by Anne Mather
’Sorry,’ he muttered ruefully. ‘I guess that was a bit thoughtless. Did I drive too fast last night? Was that why you wouldn’t let me bring you home?’
’You know why I got a taxi back last night,’ retorted Olivia shortly, and Conor lifted one shoulder.
’Oh, sure. I’d been drinking,’ he conceded calmly. ‘And you didn’t want me to lose my licence, right?’
Olivia only glared at him, not prepared to go any further with that particular argument. ‘Why did you come to the inn this morning?’ she demanded. ‘You knew Stephen would be there. What did you hope to prove?’
’That you’re not happy with him?’ suggested Conor, less flippantly. ‘I know. You’re mad at me. But, dammit, I didn’t start it.’
Olivia’s expression didn’t change. ‘You are joking.’
’No.’ Conor’s hands tightened on the wheel. ‘Hell, Liv, how could you marry that moron?’
’Stephen’s not a moron.’ Hardly aware of why she was doing so, Olivia found herself defending him. ‘He’s just—unthinking sometimes.’
’He’s a creep!’ muttered Conor, without compassion. ‘When he said what he did about the accident, I wanted to stuff my fist down his throat.’
’Yes.’ Olivia swallowed. ‘Yes, I think he—we—all—knew that.’ She licked her dry lips. ‘But—he’s right, you know. It’s not your problem.’
Conor glanced her way. ‘And if I choose to make it my problem?’
’You can’t.’
’Why can’t I?’
Olivia shook her head. ‘You had no right to speak to Stephen as you did. My God, you were deliberately trying to provoke him. And he’s right, you know. The BMA would view your behaviour very unsympathetically.’
’To hell with the BMA,’ responded Conor succinctly. ‘And as far as your husband is concerned, I consider I acted with remarkable restraint, in the circumstances.’
’Well, I don’t.’ Olivia frowned, and then added with some reluctance, “What circumstances?”
Conor glanced her way. ‘Last night,’ he said evenly.
Olivia turned her head towards the window. ‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked, refusing to consider what he might mean by that. Besides, while she had been caught up in their conversation, Conor had driven out of the village. They were on the coast road now, heading towards Witterthorpe, with Pagwell Priory looming out of the mist.
’Liv …’ Conor removed one hand from the wheel, and covered both of hers, which were curled tightly in her lap. ‘Liv,’ he repeated softly, ‘don’t shut me out. I need to know how you feel about that—about Stephen.’
His fingers brushed her thigh, her muscles taut beneath the velvet Lycra of her leggings. She had an insane urge to part her legs and crush his hand between them. God, she wanted him to touch her there, just as he had done the night before. What on earth was the matter with her? She’d never felt like this before.
’Talk to me, dammit. I have a right to know.’
Conor’s words broke the feeling of self-absorption that had been gripping her. Abruptly, she pushed his hand away, and pressed her legs together. ‘You have no rights where I’m concerned,’ she retorted. ‘None at all. Now—are you going to tell me where we’re going, or is this another silly game?’
Conor’s jaw compressed. ‘I have to call at the clinic,’ he said, and Olivia’s lips parted.
’The rehabilitation clinic in Witterthorpe?’ she exclaimed, and Conor inclined his head.
’Unless you know of another,’ he remarked sardonically, looking at her mouth. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t keep you long. I just have to check on the patient who delayed me last night.’
Olivia felt his gaze as if it were something tangible, and for a moment she couldn’t say anything. But then, in spite of her unwillingness to get involved in his life, curiosity got the better of her. ‘The emergency?’ she ventured, as he looked back at the road. ‘What happened? Can you tell me about it?’
’I could.’ Conor spoke carelessly. ‘But you probably wouldn’t be interested.’
Olivia sighed. ‘Why not?’
Conor gave her an old-fashioned look. ‘Come on. You’ve spent the last fifteen minutes showing me that you’re not interested in anything about me, that you care about your husband, and that I’m just wasting my time trying to get through to you. Well, OK. If that’s the way you want it, there’s not a lot I can do about it. I may not like it, and, whatever you say, last night you did want me just as much as I wanted you. But—you are married, and I guess I have to respect that.’
