The Ideal Choice

by Caroline Anderson

  ‘No,’ Tricia assured her. ‘It’s caused by an otherwise harmless tumour of the pituitary gland, and it can be treated very successfully. Give the surgery a ring when he’s feeling more himself, and we’ll discuss it further and decide what course of action to take. I suspect we’ll decide to refer him to a consultant endocrinologist—a hormone doctor. Try and remember when it all started, can you? Look through old photos and see if you can find out when it first showed.’

  She left Mrs Bridges looking thoughtful, and went back to the surgery. She had a headache, her car heater didn’t seem to be working very well and she wanted another jumper.

  She was also dying of thirst, and went up to her flat to make a cup of tea before going back out on her rounds.

  She couldn’t drink it, though, and halfway through trying she ran to the bathroom and lost it. Shaking, giddy and still feeling sick, she sat down on the bathroom floor with a plop and leant against the bath.

  She felt dreadful. Dimly she realised that she probably had flu, and felt instantly sorry for all the patients she’d jollied along. No wonder they were feeling sorry for themselves!

  Oh, God, she was going to be sick again. She crawled across the floor and hung over the loo, and moments later she felt a big, comforting hand on her forehead, holding her hair out of the way. Another hand was on her side, holding her up against a rock-steady support, blissfully propping her up so she could concentrate on emptying her already empty stomach.

  ‘Come on; you need to be in bed.’

  She was lifted as if she weighed nothing, and found herself stripped, dressed in a clean nightshirt and tucked into bed within moments.

  Her quilt disappeared, replaced by a sheet and a light counterpane, and the window was closed and the heating turned up.

  ‘Drink this,’ he ordered, and a mug of plain hot water was put in her hand.

  She sipped it, and the terrible ache in the back of her throat got worse as she swallowed.

  ‘Can you tolerate aspirin?’

  She nodded, then immediately regretted it. She carefully laid her aching head down on the pillow and moaned. Within moments a hot flannel was wiped over her face, the damp skin cooling her down. She found a thermometer in her mouth, and the flannel was there again, on her hands, her arms, her legs—warm and comforting but then cold as it passed.

  He was sponging her down, she realised. He took the thermometer out of her mouth and squinted at it, then frowned.

  ‘What is it?’ she croaked.

  ‘Thirty-nine.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Yes, oh. You’ve got flu.’

  ‘A brilliant deduction.’

  ‘Don’t be cheeky. Here, sit up and drink this. It’s soluble aspirin.’

  She swallowed, grimacing at the taste. ‘Yuck,’ she said weakly.

  ‘Yuck nothing. Try and keep it down; it’ll lower your temperature and ease the joint pains. I’ve put a bowl here beside you. I’ll be back in a while—try and go to sleep.’

  Her eyes were shut before he even left the room, but she didn’t sleep for a while. Her head ached too badly, and her throat felt raw.

  She slept eventually, and drifted in and out of sleep for the next two days. Rhys came up at regular intervals during the day, and on the first night he stayed till midnight as he was on duty.

  Matthew came at seven in the morning, followed by Rhys at eight, and then they left her in peace to sleep.

  By the following day she was better, but only slightly. She got up and drooped about in the sitting room, and Rhys came to visit her and made her some toast and a cup of tea.

  It tasted ghastly but she ate it anyway, forcing it past her sore throat, but she only managed half the tea before it began to threaten her stomach,. so she gave up and lay her head back.

  ‘Sorry to do this to you,’ she murmured tiredly. ‘I’m sure it’s the last thing you need.’

  ‘Don’t worry about us; we’re coping,’ he told her. ‘You just get properly better so you can come back. Then it’s my turn.’

  She gave him a wan smile in reply. ‘Thanks for looking after me.’

  His mouth twisted in a parody of a smile. ‘You’re welcome. Someone has to take care of you.’

  And he’d been elected. She felt the threatening prickle of tears and looked down at her hands. ‘Well, you don’t have to hang around if you’re busy,’ she mumbled. ‘I’ll be all right.’

