She’d been able to sympathise. At least Harry’s father had only left her with one child, and he’d had the grace to disappear and stay away—until now. No, she thought, she didn’t want to rekindle the flames of her old romance. It would be emotional suicide. She’d just deal with the business of Harry’s photos and so on, and hear what he had to say.
She wondered yet again what it was Max wanted to tell her. Was he married?
The thought chilled her. ‘You’re stupid,’ she growled at
She resigned herself to waiting for their meeting on Thursday night, and concentrated on her patients. It was a short day for a change, with no evening surgery for her, and she picked up Harry from her mother and took him for a walk, then did some washing, tidied up and threw the cat’s bed in the washing machine, to his utter disgust.
He decamped to her best tapestry cushion, and sat there, sulking, for the rest of the night, before joining her on her bed.
‘You are a nuisance,’ she told him firmly, shoving him out of the way, but he purred and rubbed himself against her face, leaving hairs stuck all over it.
‘Oh, cat,’ she grumbled, wiping the hairs away and pushing him down the bed again to the bottom. ‘You could go outside and hunt mice, if you were a respectable cat instead of a fat and indolent pyjama case.’
‘Mreouw,’ he squawked, and settled down with a sigh to lick himself thoroughly from end to end.
‘You’ll get hairballs,’ she said self-righteously, tugging the pillow into the side of her neck and wondering what Max had to say.
A chilling thought occurred to her. What if he’d never married or had children because he had an inheritable disorder? Some recessive gene he carried, or some bizarre and insidious disease that only showed itself in later life? Maybe he wanted to warn her that Harry would inherit it?
Panic washed over her, and she got out of bed and made herself a hot drink, pacing round the house as she drank it.
‘You’re mad,’ she told herself at three in the morning,
She went back to bed, evicted the cat from the warm, snuggly bit between the top of the quilt and the pillow, and lay down in a sea of hair.
Darned cat. She turned the pillow over, shifted the quilt and eventually fell asleep. Two hours later Harry climbed into bed with her and woke her by the simple expedient of peeling back her eyelids and saying hello.
She groaned and reached for him, pulling him under the quilt and snuggling him for a moment. Sometimes he’d go back to sleep again but, just her luck, this time he refused. Bouncingly, revoltingly cheerful, he sat up and pulled the quilt off her and grinned.
‘Breakfast time,’ he announced, and dragged her down the stairs to the kitchen.
‘Harry, it’s only six-thirty,’ she wailed, trailing after him. ‘We don’t have to get up till seven-thirty.’
‘But I’m hungry,’ he said reasonably, squirming into the cereal cupboard and coming out with his favourite box. He handed it to her expectantly and, resigned, she switched on the kettle, poured his cereal out into his bowl, sloshed milk onto it and flopped into a chair.
The cat appeared, meowing and trying to look cute, and she sighed and fed him as well.
‘Where yours?’ Harry asked through a mouthful of cereal.
‘I’m not hungry,’ she told him, getting up to make her tea. Six or seven cups should do it, she thought with slight hysteria, and pulled down a mug from the cupboard.
WORLD’S BEST MUM on the outside, and she loved it. She filled it with steaming tea, splashed a bit of milk in and hoofed the cat off her chair, before slumping into it and listening, eyes closed, to the sound of Harry chomping.
Max was puzzled. He had a patient, a woman of fifty called Valerie Hawkshead, who was complaining of headaches and light-headedness. She had slight arthritis, muscular aches and pains but was otherwise healthy. According to the notes, she took pills for the aches and pains, and they used to work for the headaches, but they didn’t seem so effective any longer and she was starting to forget things and wondered if she was getting Alzheimer’s.
Suzanna had made a note that she thought the headaches were from analgesic over-use, and she’d eased her off them and put her on an anti-anxiety drug and done a battery of tests, all normal.
Now today she was back with her husband, looking slightly unkempt and withdrawn, and according to her husband she’d lost weight.
