‘Any plans for today?’
‘None as yet …’ The whole day stretched out before her—three kids and the whole of London waiting to be explored, and she’d take her time deciding. ‘I want to do the Duck Tour …’ She misread his frown. ‘I saw it on the Internet—this bus takes you around London then straight onto the river.’
‘I know what it is—are you really going to do that?’
‘Maybe …’ Imogen shrugged. ‘Or I might wait for a warmer day.’
It irked her that he laughed.
Imogen Von Trapp she was not, but with accommodation sorted, and her three little charges marching beside her with maps in hand, Imogen felt close. She snapped away with her camera as Heath, Clemmie and Jack teased the solider at the Horse Guard Parade—Clemmie furious she couldn’t extract a smile. There was so much to see, and while she was here Imogen fully intended to see it all, but by mid-afternoon her charges were sagging. Cracking a bar of chocolate on the tube, she tried to inject some enthusiasm as they headed for Knightsbridge.
‘I don’t want to go shopping!’ Heath moaned.
‘Not even if you get to see Santa?’ Imogen checked.
‘It’s not the real one!’ Jack scolded. ‘Everyone knows that they just send a helper to the shops!’
‘Oh, no!’ Imogen cajoled. ‘Everyone knows that the real Santa only goes to Harrods!’
Every time he saw her she was more beautiful.
As if the first image of her had been in black and white, and not so gradually the colour was being turned up. She was wearing her black skirt and flat boots again only with fishnet stockings this time and a sort of dusky pink jumper that was clearly too warm for her in the kitchen, because there was a pink glow to her cheeks. He noticed this because she was wearing long silver earrings that caught the light as she smiled up at him from the table where she was sitting.
‘Angus, this is Brad.’ Imogen introduced them as Angus walked in the kitchen after an extremely long day.
‘Hi, there!’ Blond, long limbed and utterly at ease, Brad grinned up at him from the kitchen table, where they sat with two mugs of tea. Then Brad looked at Imogen, saw the tint that spread up to her cheeks, saw the slight flurry of her hands, the rapid way she blinked when she was suddenly nervous—and knew it was time to go.
‘Hello!’ Angus said politely, pulling out a chair and joining them, only his heart wasn’t in it. There was this niggling pain in his stomach now, causing him to wonder if the stress might be catching up with him and he was getting an ulcer.
‘And this …’ Imogen said as six little feet charged down the stairs and into the kitchen, skidding to a halt, ‘is Heath.’
‘Hi!’ Bold, confident and a mini-version of his father, Heath grinned up at him, showing a spectacular gap where his baby teeth had once been.
‘Hi, there!’
Clemmie was dancing on the spot and thrusting a photo at him, ‘Imogen took us to see Santa!’
‘It’s not the fake one!’ Jack warned. ‘Imogen took us to see the real one.’
‘Fantastic!’ Angus duly said, only it was a great photo—three beaming faces and one very flustered-looking Santa. Suddenly Angus was grinning too, ‘Wow!’ he added. ‘You really did meet the real thing.’
‘The food hall was fabulous too!’ Imogen said, heading to the kettle to make Angus a drink. ‘I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. I’m worn out now, though!’
‘I’d better get going.’ Brad smiled as the kids all scampered off to the lounge.
‘Don’t rush off on my account!’ Angus offered, but Brad was already on his way out, standing at the kitchen door and calling for Heath to hurry up and say goodbye.
‘Think about what I said, Imo,’ Brad added as he waited. ‘It might be nice for Heath to wake up on Christmas morning with us both there.’
‘It would be too confusing for him,’ Imogen called. ‘I’ll come over about ten.’
And even though Brad’s voice was laid-back and casual, as Angus watched Brad watching Imogen, he knew he was anything but. Knew, that the, oh, so laid-back Brad, still fancied his ex-wife.
‘Think about it!’ Brad said, again calling for Heath and getting the little guy into his coat, then giving Imogen a bit more than a friendly kiss on the cheek. He ought to think about eating, Angus decided, because his stomach was really starting to hurt now.
