Questions Of Trust: A Medical Romance

by Archer, Sam

  Aware, through the fog of bitterness that had engulfed her once again, that she was being grossly unfair, but unable to care about it, Chloe began to pack up her son’s few items in preparation for his return home.

  ***

  The first Tom was aware of them was when Jake collided with the backs of his legs.

  Tom turned, surprised, and saw the little boy clinging to his trousers, his upturned face laughing and impish. Tom reached down and ruffled his hair. Beside him, Kelly rolled her eyes in disdain. She was four and unimpressed by the antics of a two-year-old boy.

  Chloe came hurrying over, her eyes and smile flashing an apology. She really did have an attractive smile, Tom thought, though she revealed it less often than she might. He’d seen her around town over the last six weeks, here and there, though she and Jake hadn’t attended the surgery since that day four weeks earlier when he’d presented with the quinsy. Tom had exchanged perhaps ten words with her since then.

  He hadn’t seen Chloe and her son in this playground before. It was somewhere he brought Kelly every Sunday before lunch, an activity that had become part of their weekly routine since they’d moved to Pemberham back in the autumn.

  Kelly muttered a hello, then raced off towards the climbing frame she loved. Chloe prised Jake off Tom’s legs and hoisted him, but he squirmed so much she had to put him down again. He toddled to a nearby miniature plastic slide and began laboriously to climb it.

  Tom stood beside Chloe, watching the two children in their separate locales.

  She broke the silence. ‘It’s the first time we’ve been to this playground. I thought we’d try something different.’

  ‘A bit off the beaten track.’

  He saw her smile at the reference to the title of her newspaper column. ‘You’ve read it?’

  ‘Everybody’s read it.’ And he was only slightly exaggerating. There’d been three columns from her so far, and already her style – a combination of whimsy, self-deprecating wit, and the mildest hint of an appealing loopiness – had won letters of admiration. Tom had always found the Pemberham Gazette rather a dull paper, parochial and bland, but he’d bought the last few editions with Chloe’s column.

  She said, ‘I’m surprised the Gazette hasn’t roped you in to write a medical column or something.’

  He shook his head. ‘I’m not a writer.’

  ‘No publications in the medical literature?’

  He shrugged. ‘A couple of papers in low-impact journals, that’s all. It’s hard to be taken seriously as an author with the name Thomas Carlyle. People think it’s a pseudonym.’

  ‘I did wonder about that,’ she laughed. ‘Were your parents Calvinist clergy at all?’

  Tom pretended to consider. ‘They were probably the most irreligious people on the face of the earth.’

  Around them the playground bustled with parents trying to maintain a semblance of control over children running riot in the May sunshine. Tom hoped Kelly or Jake wouldn’t need attention, not for a few minutes more. He was enjoying the closeness to Chloe, the companionability, and wanted to prolong the moment.

  He said, ‘Believe it or not, I used to come to this very playground when I was a boy.’

  Chloe turned her face to him, giving him an excuse to look at her. He resisted the urge to run his gaze across the contours of her face, the cheekbones, the curved lips. Her eyes held plenty of attraction themselves.

  ‘I thought you’d only been in Pemberham six months.’

  ‘I have. Working here, I mean. But I was born here. I’m a local boy. Went off to medical school in London and joined my first practice in the inner city. I decided to move back here once… well, once I became a single dad. I thought it was a better environment to bring Kelly up in.’ Immediately Tom regretted mentioning the “single dad” detail. She might think he was dropping heavy hints. Then again, hadn’t she already worked out that he was bringing Kelly up alone? Whenever Chloe encountered them out and about, it was always just the two of them.

  But he’d created an opening into the conversation for her. ‘Whereabouts in London did you train?’ Chloe asked.

  ‘St Matthew’s. Tough, but a terrific experience.’

  She nodded in recognition. Everybody had heard of St Matthew’s, one of the great teaching hospitals on the Thames, along with Guy’s and St Thomas’s.

  Tom said, ‘Yourself? Are you a Londoner?’

  ‘North London, born and bred.’