  He hovered for a second, then with a muttered curse he lifted her carefully and sat down, settling her on his lap. ‘Don’t be stupid,’ he muttered. His hand cupped her head and pulled it down against his enormously solid shoulder, and she sighed and laid her hand against his chest. He was wearing a jumper and the wool was scratchy against her face, but she didn’t care. It felt so good to be in his arms again after so long.

  His thumb grazed her cheek in an absent caress. ‘You’re cooler today.’

  ‘I’m fine—just weak as a kitten.’

  They heard Matthew’s voice on the stairs. ‘Rhys? You’ve got a call—sounds urgent. Young man with chest pain. Want me to go?’

  Rhys sighed, then lifted Tricia off his lap and stood up.

  ‘I’ll come now. Thanks.’ He bent over Tricia and tucked her dressing gown round her neck. ‘Keep warm. I’ll see you later.’

  He kissed her—just a brief brush of his lips on hers, but it was enough. She felt that they were friends again, and the pain and sorrow of the past few weeks eased in an instant.

  He came back later and gave her more toast, this time with some thin, very tasty soup that Linsey had sent in for her. Surprisingly she kept it down, and felt much better for it.

  Rhys watched her eat, almost willing her to keep it down, she felt, and when she sat back with a sigh he seemed to relax. ‘You can’t afford to lose any more weight,’ he told her. ‘You’re getting skinny.’

  Skinny nothing. She got dressed the next morning and her blouse felt tight. She had forgotten the Pill in the misery of her flu and now had a light period. Perhaps the increase in her bust was due to fluid and would go with the change in hormone level, she thought.

  As she’d had a lapse, she decided she might as well have a week’s gap between courses of the Pill as she should have been doing all along. There was no risk—she felt too grim to expose herself to any risk of pregnancy. Not even the thought of making love with Rhys could tempt her.

  The following day he came up and eyed her critically, declaring her better but not much. ‘Your mother rang while you were ill, and I said if you were up and about I’d take you home for the weekend. I’m taking the kids to my parents because I’m on duty and it’ll just be hell, and my poor old neighbour does enough for me as it is. Anyway, they haven’t seen the kids for ages. The point is, I’m going to Salisbury tonight and coming back for them on Sunday evening, so if you want a lift to your parents I can take you.’

  ‘She’ll feed me.’

  ‘You need it.’

  Tricia sighed. ‘OK—thanks. I’ll ring her. What time are you leaving?’

  ‘Six,’ he told her. ‘I’ll pick you up, OK?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  She stood up and went to the top of the stairs with him. He searched her face for a moment, then drew her into his arms and kissed her tenderly. ‘Hurry up and get well. I’ve missed you.’

  ‘I haven’t been ill that long,’ she reminded him.

  ‘No—and we’ve been wasting time fighting. That’s my fault. I’m sorry.’

  She rested her head against his shoulder. ‘I did intend to talk to you before I made a decision about staying permanently. As we were only talking about the possibility of a few weeks, I didn’t really think about it. I’ve made my own decisions for a long time—and anyway, I rather hoped you’d be pleased if I stayed for a bit.’

  He sighed. ‘I don’t know what I feel. Threatened, perhaps?’

  ‘By me?’

  He shook his head. ‘By my own weakness for you.’ He tipped up her chin. ‘I can’t seem to r
esist you,’ he murmured, and then his lips brushed hers lightly and he released her. ‘See you at six,’ he said, and then he turned and ran down the stairs.

  ‘You’re looking terrible!’ her mother clucked. ‘I knew I should have come down when he told me you were ill!’

  ‘Heavens, Mother, I’ve just had flu, that’s all.’

  ‘Just? Just? Look at you—skin and bone! You need a square meal.’

  Apparently she did, because that evening she ate everything her mother put in front of her and slept like a log. The next day she sat in the cosy farmhouse kitchen peeling apples while her mother made a pie. Naturally, Rhys came up in the conversation.

  ‘Nice man, isn’t he? He looks tired—fancy having to look after all those children alone.’

  ‘He does have help,’ Tricia pointed out, reaching for another apple. ‘Is there lemon juice in this water?’