Max tried a mini-mental state test, and she scored 12 out of 30—hardly bothering to respond to some of the questions. That didn’t seem to him like the reaction of a woman suffering from analgesic over-use, or even marked anxiety. It was something more than that, his intuition told him—something deeper.
More sinister.
Max trusted his intuition.
‘I want to refer you to a neurologist,’ he said. ‘He can examine you and see if he can get to the bottom of the headaches and forgetfulness. OK?’
Just so long as Mrs Bootle had red and green peppers, courgettes and mushrooms he’d be all right. Knowing his luck, though, they’d come on Friday for the weekend, which wouldn’t help him tonight.
He checked his watch, debated whether or not he’d got time and rang the shop. ‘I don’t suppose you could put a few things together for me, could you?’ he asked Mrs Bootle, and she agreed without hesitation.
He dictated his list, gave up on the durum wheat flour and ploughed on with his surgery until he’d finished it. Then he glanced at his watch.
Six-thirty, and he hadn’t even picked up the shopping or started the main dish. By seven he was home, by seven-thirty he was on his way to the shower, with the sauce bubbling on the back of the stove and the pasta piled up ready, and before he was finished and organised, the doorbell rang.
‘You’re being silly,’ Anna told herself twelve hours after her revoltingly early breakfast. She had a whole plethora of outfits spread around her bedroom, and not one of them did she deem suitable.
Jeans were too casual, the trouser suit was too formal, the dress was too eveningy, the skirt was boring and she wore it for going to the dentist and things like that.
Which left the long, soft cotton dress that clung and
She turned her attention to her hair. Up or down? She chewed her lip, brushing out the long strands and studying it critically.
Down. No, up.
She threw the brush across the room, went into the bathroom and showered with undue care and scented shower gel, all the while getting more and more irritated with herself because it wasn’t supposed to be like this and it shouldn’t matter what she wore or how she smelt or if her hair was up, down or dropping out!
His cottage was on the outskirts of town, down a secluded little lane. It was in a lovely setting but it was looking a little tired. For the umpteenth time she wondered why he didn’t settle down and buy himself a nice house, even if he didn’t want to get married and have children and ties. She rang the doorbell and waited, and heard his footsteps running down stairs.
He opened the door, wearing only a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, bare feet sticking out from the bottom of the jeans. He looked gorgeous, and all the reasons why this was a bad idea came crashing back to her.
He grinned, making it even worse. ‘Sorry, I’m on the drag. I was cooking and got carried away and forgot the time. Come on in.’ He led her through to the kitchen, giving her a tempting view of firm, hard thighs and a neat bottom snugly encased in worn, soft denim the exact shade of his incredibly lovely eyes.
Hormones, she told herself. There had been something in the news about falling in love being like a psychiatric illness, altering levels of certain hormones in the body and changing behaviour. At the time she’d recognised the syndrome as something from which she’d thought she’d recovered.
Now, following him through the little cottage, she wasn’t so sure.
They went into the kitchen so he could check on the pasta sauce that was bubbling gently on the hob, and he offered her a glass of wine.
Trying to sof
ten her up to seduce her? He didn’t need any help. ‘I’ll have water, please,’ she said, and he pulled a bottle of mineral water from the fridge.
‘This all right?’
She nodded, surprised that he would have anything so—what? Civilised? He used to poke fun at people who paid huge sums of money for bottled water, and here he was with his own supply!
That wasn’t the only change, she realised as they ate. He could cook now, too, probably better than she could.
‘This is delicious,’ she told him appreciatively, twirling strands of pasta round her fork. ‘Where did you learn to make such a lovely sauce—or did you cheat and buy it?’
He chuckled. ‘In Italy,’ he told her, leaning back in his chair and sipping his wine thoughtfully. ‘I spent six months there, doing a little locum job. It was fun. I lived with a real Italian mama, and she took me under her wing. I learned
It worked—she was impressed. She was also falling under his spell again, and to keep her emotional distance was getting harder and harder.
