‘It is. I do a bit of eventing.’
‘Professionally?’
‘I’m a keen amateur.’
‘Oh, I have lots of clients like you,’ he says somewhat dismissively. ‘Where do you keep the beast?’
‘I keep Willow—’ I resent him describing my baby as a beast ‘—at Delphi Letherington’s yard.’
‘I know it. My partner attends the equestrian centre. I spend most of my time at the hospital, Westleigh Equine. I’m more into sports medicine and surgery than the routine GP kind of stuff.’
I’m a little offended, but he doesn’t seem to realise it.
‘So what’s the problem, Mr Warren?’ I say rather sharply.
‘Ah, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—’
‘It’s all right. Let’s get on. You obviously have far more important places to be.’
‘It’s my shoulder,’ he says, tapping his right elbow.
‘Can you be more precise?’ I ask, wondering about his knowledge of human anatomy.
‘Of course I can.’ He gazes at me and starts giving me his opinion of what’s wrong. ‘I injured my shoulder in my early twenties, playing rugby, and since then it plays me up now and again.’
‘Is it very painful?’
‘It’s agony, particularly when I’m doing dentals,’ he says, flinching at the mere thought. Wuss, I think as he continues, ‘At the moment, I can hardly lift my arm, which is bloody inconvenient. That’s why Mel, our houseman, offered me a lift.’
‘Are you right- or left-handed?’
‘Right,’ he says regretfully. ‘Anyway, I’d like you to confirm that it’s a rotator cuff impingement and refer me to a decent orthopaedic surgeon asap.’
‘It seems you don’t need me. Have you got private medical insurance?’
‘I haven’t. There was an oversight.’ He pauses and I find myself waiting to see who he’s going to blame for it, but he goes on, ‘To be honest, I was so busy I forgot to put the forms in.’
I’m relieved to hear that he isn’t so perfect after all.
‘Let me examine you and then we’ll decide what to do.’
‘Do you want me here or on the couch?’
‘On the couch.’ I smile to myself. I’m going to enjoy causing him some pain. I wash my hands and dry them on a paper towel while he settles on the couch. ‘You’ll have to take your shirt off.’ My mouth runs dry and the words seem to stick on my tongue and my teeth. I sense that he’s testing me.
I keep my eyes averted as he removes his shirt and hangs it over the trolley beside the couch.
‘I’m ready now, Doctor,’ he says, his voice bubbling with humour.
‘I’d prefer it if you called me Nicci.’ I move towards him, forcing myself to look at his torso, at the tan lines on his neck and upper arms, at the slab-like muscles of his pectorals, and the smattering of dark curly hairs across his chest that spill down towards his navel, which indents an admirably flat belly. I realise that although I see many bodies, embarrassing and otherwise, both male and female, it’s been a very long time since I saw the body of a fit man.
‘And you must call me Matt. None of this “Mr Warren” nonsense. I hope you haven’t got cold hands,’ he says as I reach out to touch him.
‘You’re lucky it’s a warm day.’ I palpate his shoulders and the surrounding areas, applying light and deep pressure, checking for symmetry in the swell and dips of the musculature. He has just the right amount of muscle, not so much that you would think he spent all his time working out, but more than enough to be manly. I check the shoulder joints, feeling for warmth and tenderness, but he’s guarded and tense.
‘Hey, you can relax,’ I say gently, trying to put him at ease.
‘I can’t. I’m not used to being the patient.’
‘I expect your patients are more co-operative than you are,’ I say with irony.
‘More?’ I notice how his brow furrows briefly before he breaks into a heart-stopping slow smile. If I were attached to the ECG right now, it would have gone haywire, which is ridiculous because I never allow myself to respond to my patients, but then Matt isn’t any old patient. He’s utterly gorgeous. ‘Okay, that was a joke, right. I hope you make a better doctor than a comedian.’
‘What made you go into horses?’ I ask him, changing the subject.
