Must Be Love

by Cathy Woodman

  I pick up one of the brochures and have a quick flick through while I’m waiting. I’ve been a bit thick, imagining I can keep Alex’s home life separate from his life with me. Alex’s children aren’t an optional extra like heated seats or parking sensors on a car. Alex, Lucie and Sebastian – they’re a package.

  Alex doesn’t get back from Delphi’s until nine, dried blood under his nails and spattered across his trousers. He’s accompanied by a whiff of penicillin and horse, with added notes of something floral and feminine, and my suspicious mind automatically jumps to the conclusion that it’s a woman’s perfume.

  ‘You took your time,’ I say. ‘What kept you?’

  ‘The bloody thing died on me,’ Alex says, a troubled expression in his eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say.

  ‘It was a big Dutch warmblood, a real psycho of a horse. The last time I saw it, it had a touch of colic, which resolved with a shot of antispasmodic. Delphi said it wasn’t quite right after that, but I didn’t think any more of it. If I’d been a bit more proactive, if I’d seen it again before, referred it on.’ He shrugs. ‘I’ve never seen Delphi so upset. She had a special bond with that horse. She was the only person who could get near him without being bitten or kicked.’

  ‘You can’t blame yourself—’ I begin.

  ‘Well, I do,’ he says, cutting me off. ‘I’m going for a shower.’

  He emerges half an hour later when Astra turns up, all fuss and disapproval at the way I’m looking after her children.

  ‘What are you doing giving them sugar?’ she says, her eyes latching on to the empty cereal box on the draining board. ‘How many times …?’

  I stare at her, this tall, skinny woman with a thin face and blonde hair down to her shoulders, and an acidic tongue, thinking she could do with some sugar to sweeten herself up. She’s wearing shades on the top of her head and a bright spotted half-zip top over jeans, very Boden, and I feel at a disadvantage in Alex’s robe and a pair of his socks, because my feet were cold on the stone floor.

  Seb clings to Astra’s leg, saying, ‘Mummy, Mummy, Mummy,’ and although I’m wondering what kind of mother she is, she picks him up and rests him on one bony hip. ‘Oh, Sebby, I missed you.’

  ‘I miss-ted you too.’ Seb rubs noses with his mother. I can see now that her tan is uneven, the skin around her eyes pale where she’s been wearing ski goggles.

  ‘I missed you,’ calls Lucie, who comes running inside, leaving a trail of muddy footprints. ‘Mummy!’ She tugs at her mother’s arm, trying to dislodge Sebastian. ‘Can we go skiing next time?’

  Astra looks past me.

  ‘You’ll have to ask your father,’ she says, and I’m aware of Alex behind me, one hand on my waist.

  ‘Please, Daddy,’ Lucie says.

  ‘I’ll take you skiing,’ Alex says coolly.

  ‘Sure,’ Astra says. ‘And when will that be? By the time you get round to it, the world will have warmed a couple more degrees and there’ll be no snow.’

  As Alex’s hand tenses, I step aside, not wanting to be part of a family feud.

  ‘Coffee, anyone?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh no, thanks,’ Astra says, wrinkling her nose. ‘We aren’t stopping. Hugo’s waiting in the car.’

  ‘I don’t wanna go back to London,’ says Lucie.

  ‘She says she doesn’t like going to school,’ Alex says, aiming this at Astra.

  ‘Nobody likes school,’ Astra says dismissively. ‘You don’t go because you like it.’

  ‘I wanna go to big school,’ says Seb, struggling out of his mother’s arms.

  ‘You can go instead of me,’ Lucie says.

  ‘Have you been in to see the head?’ Alex asks.

  ‘When do you think I have the time, Alex? Oh, don’t look at me like that.’

  Astra doesn’t work, but she’s always given the impression she’s more of a go-out-a-lot than a stay-at-home mum, definitely more yummy than slummy. ‘Lucie, Seb, collect the rest of your toys together so we can get going.’

  ‘That wasn’t so bad, was it?’ Alex’s fingers tangle in my hair at the back of my neck as we watch Astra and Hugo drive away with Lucie and Seb strapped into the back of Hugo’s Mercedes, Seb clutching a teddy bear almost as big as he is.

  ‘How do you know?’ I accuse him lightly. ‘You weren’t here.’