Olivia’s chin scrubbed the collar of her blouse. She had worn a blouse this morning, a cream blouse with a round collar, together with a long honey-brown cardigan that skimmed the tops of her thighs. Over this, she was presently wearing her cashmere coat—unbuttoned and gaping open, it was true, but very warm just the same.
Which was why she suddenly felt hot all over, she decided unsteadily, smoothing her damp palms over her knees. It wasn’t what Conor had said, or the empty feeling she had experienced when she had realised he was backing off. It was just the warmth of her clothes, and the heat of the car, and the undeniable nearness of his body.
’Right?’ he asked now, glancing her way again, and she nodded rather vigorously.
’Oh—right,’ she echoed sturdily, transferring her attention to the window again. This was what she wanted, wasn’t it? And why shouldn’t she use Stephen to achieve her ends? He hadn’t hesitated in doing the same.
The clinic was situated on the outskirts of the small market town. It had originally been the gynaecological unit of the Witterthorpe General Hospital, Conor told her, but when a new obstetric wing had been built the older building had been utilised as a rehabilitation centre.
’The facilities aren’t exactly custom-made,’ he added, parking the Audi in one of the staff bays. ‘You’d better come in. You can wait in my office.’
Olivia understood what he meant as soon as she entered the building. In spite of the freshly painted walls and bright tubular furniture in the waiting-room, the long, draughty corridors and lofty ceilings were distinctly Victorian in appearance. She guessed it must cost a fortune just to heat this place, and at this hour of the morning the radiators were not winning the battle. As well as feeling chilly, there was also a distinctive smell of antiseptic in the air, and the memories it evoked were not welcome.
Conor regarded her wrinkled nose with thin-lipped resignation, however. ‘Perhaps you’d better wait in the car,’ he said, and she knew he hadn’t connected her expression with the prolonged spell she had spent in a hospital just like this.
’It’s all right,’ she said, ignoring her queasy stomach, and tipping up the collar of her coat. ‘Which way is your office? I hope you’ve got a heater.’
The receptionist greeted Conor warmly, but her eyes lingered longer on his companion. Olivia realised she was probably being assessed as a prospective patient. She doubted the manicured blonde behind the desk would mistake her for anything else.
The corridor had been carpeted, no doubt to help dispel the atmosphere of a hospital ward, and Conor walked more quickly than Olivia. It meant that he had to stop and wait for her to catch up, and she automatically quickened her step, to escape his probing eyes.
’Shit,’ he said, as she reached him. ‘You must think I’m a thoughtless bastard! That’s why you looked so sick when we came in. I should have realised a place like this would bring back memories you’d rather forget.’
Olivia tucked her hands deeply into her pockets, as two women and a man emerged from a room further along on the right. ‘I can live with it,’ she said lightly, and hoped that Conor wouldn’t feel the need to introduce her to his colleagues.
’But can I?’ he responded obliquely, reaching naturally for her arm, and drawing her aside. ‘Anyway, it’s not much further now. And, yes, I do have an electric heater.’
To her relief, the three members of staff—whose only means of identification were the
plastic-covered name tags, showing their picture, that they wore on their lapels—didn’t have time for a prolonged conversation. The talk was all of some youth, who had apparently nearly killed himself the day before. It seemed he had taken an overdose of a substance known as ‘crack’, and Olivia, who knew exactly how dangerous a drug it was, wondered what it was doing here, in an establishment dedicated to its destruction.
Nevertheless, in spite of the seriousness of the topic, Olivia found herself watching Conor almost compulsively. Here, among his peers, she was seeing him in a different light, and she knew an undeserved sense of pride in his achievement. He spoke to the others so confidently, his manner relaxed, his knowledge undeniable. The two women were obviously older than he was, and yet they seemed to defer to his opinion. It made Olivia realise that age was not necessarily synonymous with ability—or with intelligence either, she reflected ruefully, thinking of Stephen.
She did wonder who they thought she was, and she guessed they were curious, too, in spite of everything. Particularly the women. Were these two of the ‘man-hunters’ Sharon had spoken about? Olivia speculated drily. Somehow she doubted it. She suspected that most women enjoyed the company of an attractive man. And just because these women were doctors they weren’t immune from the condition. Sharon had just been warning her off—not in the most subtle way imaginable.