‘I thought about going into small animals, but I don’t like hamsters – or hamsters don’t like me, I’m not sure which way round it is. No, I find horses a challenge. They can be such delicate creatures. It’s very satisfying when you get one coming round after injury, or after colic surgery. That’s my specialist subject – tummy ache in the horse. I’m running a series of evidence-based studies at the moment.’
‘I see.’ I don’t know what I was expecting – for him to say he loved horses, like I do? It’s clear he sees them as patients to bring back to health and as subjects to research.
Observing the pattern of moles on his skin, I ask him to place the palms of his hands at the base of his neck with his elbows pointing out to each side. I notice how he’s biting his lip as I inspect his upper body for muscle wasting or swelling, anything that will confirm his diagnosis or suggest an alternative.
‘I’m going to do a couple of tests to assess the state of your rotator cuff,’ I say. ‘The cuff is formed from four muscles—’
‘I know what it is,’ he cuts in. ‘You don’t have to explain.’
I decide that I don’t need to explain the tests either, both of which are positive, judging by his reactions.
‘Ouch!’ He winces each time. ‘Are you some kind of sadist?’
I ignore that comment.
‘Much as it pains me to admit it,’ I begin, ‘I can confirm your diagnosis.’
‘So you’ll refer me.’
‘My approach is to prescribe complete rest in a sling for a few days, followed by some physio. If that doesn’t work, we can try a shot of steroid.’
‘What if you’re missing something?’ he asks. ‘Not that I’m suggesting you don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘I should hope not,’ I say, standing tall and straight. ‘If necessary, I’ll refer you for a scan or X-rays.’
‘What if I disagree?’
Undeterred, I flash him the flirtiest of smiles.
‘I’m sure you’ll let me twist your arm.’
‘No no—’ he holds his hands up, wincing again ‘— not that.’ He chuckles. ‘Anything but that, Nicci – what kind of doctor are you?’
‘Take some time off to rest that shoulder.’
‘That’s impossible. We’re always working at full stretch and this is the worst possible time for me to take time off. There’s only me and Mel to cover the hospital and all the visits. My partner is on leave.’
I don’t ask what kind of partner he’s referring to, although I admit I’m a little curious.
‘Can’t you arrange cover for a few days?’
‘You know how it is. Clients like to see the same vet each time, they like continuity.’ He tilts his head to one side. ‘And of course, when it comes to equine surgery, no one does it better than me.’ Having lured me into believing he’s arrogant and his ego is bloated with self-importance, like some of the consultants I met during my medical training, he breaks into another smile. ‘Not really. I just don’t like the idea of having to sit around doing nothing all day.’ He drums his fingers on the edge of the couch.
‘It’s up to you, but I’d strongly advise you to—’
‘Are you always this bossy?’
I ignore that remark. ‘I would at least avoid rasping teeth for the foreseeable future.’
‘Are you sure you won’t just refer me straight away?’
‘Quite sure. I don’t suppose you can help being a surgeon,’ I say. ‘They always think the only way to solve a problem is with a scalpel.’
‘You don’t like surgeons then? In general, I mean, not specifically,’ he says.
‘What kind of question is that?�
� I ask, turning away from his intense stare. Is he trying to chat me up in a funny sort of way?
‘Are you finished with me?’ he asks.
‘Um, yes,’ I say, a warm flush creeping up my neck.
‘I’ll get dressed then.’
‘Please do,’ I say, before wishing I hadn’t said it with such emphasis. I shouldn’t care if he’s sitting there with his shirt off. I’ve seen it all before.
I start to type some notes as he pulls on his shirt, fastens the buttons and rolls up his sleeves.
‘Thanks for that,’ he says, moving towards the door, where he hesitates. ‘I’ll make another appointment for next week.’
And I think, I didn’t ask you to, but I don’t attempt to dissuade him. I’d like to see him again, purely in a professional capacity, of course. Suddenly, I have a particular interest in shoulders.
‘I’ll see you soon,’ I say.
‘It’s good to meet Talyton’s new doctor at last.’
‘I’ve been working here for eighteen months,’ I say.