  ‘It probably worked out for the best, getting to know the children without their interfering dad in the way.’ Alex falls silent for a moment. ‘You were nervous before – all those excuses – but you seem to have coped really well.’

  ‘Okay.’ I think it’s time to ’fess up. ‘I wasn’t sure about getting involved. I didn’t want to complicate things.’

  ‘And now?’

  I lean back against him.

  ‘I’ll give it a go – with the children – but I don’t think I can bring myself to have any relationship whatsoever with your parents. They just don’t like me,’ I say, my voice sounding small. ‘Your father called me a floozie.’

  ‘Oh, that’s just him,’ Alex says dismissively. ‘It’s his general term for anything vaguely female and blonde.’

  ‘Well, that’s made me feel a whole lot better,’ I say with sarcasm.

  ‘I didn’t think you’d worry about what other people thought of you, Maz.’ Alex’s hand follows the curve of my waist and settles on my hip. ‘I think you’re gorgeous,’ he whispers in my ear, the touch of his lips sending quivers of heat and desire flaring across my skin. I turn to face him, keeping him at bay with my palms pressed against his chest.

  ‘Alex, I’m being serious. Your parents. They hate me. Your father said I was dragged up on a council estate – apparently, you told him that. And then your mother called me a chav.’

  ‘No?’ Alex says. ‘Oh, I’m sure she didn’t mean it.’

  ‘That isn’t how it came across to me,’ I say stubbornly. ‘Alex, they made me feel very unwelcome.’

  ‘Maz, you aren’t going to let my parents come between us, are you?’ Alex’s mouth curves into a smile, which is both infuriating and endearing at the same time.

  ‘Hey, whose side are you on?’ I say, irritated with him for not believing me. ‘I know very well what I heard.’

  ‘All right, I apologise for my parents’ appalling behaviour,’ he says, drawing me closer, squeezing the breath out of me like a muscular python. ‘I’m really sorry they’ve upset you.’

  ‘So you do believe me?’ I say, still uncertain of Alex’s sincerity.

  ‘Course I do.’ Alex pauses. ‘Forgive me if it seemed otherwise.’ He raises one eyebrow and tilts his head. ‘Please …’

  I imagine falling out with him, never seeing him again, and my chest feels tight with anxiety. Then I give myself a mental kick up the backside because this situation is exactly what Alex’s parents are aiming for.

  ‘I forgive you,’ I say, knowing I’d actually forgive him pretty well anything, apart from infidelity and domestic violence. Oh, and wearing socks with sandals. I smile at the thought.

  ‘Thank you, Maz.’ Alex rests his forehead against mine. ‘You know, I’m a lucky man. There aren’t many women I know who’d take on someone like me, a divorced dad of two – well, let’s just say they aren’t the easiest of children – who’s always cutting dates short or abandoning them altogether to attend to sick horses. You don’t yell at me when I don’t turn up on time for dinner, or nag me for staying out all night.’

  ‘It works both ways,’ I point out. There are times when I’ve had to cancel at the last minute.

  ‘I know, but you’re different. You’re kind, capable … and the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met.’

  ‘Flattery will get you everywhere,’ I murmur.

  ‘That’s what I’m hoping.’ Alex kisses the tip of my nose. ‘I do love you, Maz.’

  Where has that come from? I wonder. We’ve been going out together for four months now and that’s the third time he’s volunteered that in words, not merely with gestures.
You see, it’s such a novelty, I’m still counting. I look up into his eyes, his pupils dark and dilated, his expression gentle.

  ‘I love you too,’ I say, melting into his embrace until Alex tears himself away, his breathing rough and ragged, to check his watch.

  ‘The first race is at ten past ten,’ he says, with a groan of regret that matches mine. ‘I’ll grab a coffee and breakfast, then we’ll get going. You are coming with me?’

  ‘Yes … I’ll need to drop home to change,’ I say, glancing down at Alex’s robe. It’s hardly suitable attire for a day at the races – I don’t want to let Alex down when the Talyton Manor Vets are on duty at the course.

  ‘I’d like to see if they’d let you in the Members’ Enclosure in that.’ Alex grins. ‘I expect I could persuade them, but I don’t think I’d be able to concentrate, knowing what you’re wearing underneath.’

  ‘I’m not wearing anything,’ I say, then realise he’s teasing as he reaches out for the tie at my waist. ‘I thought you were in a hurry,’ I go on, my voice faint with anticipation.