  And that was it. No further details from her. Once again Tom sensed Chloe retreating into herself, as if she’d emerged to taste the day and decided she’d had her fill. She wasn’t cold, wasn’t rude. Just self-contained.

  He’d noticed, glancing over her registration form on the day she’d joined the practice, that in the section marked marital status she had ticked single. Not divorced or widowed. Yet she titled herself Mrs Chloe Edwards. Tom was intrigued.

  But you shouldn’t be, he told himself yet again. She’s a patient at the surgery. Nothing more. Don’t be so nosey.

  His phone went in his pocket and he grimaced. ‘Sorry.’ He fished it out and glanced at the caller ID.

  Damn. Not now.

  Tom stepped away a few paces, keeping his eye on Kelly at the climbing frame. At the same time Chloe moved closer to her son who was still engrossed in the toddlers’ slide.

  ‘Hello, Rebecca,’ said Tom.

  ‘Tom. Have you got a minute?’

  Which meant, he knew, that it was going to take considerably longer than that.

  ‘I’m in the playground with Kelly,’ he said. ‘Can I ring you back later?’

  ‘I’ll be out then,’ she said curtly. ‘This won’t take long.’

  Tom listened. At first what she was saying didn’t register, and he found himself mesmerised by the pendulum rhythm of a child on a swing, back and forth, back and forth. Then Rebecca asked if he’d understood, and when he didn’t reply, she repeated herself.

  This time he did take it in.

  Despite the warmth of the spring morning, Tom felt a chill creeping through his limbs, his bones.

  Chapter Four

  Chloe increased the wipers’ speed a notch, but they were fighting a losing battle against the downpour. The weeks of brilliant early summer weather had broken, finally, and the slate-coloured skies of the last twenty-four hours had opened up.

  She steered the Astra carefully, uncertain of the route. It was a part of Pemberham with which she was unfamiliar, the south side, more deprived than the chocolate-box old town. Drab estates squatted miserably, their greyness darkened by the rain.

  Despite the dullness and faint menace of the environment, Chloe felt a thrill of excitement. She was on her first assignment as an investigative reporter. Her whimsical column had proved so popular over the last two months that her editor, Mike Sellers, had invited her along to the Pemberham Gazette’s small office suite in the town centre the previous week for a chat.

  ‘Your column’s great, and I hope you’ll continue to provide it for a long time,’ Mike told her. ‘But you’re too good a writer to be confined to a fortnightly it of amusement. I’d like you to do some real journalism, if you’re interested.’

  The story was a relatively minor one, certainly by London standards, but it was significant for a town like Pemberham. Residents of the Stratwell estate on the south side of town were becoming increasingly vocal about the hooliganism plaguing their area. Night after night brought a fresh crop of graffiti on the walls, drunken noise well into the early hours, smashed car and flat windows. The residents had notified the police who’d investigated, but had advised that the town council were ultimately best placed to tackle the problem. The chairman of the residents’ association had written to the council and made numerous telephone calls, with little response. Finally, in desperation, the residents had taken their concerns to the Pemberham Gazette.

  Mike Sellers gave the story to Chloe, lock, stock and barrel. She was to interview the residents, then attempt to gain an
audience with a senior member of the town council to find out what was being done about the problem on the estate. The Gazette wasn’t party political, but regarded holding the town’s elected representatives to account as part of its civic duty.

  Chloe parked in an unmarked bay just inside the estate and glanced around after locking the doors, a little nervous about leaving her car. Jake was with Mrs McFarland for the afternoon. Working from home was all very well, but Chloe knew that if she began to do more field work like this, she’d need to look for a regular paid sitter for her son.

  She found the flat with difficulty, peering through the rain at the numbers on the doors before coming across the right one. Inside were six members of the residents’ association, including their chairman, a burly man with a friendly air. They greeted her with enthusiasm, as though she’d arrived as a saviour. Chloe was touched to see the spread they’d laid out for her: tea, sandwiches, home-baked cakes and biscuits.