‘You’re new to me,’ he says decisively. ‘Goodbye, Nicci.’
‘Goodbye.’ I sink back into my chair when the door closes behind him. I believe this is an occasion when an old-fashioned country doctor might dig out a bottle of whisky from their drawer and turn to drink. I doubt very much that Matt will do as I suggested. I pick up the phone to call the hospital to see if I can find out what’s happening with Steve.
Chapter Two
Horse Sense
WITH SURGERY OVER for the day, I ring the hospital. Steve is in theatre undergoing a procedure on his coronary arteries in the hope of preventing another heart attack. Confident that although still in a critical condition, he’s in the best hands, I set out for the yard for my daily fix of horse, driving south along the road towards Talysands. I begin to relax at the top of the hill, where I catch the first glimpse of the sea glittering in the early evening sunshine. I take a deep breath and exhale slowly, letting go of my work worries. I’m glad I chose to come home and settle here in Devon. I think it’s the most beautiful place in the world.
I turn off the main road into a driveway, passing a sign reading ‘Letherington Equestrian Centre’ and a small warehouse-style building that houses the shop Tack n Hack on one side, and on the other a field divided into sections by wooden posts and green electric tape where several horses are grazing, some of them looking like warriors, covered from nose to tail and ears to hooves in fly sheets and masks.
I continue past a modern barn half filled with the new season’s hay and into the car park that faces onto the first yard of breeze block and tile stables reserved for the liveries. Beyond is a second yard of older, higgledy-piggledy part-brick and part-cob buildings where Delphi keeps the riding school ponies, and behind that are the indoor school, outdoor school, horse walker and two foaling boxes. There’s also a wash-down area with a solarium – for the horses, not the humans.
Having parked, I grab Willow’s head-collar from the hook outside her stable to fetch her from the paddock, walking between the fence and the hedge entwined with cow parsley, brambles and dog roses. Willow reminds me of a rocking horse with her grey dapples and flaxen mane and tail. I call her name and she raises her head from where she’s been grazing with her muzzle buried in the lush grass. She flicks a fly from one ear and decides I’m not worth bothering about.
‘Do you mean I have to walk all the way over there to catch you?’ I say with a mock sigh as she returns to her favourite occupation – eating like a horse, so to speak. ‘I spend all this money and time on you, so I think the least you could do is pretend you’re pleased to see me.’
She turns her rump to me and swishes her tail as if to say, ‘But I’m enjoying this far too much.’
Willow can detect the sound of a sweet wrapper from miles away, so when I fish around in my pocket for a mint she makes her way over, pausing only to grab one last mouthful of grass. She stops and sniffs at my hand, then waits for me to uncurl my fingers and reveal the mint on my palm before taking it gently between her lips and crunching it with her teeth. I slip the head-collar on and lead her down to the yard.
There is a long-limbed brown gelding in the paddock next to Willow’s. Dark Star is Willow’s neighbour in the stable block and he’s quite attached to her, so when I lead her away he starts trotting up and down whinnying for her. She doesn’t feel the same way about him, a horse of half her age and experience. She doesn’t look back.
When I tie her to the ring outside the stable, Dark Star continues his pacing up and down the fence until I take pity on him and fetch him in too, letting him into his stable. I remove his head-collar, stroking the white star in the centre of his forehead, and let myself out, keeping a close eye on him, remembering the adage ‘The front end bites, the back end kicks’ – and true to form, Dark Star tosses his head with his ears pinned back.
‘Don’t you even think about it,’ I growl at him, and he backs down as if nothing has happened. ‘You might have the rest of the yard under your thumb – or should that be your hoof – but you don’t scare me,’ I tell him. I watch him for a moment as he settles to chew on some hay. He’s very well bred with a minor fault of a Roman nose, which I think gives him an air of gravitas, but he’s a strange horse temperament-wise, whereas Willow is a darling, beautiful and kind. I return to her, running my hand down her neck and smiling to myself. There are times when I wish my patients were horses, and wonder why I didn’t train to be a vet.