  ‘I am, but sometimes everything else has to wait …’

  Chapter Four

  First Cut

  ‘Would you like a tapeworm with that?’ Izzy asks me as I pour a strong black coffee from the machine in the staffroom first thing. It’s Thursday, a few days after the New Year do up at the Manor, and I still feel upset at Sophia and her comments about ladettes and chavs. Whether she meant it or not, it was extremely tactless and bad-mannered.

  ‘Mrs King brought it in for you.’ Izzy holds out a jam jar.

  ‘How kind,’ I say, examining it, ‘and straight after breakfast too.’

  ‘I said we’d put up some wormer and flea control for Cleo.’

  ‘I’ll do it.’ I print out labels in the consulting room and stick them on the required boxes before taking them into Reception, where I catch up with Izzy again. She’s apparently taken issue with Shannon’s hair. Yesterday, it was her uniform, and the day before, it was the fact she was two minutes late for work.

  ‘I’m not wearing that thing,’ Shannon says, her voice quavering. ‘I don’t know where it’s been.’

  ‘It’s a rubber band,’ Izzy says, pinging it off a bundle of post. ‘Now, put it on.’

  Shannon takes it from her, holding it by the tips of her finger and thumb, and it occurs to me that if she’s squeamish over a rubber band, what’s she going to be like when faced with something truly repellent like a cat abscess?

  ‘Izzy, you sound like one of those trainers on Dog Borstal,’ I say, stepping in. ‘Shannon, if you get your hair caught, you could end up scalped.’

  ‘Could I?’ she says, in a way that makes me start worrying she’s into self-harm as well as vampires. (I found her absorbed in reading Twilight during her lunchbreak.)

  ‘It’s unhygienic,’ Izzy says. ‘Vets don’t like hair dangling in their ops.’

  Slowly, Shannon pulls back her hair, twists it up and fastens it back with a couple of throws of the rubber band.

  ‘That’s better,’ says Izzy. ‘Let’s see if we can find you something to do.’

  ‘Shannon can help out with the ops later this morning,’ I suggest. ‘There’s always something to do in theatre.’

  ‘The freezer could do with defrosting,’ Izzy says.

  It isn’t vet nursing though, is it? How will Shannon learn anything useful if all Izzy lets her do is the cleaning?

  I have a quiet word with Izzy later, while we’re preparing Petra, a white German shepherd dog, for surgery.

  ‘I can’t let her loose on the patients yet,’ Izzy says, muzzling Petra, who’s an HWC or Handle With Care, and bringing her over to the prep bench. ‘She has to start from the bottom like I did. When I started my training, the first thing I had to do was clean the flat above the practice – it wasn’t here, of course – and the vet who lived in it was rearing a baby pigeon. It was disgusting.’

  I try arguing that you don’t have to inflict the same trials and tribulations on the next generation of trainee nurses, but it doesn’t wash with Izzy.

  ‘It’s character-building,’ she insists. ‘I didn’t get where I am today –’

  ‘All right, I get the message.’

  Izzy passes me a swab and syringe.

  ‘No puppies for you, Petra,’ I tell her as she falls unconscious on the end of my needle. I remove Petra’s muzzle, and Izzy passes me an ET tube, which I slide into Petra’s windpipe and attach to the hose on the anaesthetic machine before turning it on. Izzy inflates the cuff on the ET tube with air from a syringe. The procedure runs like clockwork and I wonder how long it will be before Shannon gets close to matching Izzy’s competence and efficiency.

  Soon, I’m in theatre up to my wrists in Petra’s belly, fishing about for the womb, while Izzy monitors the anaesthetic and Shannon looks on. Izzy is doing her best to unravel the mystique of spaying, but Shannon retains a mask of indifference. At least, I hope it’s a mask. It’s difficult to tell. The expression in her panda eyes is guarded, her bloodless – and wordless – lips pressed together.

  ‘Would you mind moving the light over for me, Shannon?’ I ask, and she looks at me as if I’ve asked her to finish the op herself.

  ‘There’s a handle on the theatre light,’ says Izzy.

  Shannon reaches up and tilts the light to give me a better view of Petra’s innards. When I thank her, she yawns.

  ‘I hope we aren’t boring you,’ Izzy comments sarcastically.