In any event, Conor excused himself before any lapse in the conversation could leave room for unwanted questions. With polite smiles all round, the two groups separated, and Olivia was relieved when they reached a door bearing the legend, C. Brennan, M.D.
She touched the nameplate as she passed, running her fingers over the letters almost wonderingly. Sally and Keith would have been so pleased, she thought, feeling almost tearful for a moment. But then she met Conor’s inscrutable gaze, and she hastily disguised her emotions.
His office—or was it a consulting room? she wondered—was infinitely more inviting than the corridor outside. The walls here were hung with posters, and the carpet underfoot was plum-coloured and attractive. There was a desk, but there was also a couch and two armchairs, forming a kind of conversation piece in one corner. And there was a rubber plant, and a winter-flowering poinsettia, all adding to the impression of a secular apartment.
’This is nice,’ she said, looking round, as he riffled through the papers—messages?—on his desk. She gestured towards the plants. ‘Did—er—did Sharon get these for you?’
Conor was standing behind his desk, but now he looked up with a trace of impatience. ‘What? Oh, no. The rubber plant was already here when I arrived, and Aunt Elizabeth sent me the poinsettia at Christmas. To remind me of home,’ he added drily. ‘She still regards Florida as my home.’
Olivia couldn’t help herself. ‘Do you?’
’No.’ Conor’s eyes were hard. ‘I’ve told you,’ he said tersely. ‘Paget is my home.’ He straightened the papers he had been scanning and came round the desk again. ‘Now I’ve got to go. You’ll be all right here. I’ll have one of the nurses bring you some coffee.’
Olivia hesitated. ‘I—couldn’t help overhearing what you were saying just now.’ She nodded her head towards the corridor outside. ‘Is that right? One of your patients took an overdose?’
Conor’s mouth twisted. ‘I guess so.’
’But—–’ Olivia lifted her shoulders ‘—how could that happen?’
Conor shrugged. ‘Someone supplied the stuff,’ he said carelessly. ‘It happens.’
’Someone on the staff?’
’Could be.’
Olivia shook her head. ‘How could they?’
’Try money,’ remarked Conor, taking his own identity tag out of his pocket, and making for the door. ‘I won’t be long.’
Olivia found herself going after him. ‘There’s no—danger—is there?’ she ventured, suddenly reluctant to let him go, and Conor’s eyes softened.
’Not to me,’ he assured her gently, putting out his hand and looping an errant strand of hair behind her ear. ‘You’ll wait for me, hmm?’
Olivia pulled a wry face. ‘Do I have a choice?’
’Well, you could call a cab,’ he remarked flatly, and she wondered why that hadn’t occurred to her. ‘But you won’t,’ he appended, holding her gaze. ‘You’re going to give us both the pleasure of letting me drive you home.’
Of course, after he had left her, she thought of all the things she should have said to him. Not least, a reminder that his behaviour was hardly fair to Stephen. If they had still been married, how would she have reacted then? It was disturbing to discover she was ambivalent about her answer.
But it was difficult to feel any obligation towards Stephen, real or imaginary, she defended herself. His actions had hardly been honourable, and her only real loyalty was to Sally’s memory. But it was becoming equally difficult to keep that in mind, even if she suspected Conor’s attraction to her was rooted in the past.
She had turned on the electric fan to supplement the heat coming from the radiator, and was sitting at Conor’s desk flicking idly through a copy of the Lancet when the door opened. She thought perhaps there had been a knock first, albeit a perfunctory one, but, before she could answer, the door had opened and a woman came into the room.
She was a middle-aged woman—in her late forties, Olivia estimated—with permed blonde hair, liberally streaked with grey. She was wearing a white overall, unbuttoned at the neck to reveal the lacy jabot of a hot pink blouse, and rather unsuitable high heels. She was also carrying a polystyrene cup of coffee, which she set down on the desk rather heavily, causing some to splash over Conor’s papers.