At the sound of another vehicle arriving in the yard, I turn to see a silver pickup spattered with rust-coloured mud pulling up between my car and a stack of big-bale haylage wrapped in pale green plastic.
It’s Shane, my trainer, and I’m not ready.
I grab a body brush from the grooming kit outside the stable and give Willow a quick brush, concentrating on the areas where the bridle and saddle rest, checking where the girth fits to make sure there’s no dirt that could chafe. The last thing we need is a girth gall that would put her out of action for the rest of the season.
I jog across to the tack room and slip into my long leather boots, zipping them up the back so they fit close to my calves, and tie back my hair before putting on my hat, grabbing a stick, and Willow’s tack, and walking back across the yard with her bridle slung over my shoulder and her jumping saddle in my arms. She has three saddles, one for dressage, one for jumping and a general purpose one for hacking, which sounds like a terrible extravagance, but we have to have the right gear to compete.
I put the saddle on her and fasten the girth straps before slipping the reins over her head, something to hang onto her by if she should decide to wander off when I remove the head-collar and replace it with the bridle. Willow doesn’t move though.
‘Good girl,’ I tell her. I talk to her like a friend. I’ve had her for six years now and I chose well. It’s a pity I’m not so lucky at picking a good man, someone as loyal and courageous as my horse, someone who respects me as I respect them, and who can stay the distance.
My last boyfriend couldn’t, and I don’t know why he should enter my mind right now, when I promised myself I’d never waste another moment on him.
‘You aren’t keeping me waiting again, VB?’ Shane says cheerfully, using his nickname for me as he comes up alongside. He’s about my height, brown-haired, blue-eyed and skinny, his muscles well defined. ‘How are things?’
‘Good, thanks. How about you?’ I lead Willow to the middle of the yard and Shane follows, striding along in a tatty olive green polo shirt, brown breeches and long boots. He’s been my trainer since I brought Willow to Delphi’s yard when I returned to the area to work as a GP. I’ve known him for years though. We used to be members of the Talyton branch of the Pony Club, but he was a couple of years older than me and utterly fixated on showjumping. He never had a girlfriend and people used to think he was gay, but he’s married now to the greengrocer’s daughter, and everyone jokes that he did it to make sure of an endless suppl
y of carrots.
‘Not bad,’ he says. ‘Ready for a leg-up?’
I bring Willow to a halt, gather up the reins in my left hand as I’m facing the saddle and bend my left leg. Shane grabs me around the shin, and counts, ‘One, two, three,’ before propelling me into the saddle. He casts an eye over the position of my leg as I slip my foot into the stirrup.
‘I really think you should put those up one,’ he says and I adjust the leathers as we head through the next yard to the outdoor school. I warm up, taking Willow through walk, trot and canter on both reins with light touches of my legs against her sides, while Shane sets up three jumps across the middle.
‘Okay, VB. Bring her down the centre line,’ Shane calls as he slots a cup onto the wing of the last jump at the end of a blue and white striped pole, making a straightforward upright fence with a cross-pole underneath.
Coming around the corner at the end of the school, I ask Willow for a rhythmic canter and aim for the centre of the jump. She flies it.
‘Good,’ says Shane, ‘keep the rhythm and come down on the left rein.’
By the end of the training session, Willow has jumped all three fences raised to one metre twenty. I pat her neck and it’s dark with sweat. I’m sweating too, my face burning from exertion, even though the air is cooler now as the sun begins to go down and the shadows of the fences lengthen across the school.
‘That’s enough,’ Shane decides. ‘Let’s end on a good note. Walk her around and we’ll talk.’
‘You’ll talk, you mean,’ I say brightly. I reach down and loosen the girth and let Willow walk on a long rein so she can snort and stretch and cool down. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think Willow’s looking great, but you, VB, need to get yourself down to the gym. Your horse is fitter than you are, and that isn’t good enough.’ Shane doesn’t pull any punches, which is why he’s such a great trainer. He tells it how it is. ‘When did you last have a proper workout?’
Vets in Love Page 2