‘Come and see the tree!’ Clemmie declared, once Brad and Heath had gone. ‘Santa gave us glitter-glue and paper …’
‘Oh, my!’ Angus whistled through his teeth as he walked into the lounge. The once tastefully decorated tree was now a blaze of multicoloured stars and angels and some other shapes he couldn’t quite decipher. ‘It’s brilliant!’ Angus declared to the kids, and then added under his breath for Imogen’s benefit, ‘Gemma will have a coronary!’
‘I did think about that!’ Imogen admitted, ‘but when Santa gives you glue and glitter pens and there’s a tree just begging for colour …’
‘You’ve got glitter in your hair.’
‘I’ve got glitter everywhere!’ Imogen responded, pushing the arms up on her V-neck jumper and revealing some glittery forearms. ‘I’ll never get it off!’
‘You and Brad are friendly,’ Angus commented a little while later, frying up chicken that was generously dressed with tarragon, while Imogen made a vast salad.
‘We are now!’ Imogen answered, pulling a mango out of the fridge.
‘Where the hell did you get that?’
‘The food hall at Harrods,’ Imogen laughed, ‘I told you it was fabulous. I just couldn’t resist—it reminded me of home.’
‘So, you’re just friends now?’ Angus prolonged the conversation, not the one about the fruit, which she was expertly slicing, instead broaching the other things that reminded her of home.
‘Brad’s a great guy and he’s a wonderful dad …’ Imogen shrugged. ‘He’s just a lousy husband!’ She poured the hot chicken and oil over the cold salad, added the mango and tossed it all in together as the four of them sat down to eat.
‘What’s this?’ Jack, who did his level best not to eat anything green, let alone salad in December, frowned at his dinner.
‘Imogen’s warm chicken salad,’ Imogen announced, as if she’d lifted the recipe from a book. ‘And it’s bliss!’
It was, just the thing his grumbling ulcer needed, Angus decided, slicing a crusty bread stick, stunned again at the normality of it all, or rather the abnormality of it all, as for the second time in as many days he sat down to a nice home-cooked dinner.
‘The agency rang, they asked if I could do a late shift tomorrow.’ Imogen took a big gulp of water. ‘I said I’d get back to them, but I just saw your roster on the fridge and it’s got “OC” written over tomorrow—am I right in assuming that’s “on call”?’
‘It just changed to “OAN”—or “on all night”.’ Angus grinned. ‘Gus has a do to go to, but it’s not a problem—I’ve already rung Lorna and she’s going to have the kids tomorrow night, so take the shift.’
‘You’re sure?’ Imogen checked. ‘I can always ring the agency.’
‘No need.’ Angus said, helping himself to seconds. As easily as that it was sorted, no histrionics, no ‘What about my career?’—just a simple solution to a simple problem, and for the first time in the longest time Angus actually felt as if he could breathe!
Until she stood up and leant over to load Jack’s already empty plate with some more of the nicest warm salad imaginable on a cold December night and treated him to a glimpse of two very freckly, very glittery breasts.
‘It gets everywhere, I tell you!’ Imogen laughed as she caught him looking then blushed and looked away. ‘I’m never going to get it off.’
Later, with the kids in their pyjamas, and the living room beginning to look a lot like Christmas, with the four of them watching Shane kissing a nubile blonde under the mistletoe, Imogen shot him a look.
‘Are you OK?’
‘Not sure …�
� Angus said, uncomfortably massaging his stomach. ‘You know, I think I might be getting an ulcer.’
‘Stress!’ Imogen said, turning her head back to the television. ‘Have a glass of milk.’
‘How many times do I have to say it?’ Angus responded, only she wasn’t listening. ‘I’m fine!’
‘I’ve never seen so many Colles’ fractures!’
‘It’s par for the course on this side of the world.’
Heather grinned, as Imogen massaged her aching back. After Maria, Imogen had never intended to go back to Emergency, but the agency had rung a few times, and comparing Heath’s ‘to-do’ list in London alongside her bank account, a full late shift, even if it was in Emergency, was one Imogen couldn’t really justify declining.
Thankfully it had proven far less eventful that her first shift in London. Oh, it had been busy, but dramas had been few and far between and heading towards her supper break, Imogen had just one more wrist to help plaster.
Colles’ fractures often occurred when people put out their hands to save themselves from a fall, and the slushy, icy streets had meant that Imogen had seen more in one shift than she usually would in a year in Queensland. She was happily explaining this to Ivy Banford as she held up her hand while Owen Richards, the intern, plastered it.
