‘Whoops,’ Matthew said softly.
‘Mmm.’ Linsey turned to him. ‘Now, about that bath...’
It was wickedly exciting, made more so by the suspense of the past twenty-four hours. At last Linsey sprawled, slaked, between Matthew’s outstretched legs, her head lolling against his chest, and sighed.
‘Beats pink bubbles,’ she said with a lazy grin.
‘Mmm. Definitely X-rated, though.’
She blushed, remembering some of the things they had done, and Matthew chuckled. ‘Gone coy on me?’
‘In the cold light of day it seems a trifle decadent,’ she explained with a sheepish smile.
‘Wonderfully so.’ He swished water over her exposed breasts and blew on them, watching her nipples peak with the cold. ‘Have you ever done a vasectomy?’ he asked, idly swishing and blowing in turn.
‘No—why? Do you want one?’
‘Mmm. It would solve the problem of living with my children in my old age, although if one’s kids were truly ghastly to bring up I suppose it would offer a form of divine retribution.’
She turned over to face him, burying her breasts in his groin. ‘They were quite a handful, weren’t they?’
He rolled his eyes. ‘You could say that,’ he agreed mildly. ‘I suppose it’s not so bad if you have them one at a time and get used to it. You must do most of it on autopilot.’
‘Especially at three in the morning.’
He hugged her. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘You’ll have to make it up to me, won’t you?’ she said with a teasing twinkle in her eye, and rubbed her breasts against him.
His body stirred obligingly, and within moments the children were forgotten...
Rhys came back to work the following Tuesday, his child-care arrangements sorted out and the children safe in the care of the new nanny.
She was living in, and was apparently a marvel. Rhys was still tight-lipped on the subject of Judy, but gradually over the course of the week, as the children settled and his work began to fill the hole in his life, he started to unravel a little.
He didn’t laugh, though. The fun seemed to have gone out of him, and some days he came in with an obvious hangover.
Linsey worried about him, and she knew that Matthew did too. He spent a lot of time chatting to Rhys in his consulting room, and she hoped he was able to counsel him and help him come to terms with his anger and disappointment.
She didn’t think that Rhys was suffering from a broken heart. From what Matthew had said, his love had been killed a long time ago. Still, the sense of failure was the one constant that everyone reported after a marriage breakup, and Rhys was sure to hold himself responsible for having let Judy down, and ask himself why else she would have gone off like that with all those other men.
She remembered what he had said about the rapist, and thought she herself would like five minutes alone with Judy for what she had done to him and the children.
Faithless tramp. Being unable to make a relationship work was one thing. Cheating on your partner was quite another.
The very thought of Matthew with another woman sent a stab of pain through her, and she felt again for Jan, catching them kissing that night at the cottage—heavens, was it only a couple of weeks ago? How had she felt, seeing the man she loved in the arms of another woman? Linsey dreaded to think. And yet, if Jan hadn’t come along and they had made love, would Matthew have ended his liaison with Jan?
Yes. She knew that. He wasn’t a cheat or a liar. He had just genuinely not realised how involved Jan was with him, but he had made no commitment to her and she had said nothing, so Linsey could absolve him of blame for everything except that of being blindingly unaware of Jan’s needs.
Perhaps the other woman should have made them clearer.
Like you are? she thought wryly. Oh, their sex life was wonderful, but what about the emotional side? Did he ever say he loved her?
No. He didn’t, but she didn’t tell him she loved him either, and if she was being honest she probably should do. She didn’t want to overwhelm him, though. She was good at overwhelming people—it was what she did best—and for once in her life she wanted to do things right.
She sighed and picked up her notes. It was no good sitting here after her surgery had finished and hoping that her visits would go away. She was doing them alone now, discussing them with Matthew before and after, consulting with him before referring or admitting whenever possible, but gradually stretching her apron strings.
He didn’t like it. Matthew liked to be in control. Unfortunately so did Linsey, and when she knew she could cope she found conforming to his wishes just the teensiest bit tedious.
Still, he was the boss—at least at work. He was busy with Rhys now, she discovered, so without consulting him she went out on her calls.
The first visit was to Mrs Arkwright, who had had the hip replacement and had been so slow and racked with pain when they had visited before.
This time she opened the door much more quickly, and smiled at Linsey. The lines of strain were still there, but no longer drawn so tight, and she was moving remarkably well.
‘How are you?’ Linsey asked.
‘Oh, Dr Wheeler, I feel fantastic! It’s marvellous! I can move around my home again without feeling as if I’ve run a marathon—I’ve even been for a walk around my garden! It’s marvellous,’ she repeated.
