But Robert, please, think about it! You can’t just do this—’
‘I can and I am. You’ve had plenty of chances, Jackie.’
‘But the maintenance …’
His hand tightened on the receiver and the plastic creaked ominously. ‘To hell with the maintenance. As you’ve just pointed out, it wasn’t for you anyway, but don’t worry, I’ll make sure you don’t suffer.’
He cradled the poor unfortunate receiver with more force than was necessary and flexed his fingers absently. He must be mad. How was he going to look after Jane? She had no friends in the area, and he was working all day and often at the weekends.
Had he been hasty?
He rammed his fingers through his hair and swore, softly and comprehensively. Would it never end?
He heard a sound behind him and turned his head slowly to see his daughter, clad in her nightshirt, leaning against the doorpost and eyeing him warily as he sprawled in the big old chair.
‘Mum?’ she asked.
‘Yes. I’ve just told her you’re living with me now.’
Jane hovered, chewing her lip unhappily. ‘Are you sure you want me?’ she asked tentatively. ‘I make your life so complicated.’
He couldn’t deny it. His life had been complicated by her presence ever since she had been conceived fourteen years before, when he was just a green medical student with more hormones than sense, but want her? Oh, yes …
He held out his arms. ‘Come here, sweetheart.’
She watched him for a second, then shrugged away from the doorpost and crossed to him, curling up on his lap the way she had as a little girl, her head nestled on his shoulder, her fragrant hair tickling his nose, her light frame angular now and leggy like a foal’s.
He snuggled her deeper into his arms, rested his chin against her head and sighed. ‘Love you, JJ.’
‘Love you too, Dad,’ she mumbled, and he felt her slim arms creep round his chest and squeeze.
Anger rose in him, anger at his ex-wife for so callously and selfishly following her own path to the detriment of Jane’s happiness, anger too at her money-grubbing plea about the maintenance.
‘Don’t be angry with her, Dad. She can’t help it. It’s just the way she is.’
He sighed and stroked the sweetly scented hair. ‘It just makes me angry when she hurts you.’
Jane sat up on his lap and shook her head. ‘She doesn’t hurt me.’
‘She disappoints you.’
Jane nodded. ‘Yeah.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘For what? Not choosing my mother more carefully?’ She ruffled his hair affectionately. ‘Don’t be silly. Are you going to work?’
‘I have to. I’ve got a new registrar and she got flung in a bit at the deep end yesterday.’
‘Mmm. Frankie. I like her; she’s got nice eyes.’
His mouth quirked in a fleeting smile. ‘Yes—yes, she has. She’s probably got bags under them by now. I’d better go and give her the day off, I think.’
He patted Jane’s shoulder, and she slid off his lap and stretched, her nightshirt rising up to show endless skinny legs. She’s grown even more, he realised with a start, and she’s turning into a woman. Dear God, can I cope?
He stood up and hugged her briefly, dropped a kiss on her soft hair and let her go. ‘Will you be all right?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Dad, for God’s sake! I got here from London all right.’
‘Yes, well, we won’t talk about that. There’s food in the fridge and Mrs Bailey will be in later to clean up a bit and cook supper for us.’
‘I could do that.’
He chuckled. ‘Jane, when you were last here a week ago you couldn’t even make your own bed. I think we’ll let Mrs Bailey do it—maybe she’ll teach you how to cook if you ask her nicely.’
Jane rolled her eyes again. ‘Dad, I know how to cook. What do you think Mum eats in the holidays when her boyfriends aren’t allowed to take her out for dinner?’
He smiled, but inwardly he seethed again that she should be so cynical so young. Damn Jackie. When he caught up with her he’d have a few choice words to say, and out of JJ’s earshot, too, so he didn’t have to pull his punches.
‘I’ll ring you later.’
‘Daddy, I’ll be fine.’
He grinned at her. ‘OK; love. Take care.’
‘You too.’ She reached up on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. ‘Have a good day. Say thank you to Frankie for me for covering for you.’
Frankie was shattered.
It was easy enough to keep up the cheerful, determined ‘I can do it’ front while Robert was around. When she was on her own, however, doubts began to assail her.
His praise on her first day had helped enormously, but all the time she was working she was desperately conscious of being under scrutiny. Not that that mattered. She didn’t worry about being watched—it was a valuable safety net for the patients during her learning process—but she was beginning to wish she hadn’t made the suggestion about being on trial.
After less than a week she was finding the process unbelievably tiring, and every time he moved out of sight her cheery smile slipped.