‘Well, I still feel like an old fool!’ Ivy scolded herself. ‘As if I’m not enough trouble to everybody already.’
‘Trouble?’ Imogen frowned, taking in the neatly done-up blouse and smart shoes, the powdered nose and the lips that still held a smudge of coral. ‘Since when were you any trouble to anyone?’
Ivy Banford wouldn’t know how to make trouble. She’d been sitting patiently in the waiting room since eleven a.m., called for an x-Ray at three, and only now, as the clock edged past seven, was her wrist finally having a cast applied. And all she had done was apologise.
‘I’m supposed to be at my son William’s for Christmas. I wanted to have it at mine, but they all insisted … told me I should relax and let them do it. Now all I’m going to do is get in the way.’
‘So there will be no stuffing the turkey?’ Imogen smiled. ‘No laying the table or peeling a mountain of potatoes …’
‘I said I’d get the parsnips,’ Ivy fretted, pointing to her shopping trolley, ‘and I said that I’d do the stuffing—’
‘Ivy,’ Imogen interrupted, ‘I’m sure your son’s wife is dying to impress you with her Christmas dinner.’
‘She just wants to show me she can do it better.’ Ivy pouted. ‘She fancies herself as a gourmet chef—she’s been waiting to get her hands on that turkey for years …’
‘Give the baby her bottle!’ Imogen said, her smile widening when she realised Angus had come into the plaster room.
‘Meaning?’
‘Let her do it all,’ Imogen explained. ‘Your job is to sit there with a big glass of sherry, play with the grandkids and let everyone spoil you for once. And,’ Imogen added, ‘even if the parsnips are burnt and the turkey’s pink, you’re to tell her it was the best Christmas dinner ever!’
‘I will not,’ Ivy thundered. ‘What would that achieve?’
‘Could be the start of world peace!’ Imogen was holding her back now, grateful when Angus came and took the heavy arm from her as Owen continued to work on Ivy’s wrist. ‘Try it!’
‘Huh!’ Ivy huffed, but a small smile was forming. ‘She’d get the shock of her life, mind!’
‘And she’d know you didn’t mean it!’ Owen chimed in, as Imogen popped Ivy’s arm into a sling.
‘Just because you act like a sweet old thing …’ Imogen winked ‘… doesn’t mean you are one!’
‘Your relatives are here,’ Heather said as she ushered in a worried-looking man followed by his grim-faced wife.
‘Oh, Mum, what have you been doing?’
‘I’m fine, William!’ Ivy said, refusing his help with her coat. Catching Imogen’s eye, she relented and let him help her put it on. ‘I didn’t manage to get the parsnips.’
‘Doesn’t matter a scrap, Mum!’ William soothed. ‘Elise has got everything under control.’
‘Such a relief …’ Ivy smiled warmly at her daughter-in-law. ‘I’ve a feeling this is going to be the best Christmas yet. Elise, dear, would you pass me my purse?’
But even before she’d pried out a note with one hand, Imogen was on to her.
‘Don’t you dare, Ivy!’
‘Buy some sweets for your little boy!’ Ivy insisted, pressing the note into Imogen’s hand.
‘I’ll buy his sweets!’ Imogen stuffed the fiver back in the purse and snapped it closed. ‘You put it towards your sherry!’
‘You’re incorrigible.’ Owen grinned as the trio shuffled off.
‘I’m thirsty too!’ Imogen smiled. ‘I’m going for my break.’
‘Good idea!’ Owen agreed, following her out and telling Heather he’d be back in fifteen minutes. The sound of their laughter drifted down the corridor and Angus felt a kick in his stomach again.
‘Everything OK?’ Heather checked, as she noticed Angus rubbing his abdomen.
‘Everything’s fine!’ Angus nodded then changed his mind, ‘Actually, Heather, you couldn’t get me some Gaviscon or Mylanta …?’
‘For who? Did I miss someone?’
‘It’s actually for me.’ Angus pulled a face. ‘I think I’ve got an ulcer. I’m going to get some milk.’
It was a quiet evening—’The lull before the storm,’ Heather warned, pouring out a dose of antacid then handing it to Angus. ‘Better?’ Heather checked, as Angus downed the chalky brew.