  For a full two hours she perched on the edge of an armchair and took notes, recording statements from time to time, asking the occasional question for clarification but generally just listening. Gradually a heartbreaking picture was built up of a community in terror, at the mercy of a small number of out-of-control youths who themselves sounded as if they had limited options for advancement. The residents admitted they had given up on asking the council for assistance, and had taken to painting over the graffiti each morning themselves, trying to set up with limited success more youth activities on the estate, and generally making do themselves.

  ‘But there’s a limit, Miz Edwards,’ said one woman. ‘We’re not rich people here. We go out to work ourselves. The council get paid to sort places like this out, so why are they leaving us to do their job for them? It’s not right.’

  When she’d gleaned all she could from the residents – and when she realised she’d better be getting back to relieve Mrs McFarland, Chloe stood and thanked them.

  ‘I’ll do what I can,’ she said. ‘At the very least, your story will be on the front page of the Gazette.’

  She was aware of the atmosphere of hope, even triumph, she left behind her, and she felt the burden of their expectations as she returned to her car. Chloe hoped fervently she wouldn’t let them down.

  Her Astra was intact and unmarked, she noted thankfully. She set off for home. The return journey was easier, not least because the rain had eased off. Deciding to take a shortcut and avoid the centre of town, Chloe turned towards the moderately well-to-do streets of the western district.

  The main road took her past Dr Carlisle’s house. She knew where it was because she’d once been giving Mrs McFarland a lift and her friend had pointed it out to her. Expecting Mrs McFarland to pass another comment, oblique or otherwise, suggesting that Chloe get closer to the doctor, Chloe hadn’t said anything but had driven on, quickly diverting the conversation in another direction. She’d noticed the house, however: a modest, attractive two-storey structure with a thatched roof and a generous front garden.

  She glanced in the direction of the house now as she approached. Tom Carlisle’s car was in the driveway, she noted; it must be one of his split days at work. Another car was parked behind his, a Mercedes, flashier and pricier than his Ford. As Chloe drew abreast, a woman stepped out of the driver’s seat of the Mercedes and, swinging the door shut, began to stride briskly towards the front door.

  In the glimpse Chloe got before she passed, she noticed that the woman was beautiful. Around thirty, Chloe’s age, she was elegantly decked out in an expensive-looking green sheath dress that clung to her slender figure. Her long blonde hair was carefully, discreetly highlighted and swung free, and her face had the high-cheekboned features of a makeup model. In her rearview mirror Chloe watched the woman reach up to the doorbell, and a few seconds later she saw the front door open and Tom appear. Then they were lost to view as Chloe turned the Astra off the main road.

  His girlfriend, she thought.

  And why not? He was a single, highly attractive man, with great looks, a winning personality and a good, well-respected job. A catch if ever there was one. It stood to reason he’d have no difficulty finding somebody, and no disinclination to do so. In any case, why was she even thinking about the subject? She ought to be concentrating on the piece she was going to write about the problems on the estate, shaping the prose in her head.

  It was only when she caught her breath that Chloe realised she’d been forgetting to breathe for a few seconds. Gripping the steering wheel, she reproached herself. You’re turning into a nosey parker like Margaret McFarland.

  She forced herself to think of her forthcoming article, of the supper she was going to make Jake and herself that evening, of the service her Astra was going to need in a few weeks. By the time she drew up outside her cottage, she was hardly thinking of Tom or the mystery woman at all.

  ***

  ‘Cup of tea?’

  ‘No thanks.’ As she’d done the other few times she’d visited his and Kelly’s home, Rebecca was casting a less-than-discreet eye over the décor, the furnishings. Her expression suggested she found them wanting.

  Tom studied Rebecca. His ex-wife was perched primly on the edge of the sofa as though to sit back more comfortably would be to indulge in a friendliness she didn’t feel. She looked good, he had to admit. No, more than that: she looked absolutely stunning. Her clothes, her teeth and hair, were perfect. The tan looked natural, achieved on the beaches of the French Riviera rather than on a sunbed. And her body… it was dynamite, as supple and curvy as it had been when he’d first met her eleven years earlier. He’d been a medical student of twenty-two, she a nineteen-year-old studying fashion design. Little more than a decade ago, yet another era, it seemed.