Apparently it didn’t go unnoticed. She was sitting in the staff coffee-lounge one lunchtime after a gruelling clinic that had had all the subtlety of a finals viva, sipping strong coffee and chewing methodically but without enthusiasm on a Danish pastry, when a shadow fell across her lap.
‘Mind if I join you?’
She looked up to find a man of about her own age, dressed in theatre pyjamas, his dark hair rumpled and untidy, a cautious half-smile on his generous mouth.
‘Do,’ she answered. He looked friendly and approachable and not about to pounce, she thought with relief. She was too damn tired and strung out to deal with Tarzan today.
‘You’re new, aren’t you?’ he asked, settling himself down with his anti-static boots propped on the table and the coffee-cup balanced on his lap.
‘Yes. I’ve been here since Monday.’
His grey eyes assessed her thoughtfully and the cautious smile touched his lips again. ‘Were you tired when you arrived, or has this place got to you already?’
She laughed. ‘A bit of each. I did a silly thing. I talked myself into a job on a trial basis, and now I feel I can’t breathe spontaneously without it being noted down.’
He chuckled. ‘You’re Robert Ryder’s junior reg, aren’t you? I gather he’s excellent.’
‘Yes, he is. Rather too excellent. The shortfall is all the more obvious,’ she said with wry self-mockery.
The young doctor laughed softly and leant forward, his hand outstretched. ‘I’m Gavin Jones—Oliver Henderson’s junior reg.’
She shook the firm, dry hand. ‘Frankie Bradley.’
‘Frankie—that’s unusual.’
‘Frances really,’ she said with a little shudder.
Gavin smiled. ‘Frances is fine but Frankie suits you better. So—you’re on trial. Wow. I remember when I made a foul-up as a houseman and Ross Hamilton came down on me like a ton of bricks. I couldn’t breathe after that either without him watching me!’
‘What did you do?’
‘Took out an appendix on a girl with Munchausen’s—but you’ll be safe there. It doesn’t happen in orthopaedics. Either it’s broken or it isn’t!’
She chuckled. ‘I hope you’re right. I’ll probably end up recommending arthroscopy on someone’s knee when there’s nothing at all wrong with it.’
He drained his coffee-cup and put it down on the table. ‘Um—I don’t suppose you fancy a drink tonight?’
The idea was suddenly immensely appealing. ‘That would be lovely,’ she told him, a smile softening her tired eyes.
‘Seven? I’ll pick you up—I take it you’re living in?’
She nodded wryly. ‘Are you?’
‘For my sins. I’m only just back here—I’ve been away for a while as a registrar in Cambridge—and I haven’t got a flat sorted out yet. I don’t think it’ll be long, though. Those rooms are the pits.’
She laughed with him, and watched as he left the room. She was still smiling as her bleeper went, and with a sigh she got up and went over to the phone.
‘Dr Bradley,’ she told the switchboard.
‘Putting you through,’ the voice replied, and suddenly there was a young, hesitant girl on the line.
‘Um—is that Frankie?’
‘Yes, it is. Is that Jane Ryder?’
‘Yeah—listen, can you do me a favour? It’s my father’s birthday today and I’m cooking him a special meal tonight, and I thought it would be nice if you could join us. It’d make it more of a celebration, somehow, and give me a chance to thank you for bailing Dad out so he could fetch me from the station and bring me home. So,’ she said, all in a rush and running out of breath, ‘will you come?’
She sounded so hopeful, and Frankie didn’t have the heart to disappoint her. Besides which, it would be an ideal opportunity to get to know her enigmatic and very reserved boss a little better. She could always put Gavin off for another time.
‘Yes, of course I’ll come.’
‘Are you sure? It’s probably the last thing you want to do—’
‘Nonsense,’ Frankie interrupted. ‘I’ll look forward to it. What time?’
‘Seven-thirty? Oh, and do you like chicken curry?’
‘Ah. Um, Jane, I’m vegetarian.’
There was a horrified silence. ‘So I guess that means you don’t like chicken,’ she said eventually.
‘Look, if it messes things up for you I don’t need to come, Jane.’
‘But I want you to!’ the girl wailed.
‘Then I will. Don’t worry about feeding me—I can have all the accompaniments.’
‘Oh. Well, I could do you some veg in a curry sauce—would that do?’
‘That would be lovely,’ she said firmly. ‘Don’t worry about me; cook what your father likes. It’s his birthday. How do I get there?’
Jane gave her the directions—somewhat haphazard, but hopefully she could unravel them in the dark.
‘What’s the phone number, in case I get lost?’