‘Thanks.’
But walking into the staffroom, to find Imogen and Owen giggling as Celebrity Doctor calmly discussed some rather intimate issues, didn’t exactly help.
‘Do we have to watch this?’ Angus snapped. ‘It’s actually a serious subject if you bothered to listen.’
‘Sorry!’ Imogen smothered a smile and though clearly not remotely sorry she did change the channel. However, this meant that he had to sit and watch a certain blonde head, again, writhing on the pillow, only this time in pain as the doctors battled to save Shane.
‘He’s gorgeous!’ Another nurse, Cassie, had joined them now, gaping at the screen then over at Imogen, clearly unable to comprehend that someone as gorgeous as Shane could ever have married someone as plain and as overweight as Imogen. ‘And he’s such a good actor.’
‘Do you think so?’ Imogen sounded surprised. ‘He’s a complete hypochondriac. He carried on exactly like that when he had toothache.’
The storm didn’t eventuate. The lull stretched on and when the night staff started to arrive, Heather had sent most of her regular staff home, knowing the night shift would dash around if there was an emergency. A few nurses milled around what patients there were and Imogen filled in the time by doing a restock as Heather and Angus chatted.
‘Ready for Christmas?’ Heather asked Angus as she updated the whiteboard.
‘Hope so.’
‘Don’t worry—I’m sure Gemma’s got it all under control.’
‘Actually, Heather … Gemma and I broke up.’ Imogen watched as Heather’s hand paused over the whiteboard, her face aghast as she turned around. ‘It’s fine, Heather.’
‘It’s not fine!’ Heather looked as if she was about to cry. ‘Angus, why didn’t you say?’
‘I just did.’
‘But …’
‘Look!’ Angus gave a wry smile. ‘I’m just letting you know in case something unforseen happens—Gus has offered to help out if need be.’
‘So where are the kids?’
‘At home.’
‘Where’s Gemma?’ As Angus gave a small eye roll, Heather sagged. ‘When did all this happen? Oh, Angus …’
‘It’s all under control.’
‘But how?’ Heather asked. ‘Who’s helping with the kids?’
Imogen swallowed hard, her cheeks darkening a touch, wondering if Angus would say anything, and how Heather
would react if he did. There was no need to worry, Angus’s next comment making it spectacularly clear that his home and work lives were kept very separate.
‘I’ve got some temporary help for now and my mother is coming down to stay after Christmas.’
He smiled over at Imogen, only she didn’t smile back. In fact, she looked away.
Temporary.
Strange how much that word had stung her to hear.
Temporary.
Funny that the same word buzzed like a blowfly around Angus for the rest of his night shift.
And when she said goodnight, when the quiet department suddenly seemed empty without her, when he joined Owen later in the staffroom and had to listen to his junior tell him how great that red-headed agency nurse was, two weeks suddenly seemed too short.
His marriage was over, his life was supposed to be in chaos, Christmas was just a couple of days away and yet he was coping, would make sure that the kids coped, knew that they’d all get through.
The only thing that daunted him at this moment was the prospect of Imogen leaving.
That temporary solution he had found raised an entirely new set of problems all of a sudden.
CHAPTER EIGHT
ON SHEER impulse Imogen had purchased a red bikini and sheer silver sarong at the departure terminal in Queensland.
She’d had absolutely no intention of wearing them until she got home, and they’d nestled in her case with the labels still on. But, waking at the crack of dawn, her sleeping pattern still horribly out of whack, finally she had a reason to put them on.
Angus had point blank refused to take rent.
Admittedly she hadn’t pushed the point, but the bliss of having a nice roof over her head for her time in London and as much work as she wanted meant Imogen could pay him back in other ways—like mangos—and at 5.30 a.m., when restless legs started twitching, she decided she could give the bathroom a rather overdue clean, because Mrs Gemma Maitlin certainly hadn’t picked up the cleaning baton when she’d fired the cleaning lady!
Wrinkling up her nose, Imogen peered into the shower. Housework wasn’t exactly her forte, but occasionally the urge hit, and it was hitting now. Turning up the heating and grabbing the radio as she located the cleaning gear, she padded to the bathroom, dropping her sarong in the hallway and frowning at her reflection in the bathroom mirror.
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