  ‘Yes. How could a woman leave her children, Tricia? They looked such lovely children, too.’

  ‘If they all had two heads you’d think they were lovely children,’ Tricia pointed out drily. ‘You think all children are lovely.’

  Her mother changed tack. ‘He’s a good-looking man, too—rather large, but still, I suppose he can’t help that. He’s got the most gorgeous eyes.’

  ‘Mmm,’ Tricia said noncommitally.

  Her mother sent her a keen look. ‘I don’t suppose there’s anything—er—going on between you?’

  Tricia flushed and concentrated on the apple. ‘Nothing you’d want to know about. Nothing permanent.’

  Her mother’s hand covered hers comfortingly. ‘Oh, darling, I’m sorry. You love him, don’t you?’

  Tricia nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘And he’s been burned.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh, dear.’

  ‘Don’t tell Dad—he’ll kill him if he thinks we’re having an affair.’

  Her mother laughed softly. ‘I don’t think so. Your father is well aware of the frailty of human nature—and besides, why do you think we had so many children?’

  Tricia grinned. ‘So you find him irresistible. It takes all sorts. Have I done enough apples yet?’

  Rhys collected her at seven on Sunday evening, refusing her mother’s crafty invitation of a cup of coffee on the grounds that he had to get the children home to bed. ‘Matthew’s covering me for a couple of hours, then I’m back on duty, so we really do have to rush. Perhaps another time.’

  He settled Tricia in the car, slid behind the wheel and started the engine. Tricia waved to her parents as they pulled away, then turned to the children sitting in a row behind her with Doodle’s face hanging over the back seat, tongue lolling.

  ‘Hello, all. Good weekend?’

  ‘Mmm. Grannie makes lovely cakes.’

  ‘Does she? That’s nice. Did you go anywhere?’

  They launched into a noisy description of all the activities that had filled their weekend, and when they finished she gave a little laugh. ‘Heavens, you’ve been busy!’

  ‘They like to keep us out of mischief,’ Mark said innocently.

  Tricia and Rhys exchanged an amused glance, and then in the blink of an eye the amusement was gone from his eyes, replaced by simmering heat. ‘You look better,’ he told her, dragging his eyes back to the road.

  ‘I feel better. I’ve started eating again, and now I don’t seem to be able to stop.’

  ‘Do you good,’ he declared. He glanced in the mirror at the children, who were busy squabbling as usual. ‘Um—are you busy on Tuesday night?’

  She shook her head. ‘Don’t think so, unless someone else is off sick. Why?’

  His hand came across the gap and settled on her thigh briefly. ‘Because I’ve missed you.’

  ‘I thought you were trying to regain control?’ she said softly.

  He snorted. ‘You’re like alcohol. I’m going to have to give you up, but in the meantime I might as well go on a bender.’

  ‘Is that all I am to you?’ she asked quietly. ‘An alcoholic binge?’

  He sighed. ‘Tricia, you know you’re not.’

  ‘Do I?’

  He glanced meaningfully at the mirror. ‘Not now.’

  She fell silent, her leg still warm with the imprint of his hand, and wondered if there would be anything left of her by the time Linsey had made up her mind about her job.

  December was better than November. She and Rhys drifted back into their previous relationship, the flu epidemic seemed to have burned itself out for a while, and Mr Bridges came back to see her with his acromegaly.

  Tricia was sure that that was what he had, and she explained the disease to him, that the thickening and lengthening of the facial bones and the bones of his hands and feet was caused by an increased amount of growth hormone produced because of a benign tumour on the pituitary gland, and that it could be treated by a variety of means such as radiotherapy, chemotherapy or surgery.

  She wrote a letter to the consultant, and told Mr Bridges that he could expect to have an appointment fairly soon and that the consultant would perform tests to confirm the diagnosis and would decide the method of treatment.

  He seemed happy enough with that, and unsurprised that there was something wrong. ‘I’ve been wondering for a while if everything was quite right,’ he told her. ‘Me and the wife sat and looked at all the old photos, like you said, and we reckon the changes started about eight years ago—just slightly at first. You know, nothing you’d really notice until you put the photos in a row and look at them hard.’

  take them with you to the consultant,’ she suggested. ‘They might be helpful.’