Jane rattled off the number, then added, ‘By the way, don’t tell him—it’s a surprise.’
It was raining, just to add insult to injury. Gavin had been understanding—to a point. ‘Had a better offer?’ he’d ribbed gently.
‘I’m sorry,’ she’d apologised. ‘Perhaps another time?’
His smile had been wry. ‘Yeah—maybe. Have a good evening.’
She felt she’d disappointed him, but there was no point in encouraging him if he had any ideas about their relationship. He was a nice man, but he didn’t do anything for her—unlike Robert—
‘Damn!’ She slithered to an undignified halt and reversed back, peering at the road sign. Was this it? No. Damn again. She drove on till she found a pub, then went in and asked the barman the way.
He yelled across the bar, ‘Hey, Fred, how d’you get to Ryder’s old place? Is that first left or second?’
‘Doc Ryder?’ Fred shrugged away from the wall by the dartboard, picked his teeth thoughtfully as he sauntered towards them and eyed Frankie with interest. ‘Goin’ there, are you?’
‘If I can find it.’
He nodded. ‘Back down to the bottom of the hill, turn right, go about two miles, first left, along about couple hundred yards or so on the right. Thatched place, it is. Old Tudor job—white gates.’
All eyes were on her, as if a woman visiting Robert Ryder was a rare and notable occurrence.
She forced a smile. ‘Thank you. I’m sure I’ll find it now.’ She made for the door, and was just opening it when Fred hailed her.
‘Hear his daughter’s home.’
She turned back slightly. ‘Yes.’
‘Good job, too. The mother’s not worth her weight in chicken sh—ah, manure.’
Amidst the ribald laughter she made her escape from the pub, running across the potholed car park in the slashing rain.
Just before she reached her car she put her foot into a pothole, jarred her ankle and splashed muddy water all the way up her clean tights. Swearing comprehensively and most satisfyingly under her breath, she slammed the car door, started the engine and drove back down the hill, along a miserable, rutted lane for two miles or more, until she was sure that Fred had got it wrong.
Then suddenly there was a little turning, an even smaller road, and on the right a low, thatched house with lights blazing a welcome from all the windows. There was an old-fashioned lamppost at the entrance, and in its warm glow she saw the name on the opened gate.
Freedom Farm …
CHAPTER THREE (#u0739085e-b34e-5f10-9115-2245af2b9ea6)
IT WAS a lovely evening. Jane had gone to huge lengths to prepare a meal to remember, and Robert was obviously touched and very, very proud.
The fact that Robert clearly hadn’t been expecting her was obvious from the look on his face when he opened the door. However, he quickly recovered his poise, accepted the bottle of vintage port with a polite murmur of protest and then showed her through into the drawing room.
It was spotlessly tidy, a lovely, heavily beamed room with formal furniture and an air of expectancy. While Robert fetched her a drink she found herself looking round the room and trying to work out what was wrong with it, because it lacked something indefinable but very, very important.
Warmth? Not heat but warmth—love, perhaps. She sensed that it was a room not often used, a room where shared laughter and tender words never echoed, and so the walls were blank, waiting for history to carve itself into the atmosphere. Or recent history, at least. The aged walls and heavy oak beams were soaked in history, but it seemed suppressed, as if it needed the heat of passion to bring it all to life.
She sensed that Robert, too, was uncomfortable in there, as if there was another room, another place that was his retreat—a place where he would rather be. They had perched in there, sipping sherry and making stilted conversation, until Jane came in and announced that their meal was ready.
She was flushed a dull rose, and her cheek was adorned with a dollop of curry sauce, but her eyes were full of eager anticipation and dread in equal measure.
How wonderful, Frankie thought achingly, to have someone to try so hard to please you. The look in Jane’s eyes reminded Frankie of her brother’s wife, eager to please, nothing too much trouble.
And how wonderful, she thought, to have someone you wanted to please, be it father, husband—lover?
Jane ushered them through into the dining room and seated them at the worn and well-loved mahogany table, then served up the meal from the vast number of bowls and dishes that were laid out on its surface.
‘JJ, this looks wonderful,’ Robert said in astonishment, and the girl flushed with pride and caught her bottom lip between her teeth.
Heavens, what a pretty girl, Frankie thought, and then wondered how Robert would cope without the moderating feminine influence of a wife. Would he allow Jane any freedom to explore her budding womanhood?
She thought not—or not easily. He clearly adored her, and the thought of her turning into a woman with a woman’s needs and wants would torture him, Frankie was sure.