She was doing very well, Linsey acknowledged. The wound was healed, the stitches out and there was no sign of infection or any other problem. So long as she was careful not to turn the leg in or bend it too far in case she dislocated the new joint, she would be better in no time.
A life transformed, Linsey thought as she left. A hip replacement was so simple and yet so astonishing in its impact. It was just a tragedy that the waiting lists were so long when every day was agony for those who suffered.
Still, Mrs Arkwright was on the mend.
If only there was such a simple solution for Mr Dean. He was the man who had wanted antibiotics and to whom Matthew had given painkillers when he had a virus. Linsey smiled. They had argued about it, she remembered, and now Mr Dean was demanding a house call and saying he was still quite unwell and needed attention.
She found his house without too much difficulty, and was let in by his wife.
‘Oh, Doctor, I’m glad you’re here—he’s been making such a fuss! He’s quite unwell, you know—quite unwell.’
Linsey followed her down the hall into the bedroom at the back of the bungalow, and greeted Mr Dean, who was lying in bed looking fit as a flea but thoroughly sorry for himself. ‘Damn painkillers Dr Jarvis gave me did no good at all—stupid man. Don’t know what he thought he was doing. Weak as a kitten I am now, and I haven’t slept through the night for weeks.’
‘Have you been in bed the whole time?’ Linsey asked, opening her bag and getting out her stethoscope.
‘Of course he has. I’ve been looking after him very well,’ Mrs Dean said indignantly.
‘I’m sure you have,’ Linsey soothed, sure of nothing of the sort. The wretched man was as well as she was, and was weak because he’d taken to bed.
‘I don’t like the sound of that chest,’ she told him, ‘and lying down is the worst thing for it. Obviously you have to go to bed at night, but I think you should have a course of antibiotics and then get yourself up and move around as much as possible. I’m sure you’ll notice a great improvement in a few days if you do.’
She scribbled the prescription, shut her bag with a snap and left, smiling benignly. She managed to get into the car and drive round the corner before she allowed herself to laugh.
Matthew was just getting out of his car as she arrived back at the surgery, and she told him about Mr Dean’s invalidity.
‘And you weakened? You should have just told the idle heap to get his back off the bed and go and dig the garden,’ he teased.
‘It’s not that easy...’ she began, and then noticed the laughter in his eyes. She hit him.
>
‘Ouch. That’ll cost you lunch.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Really?’
‘Really. I’m starving.’
‘We could—urn—’
Matthew grinned. ‘Yes, we could.’
They went in, and found Rhys sitting at the kitchen table, hunched over a cup of coffee.
‘Hi, there,’ she said cheerfully.
He gave her a morose look. ‘Hi. Police rang—they’ve picked up our burglar.’
‘Oh, excellent,’ Matthew said. ‘That’s a relief. You can rest easy in your bed now, Linsey.’
‘Whose?’ she mouthed.
He winked and jerked his head towards the bottom of her stairs.
Linsey shook her head and then turned to Rhys. ‘We were just about to have lunch. Join us?’
He lifted his head. His eyes were slightly bloodshot and he looked grim. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘I do,’ she said firmly, and got him by the arm. ‘Come on. Tea, toast and a quick zizz on the sofa.’
He went without protest.
‘Is he on the bottle?’ Linsey asked Matthew a month later as they were trying to fit in one of their tutorials. Rhys had appeared that morning once again looking bloodshot and haggard, and she was worried about him.
‘Not on a regular basis, I don’t think. Just after another row with Judy or when it all gets too much.’
‘Poor man. He doesn’t deserve to be so unhappy.’
‘We don’t know the ins and outs of it, Linsey. Maybe he didn’t give her what she needed.’
‘No—and maybe she didn’t ask. He’s not psychic.’
Matthew looked at her. ‘Nor am I. What do you need from me?’
She hesitated. What if she said commitment? Would he run a mile? Probably. ‘How about a tutorial?’ she said lightly.
He looked at her searchingly. ‘Fine. What do you want to talk about?’
She scraped around in her mind for something sufficiently distracting and unromantic. ‘Tell me about your endoscopy sessions and gastrointestinal screening programme.’
Matthew walked slowly along the sea front, staring out over the sparkling water at the endless little boats zipping back and forth across the Solent. He could see the Isle of Wight just a few miles away, the Needles clearly visible, marching out into the sea off the point, like lemmings.