She had to keep reminding herself that leopards didn’t change their spots, and if he’d walked out on her once, he could do it again, but her warnings fell on deaf ears.
She succumbed to a glass of wine, then another, and they settled down on the sofa with the pictures of Harry, and she told him all about her pregnancy and his birth, and how kind everyone had been.
‘I missed you, though,’ she told him, not meaning to but finding the words just spilling out. ‘Even though you’d walked out like that, I still missed you.’
He bowed his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he murmured. ‘It was hell for you, and I should have been there.’
Was it genuine remorse in his voice? It sounded like it. ‘I tried to tell you about it,’ she said, ‘but my letters came back. You’d moved, or just returned them. I don’t know.’
‘I moved.’
She nodded. ‘I hadn’t—but I suppose you didn’t want to know anyway, or you would have kept in touch.’
His hand came up and cupped her cheek. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said gruffly. Their eyes locked, and after the longest moment, as if in slow motion, his head descended.
She had plenty of time to move, to get away from him, to do what she’d said she’d do and stop anything like this happening. Instead, like a traitor, her arm stole round his neck and drew him down, and their lips met.
It was like coming home.
He shifted against her, drawing her body up against his and deepening the kiss. She felt the velvet sweep of his tongue, the gentle coaxing pressure of his lips, and she forgot all her warnings to herself.
This was where she belonged—here, with him, in this embrace. His hand left her cheek and trailed softly, tormentingly down, to settle lightly on her breast. She arched against it and he squeezed gently, making her ache with longing.
‘Max,’ she sighed against his lips, and his breath drifted raggedly over her cheek.
‘Let me love you,’ he whispered unevenly, and the longing grew until she nearly cried out.
‘Yes,’ she whimpered, ‘oh, yes. Please.’
He stood up and drew her to her feet, leading her upstairs to the bedroom. She didn’t notice it—didn’t notice anything except the feel of his arm around her shoulders, the hard jut of his hipbone against her side, the heat of his body radiating through his clothes.
He stripped them off, then with shaking hands he took the hem of her dress and peeled it gently over her head.
She felt suddenly naked and vulnerable, standing there in her basic chainstore bra and pants. Would he notice the changes in her body? The thickening of her waist, the little bulge below her tummy button where her muscles hadn’t quite gone flat after Harry?
‘You’re lovely,’ he said unsteadily. ‘Oh, Annie, I’ve missed you so much…’
He held his arms out to her, and she flew into them, clinging to him and letting herself absorb the feel of his body. She was right, he was thinner. Leaner, really, perhaps more mature—and hot. So hot. She ran her hands down the firm column of his spine, and he moved against her restlessly.
‘I need you,’ he whispered, his breath teasing at her hair, and she took his hand and led him to the bed, sinking down onto it and drawing him down beside her.
He was shaking all over, his body trembling under her hands, and he couldn’t unfasten her bra. She slipped the catch and threw it aside, and his hands were there to catch her and cradle the soft warmth of her breasts.
His mouth was hot, closing over one aching, straining peak, his palm roughly caressing the other while she cried out with need. ‘You’re so lovely,’ he said, his lips trailing down over her hipbone and laying soft, hot kisses against the curve of her thigh.
‘Max, please…!’
He stripped away their last remaining scraps of clothing, then moved over her, his body meshing with hers in one smooth, effortless homecoming that made her cry out with joy.
‘Oh, Max,’ she sobbed, and he trapped her face between his hands and plundered her mouth. She moved restlessly against him, and with a ragged groan he gave up all pretence of control and drove into her, sending her over the brink into glorious freefall.
‘Oh, Annie, I’ve missed you,’ he said, and his voice cracked. His head dropped against her shoulder, his chest heaved and she gave up her feeble attempt at controlling her own tears and let them fall.