The food broke the ice a little. OK, the rice was a little cold, and Frankie had a sneaking suspicion that her ‘vegetable’ curry was a few frozen veg quickly boiled and then doused in the chicken curry sauce. But she decided that Jane’s sensibilities were more important than her own and ate it with every appearance of enjoyment, and gradually the conversation warmed and laughter trickled in.
‘So, how are you coping with the old bossy-boots?’ Jane asked her at one point with a wicked twinkle at her father. ‘Is he awful at work?’
Frankie grinned and studied him. ‘Awful? Only five days a week.’
‘You haven’t worked with him on Saturday and Sunday yet,’ Jane pointed out.
‘So I haven’t. I expect he’ll be even worse then, as it’s the weekend.’
Robert closed his eyes and gave a mock sigh. ‘Maligned, I am. I thought I’d actually been the perfect boss.’
Frankie chuckled. ‘Of course. I expect you’re really very kind under that grim and forbidding exterior.’
His eyes flew open and he studied her in genuine astonishment. ‘Grim and forbidding? Really?’
She relented. ‘No, not really. Mostly you’re quite civilised. You only bite if I’m particularly stupid or you’re particularly hungry.’
It was an unfortunate choice of words. Something flared in his eyes, and Frankie felt the heat scorch her cheeks. She dropped her head forward slightly and her hair swung down and screened her blush. Damn, what was going on? She’d thought she’d imagined the heat between them on her first night, when he’d brushed the crumb from her lip—but perhaps not?
She hadn’t lied, in fact. He had been a little grim and forbidding. Maybe this uninvited attraction was the cause? He probably resented it for getting in the way of a professional relationship.
Well, he was safe with her. Her career was more important than her private life—for now, at least.
Finally the meal was finished and Jane ushered them out into the drawing room again where she served them coffee, then curled up beside her father on the settee with a cup of hot chocolate.
‘That was wonderful, JJ,’ he told her, and the warmth in his eyes and voice made Frankie’s throat ache. She busied herself with her coffee, giving them room while they exchanged quiet, gentle words. Did he know how lucky he was? she wondered. Or Jane? Did she have any idea how precious her father’s love was, or how fleeting?
She swallowed the lump in her throat and stirred the cream into her coffee, watching the black and white merge to a dull tan.
Like her life. The contrast was gone, leaving only work to bring any colour or meaning to it. She wasn’t unhappy, but she wasn’t happy either. Content?
She probably should be grateful.
She listened to the soft music playing in the background, and the gentle murmur of Robert’s voice mingled with Jane’s lighter tones. What was she doing here? Robert didn’t want her here, stirring up the undertones and making things difficult. She ought to go—
‘Goodnight, Frankie. Thank you for coming.’
She looked up, blinking, thinking herself dismissed, and found instead that Jane was on her feet and hovering at the door. ‘I have to go to bed,’ she said with a little grimace.
Frankie laughed wryly. ‘Don’t knock it. It wasn’t so long ago I would have given my eye-teeth for someone to send me to bed.’
Jane grinned. ‘Yeah, well, we all want what we can’t have, don’t we? Oh, well, ‘night, all.’
‘’Night, Jane—and thank you for a lovely meal. I really enjoyed it. In fact, talking of bed …’ She set her cup down with a little rattle. ‘I must go—I’ve been here for hours—’
‘Oh, you don’t have to go. Stay and have another coffee with Dad—there’s tons in the pot. ‘Night, Dad.’
‘Goodnight, JJ—and thank you, darling. It was a wonderful birthday treat.’
She grinned, her apprehension gone, and flitted through the door. Seconds later she reappeared, a rather more sheepish look on her gamine face.
‘Um—don’t worry about the kitchen, by the way, Dad. I’ll fix it tomorrow.’
Robert closed his eyes as she flitted off again, humming. ‘Oh, God,’ he groaned. ‘I have a bad feeling …’
Frankie chuckled, her melancholy drifting away on his sigh. ‘Come on. She’s done enough. I’ll help you sort it out before I go.’
She followed him into the kitchen, cannoning into his back in the doorway. The grunt of disbelief echoed through his chest and, peering over his shoulder, she scanned the kitchen.
‘Yup—looks like a teenager just cooked a meal,’ she said cheerfully. ‘I’ll wash; you dry up and put away.’
Those few words made it sound so simple. They didn’t begin to touch the bottoms of the pans, caked and burnt with rice and custard and curry sauce, or the endless pots and jars and packets strewn across the worktops—and over it all the fine, crunchy scatter of demerara sugar …
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