Olivia snatched a tissue from her pocket to mop up the steaming liquid, but, even as she did so, she was struck by the woman’s familiarity. She bore a striking resemblance to someone she had seen recently, and only as comprehension dawned did the possible reasons for the woman’s vaguely hostile stare become apparent. Mrs Drake had told her that Sharon’s mother worked at the clinic. And this woman was simply an older version of her daughter.
’Thank you,’ she said now, feeling awkward for no reason, and wondered whether she ought to mention the resemblance. But, before she could make up her mind, Mrs Holmes forestalled her.
’Milk, but no sugar,’ she said, indicating the slightly murky-looking liquid in the cup. ‘We don’t keep those sachets of sugar on the premises, for obvious reasons. But I believe Conor keeps a supply of sugar in his drawer, if you want some.’
’No.’ Olivia dropped the damp tissue into the waste bin and held up her hand. ‘No, this is fine,’ she assured her. ‘I don’t take sugar.’
’No, I thought not,’ observed the other woman, with all her daughter’s discretion. ‘Still, not many people do nowadays. It’s like smoking. It’s going out of fashion.’
Olivia was tempted to say that fashion had little to do with the decline in smoking, but she had no wish to get into an argument with the woman. Besides, everyone was entitled to their own opinion.
’You’re Mrs Perry, aren’t you?’ the woman continued now. ‘Sharon’s told me all about you. Oh—I’m Sharon’s mother, by the way. Mrs Holmes.’
Olivia’s lips twitched a little at the form the introduction had taken. But then, guessing that the woman was probably waiting for her to taste the coffee, she wrapped her cold hands around the warm cup. The insulation kept the hot coffee from burning her fingers as she brought it to her lips, and she took a tentative mouthful, before adding, ‘Mmm, that’s good.’
Mrs Holmes folded her arms across her midriff. ‘Sharon says you’re here on holiday,’ she remarked, and Olivia realised her hopes of being left alone had been premature. So far as Sharon’s mother was concerned, her daughter’s relationship with Conor gave her the right to interrogate his friends. ‘Funny place to come for a holiday, isn’t it? I mean—at this time of the year.’
Olivia took another sip of the coffee. It wasn’t as good as she had implied, and it tasted of powdered milk. But it did give her
a few moments to think of a response, and Mrs Holmes seemed to wilt in the vacuum.
’Well,’ Olivia said at last, ‘I used to live in Paget, you see. And—it seemed as good a place as any to relax.’
Mrs Holmes sniffed. ‘I can think of better places,’ she muttered. Then, changing tack, ‘I suppose it’s nice for you, seeing Conor again. I imagine you’ve seen quite a change in him. He was just a boy when you saw him last, wasn’t he?’
Olivia pressed her lips together. ‘Something like that,’ she conceded after a moment, beginning to resent this questioning. For heaven’s sake, had Mrs Holmes appointed herself Conor’s keeper?
’Of course, we’re all very fond of him here,’ the woman went on, her voice starting to grate on Olivia’s nerves. ‘Professor Marshall—he’s the chief administrator—he speaks very highly of Conor’s abilities. He’s hoping he’ll stay here. He’s got a real—a real—oh, you know! With the patients?’
’Rapport?’
’Yes, that’s it.’ The woman nodded. ‘A real rapport with them. They talk to him, when they won’t talk to anyone else. I think it’s because he’s so close to them in age. It makes a difference, you know. Don’t you agree?’
’Oh—sure.’
Olivia could hear the edge in her voice, but she couldn’t help it. And, anyway, Mrs Holmes wasn’t listening to her.
’Yes,’ she went on, cupping her elbow with one hand and resting her chin on the heel of the other, ‘you forget sometimes how young he is. Oh, but he’s had Sharon’s dad and me in stitches a dozen times, talking about his student days.’ She laughed reminiscently, and Olivia wanted to slap her. ‘Those interns! It’s a wonder any of their patients survived!’
Olivia finished her coffee with a convulsive swallow, and allowed the empty cup to join the tissue in the waste bin. It seemed a shame to soil the bin, which, until she had used it, had been pristine. Perhaps she should ask Mrs Holmes to empty it, she thought maliciously, and then chided herself for permitting such a thought.