  ‘Abdominal surgery isn’t much of a spectator sport,’ I say lightly, although I do feel that if you’re just setting out on a career as a vet nurse, it might be politic to at least pretend to have some interest in the procedure. ‘Move a little closer, Shannon. Don’t touch the drapes, though – they’re sterile.’

  I give Shannon a guided tour of the bitch’s reproductive system, a miracle of nature that never ceases to amaze me, but Shannon doesn’t seem to share my fascination. I don’t know what it is: the creamy fat glistening beneath the bright lights, the delicate pink of the uterus itself, or the pulsating coils of the blood vessels, but one moment Shannon is there, and the next she’s disappearing, crumpling from my view. And then my confidence starts crumpling too, as pictures of Shannon lying like a ghost on a hospital bed and a pack of Dobermanns from the Health and Safety Executive come snapping through my brain. What have I gone and done?

  Izzy abandons her post at the dog’s head. I can’t abandon mine because I’m at a critical point in the surgery, so I keep going, removing Petra’s womb and ovaries, complete with attached artery forceps, plonking the complete ensemble onto my instrument tray, and turning my attention to checking the stumps inside her belly. No bleeding. Ligatures all secure.

  I glance towards Izzy, who’s kneeling at Shannon’s side. ‘Is she okay?’

  Shannon raises one hand to her temple, pressing at her skull with her long pale fingers.

  ‘Keep still.’ Izzy dashes out to fetch a piece of Vetbed, which she rolls up and slides beneath Shannon’s head. ‘No, don’t try to get up yet.’

  ‘What happened?’ Shannon mutters.

  ‘You fainted.’ Izzy doesn’t sound overly sympathetic as she returns to the operating table.

  ‘I, er – everything went swimmy …’ Shannon groans, hiding her eyes with her hands. ‘Oh-mi-God, I’m so embarrassed.’

  ‘You’ll get over it,’ Izzy says.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say. Shannon’s expression reminds me of another, similar situation, which I’d rather forget. ‘I should have thought.’ I unclip the towel clips that keep the drapes attached to the patient’s skin in their vicious grip – you only ever trap your finger in a towel clip once in your life – and drop them onto the instrument tray. ‘I should have let you see some minor ops first so you could get used to it. I really am sorry, Shannon.’

  Shannon mumbles a response, but I can’t hear what she says.

  ‘I can’t do this,’ she says aloud, when I ask her to r
epeat herself.

  ‘Of course you can,’ I say. ‘I know what it’s like. It happened to me.’

  ‘You?’ Shannon frowns as I continue, ‘It was the day I met Emma at vet school.’

  I remember it as if it was yesterday. It was our first session in the dissection room. The professor – Professor Vincent – had allocated a dead greyhound to me, Emma and another student. Emma said I could have the honour of making the first cut, so, flushed with the glow of new-found friendship, I rolled up my sleeves and attached a blade to my scalpel handle.

  ‘Come along.’ Professor Vincent tapped his wrist-watch. ‘We haven’t got all day.’

  I took a deep breath, placed the fingertips of my left hand onto the skin over the greyhound’s shoulder blade and drew a line with the scalpel.

  ‘You’ll have to press a bit harder than that.’ Professor Vincent peered over my shoulder, one eyebrow arched and bristling with impatience.

  I tried again. I don’t know what happened, whether I pressed too hard this time, whether the blade glanced off the bone, but fresh red blood came pulsing from the crook of my elbow, creating a spray-paint effect across the table, the dog and the floor, and Emma’s pristine white coat. All I could do was watch it, filled with a growing sense of shame and self-doubt and then, as the room began to spin, of dying.

  I had reason to be grateful to Professor Vincent, even though I never got used to his sarcasm. He probably saved my life, while forty aspiring vet students looked helplessly on.

  I came round briefly in the ambulance with Emma by my side, and again after surgery to restore the circulation to my arm. Emma was with me then as well, keeping me up to date with the gossip and lecture notes. I told her not to bother.

  ‘But it’s no trouble,’ she said. ‘What’s wrong, Maz?’

  ‘I don’t think I can do it, Emma.’ I glanced down at the dressing on my arm. My stomach was sore and my mouth was filled with the bitter taste of bile and defeat. I felt wretched as I went on, ‘I don’t think I’m cut out to be a vet, after all.’