Five years, she thought. I’ve longed for him for five years. He’s my other half, the other part of me, and he’s come back. All the anger, all the bitterness—just a defence, because I love him, and I always have, and I always will.
He lifted his head and kissed away her tears, his own eyes deep pools of emotion. ‘It’s been so long,’ he murmured. ‘I thought I must have exaggerated what it was like for us—thought my memory must have built it up into something that it wasn’t—but I was wrong. It was every bit as beautiful as I remember—maybe even better.’
She thought he was going to say more—perhaps tell her that he loved her—but he turned his head away, dragging in a deep breath and letting it out on a shaky sigh.
He rolled away from her, collapsing onto the bed beside her, and drew her up against his side, his hand idly smoothing the skin of her back with slow, lazy strokes.
So where do we go from here? she wondered as she lay cradled in the crook of his arm, her legs tangled with his and her ear listening to the steady rhythm of his heart. Did she dare to hope this time? He was older now, more mature. Would he stay? Or would he go again, leaving her in tatters once more?
‘I don’t have ties,’ he’d said.
Would it be enough, this time?
‘I need a drink—shall I bring a bottle of water back to bed?’ he murmured, hugging her gently against his side.
‘Please.’
He slid out of the bed, padding soundlessly across the room and down the stairs. She heard him pottering about, and sat up, naked, on the bed, her arms hugging her knees. While she waited for him to come back, she looked around her at the little bedroom of his rented home.
It was lit only by the soft glow coming from the bedside lamp he’d turned on when they’d entered the room, and even in the mellow light it was bleak, lacking warmth and character, and she felt sad for him that he seemed to live permanently in these sorts of surroundings. It just seemed so—temporary, really. Rootless. As if it didn’t matter.
The night had grown cool, and the slight breeze from the open window dallied over her skin, pebbling her nipples and bringing goose-bumps up all over her. She gave a little shiver, and stood up, pulling the quilt back. It was silly to be cold.
She was about to climb back in under the covers when she spotted a piece of paper on the floor by the bed, sent flying, no doubt, by their hasty disrobing. She picked it up, glancing at it out of idle curiosity, and felt the blood drain from her face.
Nothing odd in that, except that it was from the hospital that housed the country’s foremost oncology unit.
And Max had a
n appointment there, which could only mean one thing…
Anna closed her eyes, then opened them again and reread the letter in case she’d made a mistake.
No. There it was in black and white, directed to him at a London address, presumably his last temporary post.
And, suddenly, it all fell into place. The constant moving around, the refusal to settle or have ties, the lack of commitment to anywhere or anything—all typical of a man under a death sentence.
How long had it been going on? A year? Two?
Horror trickled over her like cold water.
Now that she’d found him again, was she about to lose him?
‘Here—I’ve brought us some goodies to snack on.’
She turned her head slowly and looked up at him, the letter lying unnoticed in her nerveless fingers.
‘What does this mean?’ she asked him with deadly calm, fluttering the sheet of paper.
He glanced down, and sighed. ‘Oh, hell,’ he said softly.
‘Hell what? What does it mean? Max, tell me what’s wrong with you,’ she said, mustering as much firmness as she could.
He put the tray down on the bedside table, took the letter from her and put it down as well, then wrapped her hands in his.
‘It’s a follow-up appointment,’ he said softly.
He took a long breath, then met her searching eyes.
‘That’s what I was going to tell you. I’ve got non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma.’
CHAPTER FOUR
SHOCK held Anna motionless for an endless moment, then she snatched her hands free and stood up, crossing to the window and wrapping her arms around her waist.
Lymphoma.
Oh, God, no.
It was dark outside, only the distant lights of the village breaking the velvet blackness. She shivered in the cool stream of air, and then felt a soft towelling robe settle comfortingly around her shoulders. Max’s hands cupped her arms, drawing her back against him.
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