  The day was warm in spite of the earlier rain. Rebecca’s lustrous golden skin, the headiness of her perfume, all contributed to the atmosphere of mellow heat. But Tom felt cold as a man in rags on a winter’s night.

  ‘Where’s Kelly?’ asked Rebecca.

  ‘At nursery.’ Although Tom was at home, it wasn’t his usual split day. He’d asked his colleague Ben Okoro to cover him at the surgery for a couple of hours so he could meet Rebecca. Tom glanced pointedly at her handbag.

  ‘Are they in there?’

  She arched a perfect eyebrow. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The papers.’

  ‘Which papers are those?’

  ‘The legal papers. The summons, or whatever it is.’

  She sighed, making even that sound elegant, practised. ‘It hasn’t come to that. There are no legal proceedings. I asked to meet you because I wanted to discuss this face to face.’

  ‘There’s nothing to discuss, Rebecca.’

  ‘Tom –’

  ‘Nothing we haven’t spoken about on the phone. You’ve wasted a trip here.’

  She rested her pretty chin on her folded hands, looking away from him and blinking as though marshalling her thoughts.

  ‘I could take it further. Down the legal route.’

  ‘You could,’ he said. ‘And you’ll have to, frankly, if you want to pursue it.’

  ‘She’s my daughter.’

  ‘And mine.’

  ‘I’m her mother.’

  ‘In a sense.’ She stared at him as though stung, and he immediately regretted his words. He held his hands up in apology. ‘Sorry. That was a bit harsh. Of course you’re her mother, and she adores you. I’ve never tried to poison Kelly’s love for you, Rebecca. I never would, never will. I’ll never say a bad word about you in front of her. But you agreed to my having sole custody. Agreed even when your lawyer, and mine, both pressed you on whether you were absolutely certain that was what you wanted.’

  ‘I know,’ she said. She lifted her chin defiantly. ‘But I’ve changed my mind.’

  Even though she’d said them before, the words gripped his heart.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’ve had time to consider. Having Kelly with us in Paris the other weekend was wonde
rful. It made me realise I need her to grow up with me.’

  ‘You need her. What about what she needs?’

  ‘A child needs a mother.’

  ‘A father too.’

  ‘She’d have a father –’

  ‘Don’t you dare.’ Tom fought the urge to rise from his chair and jab a finger in her direction. ‘Don’t you dare suggest he could be her father.’

  ‘Andrew’s a loving, capable man.’

  ‘Yes, I know that. He certainly proved capable of loving you away from me, didn’t he?’ Tom let the bitterness soak through. ‘So what about the lifestyle you’d have to sacrifice with a child to weigh you down? No more jetting off to the Caribbean on a whim, no more guarantees of cosy, romantic nights when there are fevers to be attended to, bad dreams to be soothed away. Have you actually thought of any of that?’

  He’d raised his voice at the end, unable to help himself. Rebecca didn’t flinch. She smoothed her exquisitely manicured hands down her thighs and said, ‘Andrew and I have considered this at great length. And we’ve come to the conclusion it’s what we want.’

  ‘Just like one of his business deals, is it? Cost-benefit ratios weighed up, risk analyses carried out…’

  ‘Now you’re just being childish, Tom.’

  He slumped back in his chair, staring at her, at a loss for words. This is how it begins, he thought. The vicious back-and-forth sniping that damages a child for ever. The divorce eighteen months earlier had been terrible, more painful than Tom had ever imagined, but at least they’d avoided the nightmare of a custody battle. Rebecca, dazzled by the glamorous world her new man Andrew was whirling her into, had quite readily conceded that Kelly would live with Tom. Everything had been legally settled, and since then, whenever Rebecca had expressed a wish to have Kelly visit or even come away for a weekend, Tom had quite willingly agreed, thankful for the privilege of having his daughter live with him and more than magnanimous in granting visiting rights to her mother.