  There was a tap on her door, and she excused herself and opened it. It was Rhys. ‘Linsey’s here to see you,’ he told her. ‘Can she go up to your flat?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll be up in a minute; Mr Bridges is my last patient.’

  She shut the door and turned back to him. ‘Are there any other questions you wanted to ask me?’

  ‘It won’t go back to normal?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not, but I don’t think anyone who didn’t know you would think twice, and people who do know you have got used to the change over the years. Frankly it might be more of a problem if it did change, and the difference is really only slight still. Anything else?’

  ‘Yes—where’s this gland? Pituitary, was it?’

  ‘Yes. It’s located under the front of the brain, right in the centre of the skull.’

  His eyes widened. ‘The brain? Isn’t treatment dangerous, then?’

  ‘No. Modem techniques are very skilful.’

  He gave a weak laugh. ‘They need to be.’ He hesitated. ‘Do you suppose that’s why I get headaches?’

  ‘Could be. Do you have any visual disturbances—has your sight deteriorated?’

  ‘Sometimes I get flashing lights and things—thought it was a sort of migraine, to be honest. I’ve been taking pills for that, anyway.’

  ‘Well, hopefully it will clear up with treatment.’

  He shook her hand, engulfing it in his, and she thought with amazement that it was even bigger than Rhys’s hand. ‘Have your hands grown much?’ she asked him.

  He laughed. ‘Not a great deal. Always had hands like this. “Dinner plates”, my mum used to say.’

  She closed the door behind him, tidied up her desk, took the notes back to Reception and picked up her messages, then ran up to her flat.

  ‘Hi, Lins! To what do I owe this pleasure?’ she asked.

  Linsey smiled diffidently. ‘I wanted to tell you personally—I’ ve decided to come back part-time. I love Andrew desperately, but I miss the practice too. There’s another GP whose wife’s looking for a couple of days—we’re going to job-share. I’m sorry, Tricia.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  ‘So YOU’RE going?’

  Tricia nodded. ‘At the end of the month.’

  ‘Two weeks?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Rhys turned his back to her and stared out of the wind
ow at the dark night. ‘I’ll miss you,’ he said gruffly.

  ‘You could ask me to stay.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No. I thought not.’

  ‘You know why.’

  She didn’t. She couldn’t think of a single good reason, but no doubt he had a couple of thousand. She sighed and went into the kitchen. ‘Tea?’ she called.

  ‘No. If we’ve only got two weeks I don’t want to waste it drinking tea,’ he told her, and took the kettle out of her hand. His voice sounded clogged somehow, and his eyes wouldn’t meet hers.

  They made love in silence, and afterwards he got up and went home straight away with hardly a word, as if he was already trying to distance himself from his addiction.

  It was the same with every chance they snatched to be alone, and each time he grew more grimly silent. There were only a few days left and one lunchtime they were sitting in the sun room sorting out the Christmas rota.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ Tricia said. ‘I’ve told my parents I’ll be with them for New Year.’

  ‘It seems unfair,’ Matthew protested. ‘I was down for Christmas Day.’

  ‘Well, Rhys can’t do it because the children need him, you and Linsey and Andrew should be together, Tim and April have got Tim’s parents—I’ve got nothing planned and nowhere to be.’

  Heavens, was that really a forlorn note in her voice?

  Afterwards Rhys caught her going into her consulting room. ‘Come to us for Christmas lunch,’ he said.

  She met his eyes, searching for an answer, and found nothing but confusion.

  ‘Is that a good idea?’ she asked softly.

  He looked down at his hands. ‘The kids would love you to join us. My parents are going to my sister. If you don’t come we’ll be all on our own.’

  The invitation was irresistible, even though she knew it would tear her to pieces. She had already bought the children little presents, and, unable to resist it, she had bought Rhys a book of silly rhymes. It was nothing much, but she didn’t want to drown him in sentiment. Perhaps he and the children could enjoy them after she was gone.