He felt like a lemming. The urge to run away was overwhelming him, because he was scared. He was falling for Linsey, and he couldn’t seem to do a damn thing about it. Their lovemaking was incredible. Every time, they reached new heights—heights he had never even dreamt of.
She was bold, too—bold and beautiful and often dominant, as diametrically opposed to the girl of his fantasies as it was possible to be. All those years ago, when she had haunted his dreams, she had been meek and submissive and wide-eyed, adoring and virginal.
The real Linsey was aggressively sexual, and delighted in his body and her own. He was a little shocked sometimes by her frankness, but he wouldn’t have changed her for the world. The real woman was infinitely more exciting than the fantasy one had been.
The trouble was that he was getting addicted. She was in his blood, under his skin, inside his mind. He was obsessed by her, unable to think about anything except getting her alone and tweaking the hair-trigger of her responses.
She was fitting in well to the practice, too, and he knew he was going to be under pressure soon from the others to offer her the post after the year was up.
Patients were asking for her, Rosie was told a hundred times a week how glad people were that there would be another woman there when she left, and even the men sought her out—a fact that made Matthew seethe with totally irrational jealousy.
She had been with them for nearly two months, and for most of that time they had been together every available moment.
She still slept at the practice, for appearances’ sake as much as anything, but nobody thought anything of it if Matthew was there as well, and, with the car park tucked away behind the back, nobody would know anyway.
The cottage they saved for weekends, and as the summer came to a close and the autumn took over they went for walks through the woods behind his house. The trees were ablaze with colour, and as the leaves started to fall and the evenings drew in they spent cosy hours by the fireside.
It was wonderfully romantic—and Matthew was beginning to panic. Every time he got close to a woman something went wrong. Sara had left him; Ellen a few years later had told him that he was boring. Jan had been willing to stay the course, but she’d bored him. Always, it seemed, one or other of the parties got bored. Look at Rhys and Judy, he told himself.
He knew he could never be bored by Linsey. Whatever else she might be, and she was plenty, boring wasn’t ever on the cards.
It was by no means out of the question, though, that he would bore her. Once her inquisitive, convoluted little mind had extracted everything it could from their relationship, would she feel trapped? Probably. Bored? Almost certainly. He knew he didn’t have the sort of scintillating personality that would be able to hold her. He was quiet, peace-loving, dedicated to his profession. He felt as if he was being sucked along in the slipstream of a magnificent mythical being, and any minute now she would change course and he would fall flat on his face.
Perhaps he should try and cool down, ease away from her, get himself some personal space.
He didn’t want it. He wanted Linsey, and with shattering certainty he knew that she had the power to destroy him if she chose to do so.
He had never felt more vulnerable in his life.
Something was wrong. Matthew was quiet and distant, and Linsey, always assailed by self-doubt and unable to see her own worth, wondered if her uncharacteristically aggressive behaviour in the bedroom had shocked and repelled him.
Perhaps he didn’t like it when she took the initiative? Oh, OK, physically he seemed more than happy, but was his ego being battered?
She couldn’t understand her own behaviour. She was never, ever like this. She couldn’t remember ever taking the initiative before—and that wasn’t, by any stretch of the imagination, because her experience was so vast that any incident was lost in the mists of time. She just didn’t behave like this, and she knew she was frightening him off.
A lump rose in her throat. She needed him desperately. She couldn’t imagine life without him, not under any circumstances. Perhaps she should have asked him for commitment when the moment had presented itself, but she knew he’d have made light of it and run screaming.
Damn. She never cried. She wiped the tears off her cheeks angrily and stared out of the window at the glinting sea. Darkness fell earlier these days. Matthew was out, on duty. She was alone, and she didn’t want to sit here alone and cry. Knowing her luck, he’d catch her.
She changed into her jogging things and let herself out of the new, supersafe back door that they no longer needed. She’d take the route along the front, up behind the park and home. It took about twenty minutes and she should be back while it was still light if she hurried.
There was a nip in the air down by the sea, and she felt the cool breeze over her heated skin and revelled in it. The summer had been too hot for running, and she was only just now getting back into the swing of it—not that she had had much time, what with Matthew being there every available minute. She’d had plenty of exercise, though.
Warm as she already was, she felt her colour rise at the thought. Lord, she’d turned into such a brazen hussy! She couldn’t believe she did some of the things she did. Last week she’d covered him in honey—covered, mind you—and licked it off, inch by glorious inch.
She’d felt sick later, but it had been worth it.
She turned up by the park and pushed herself. It was darker here, the shadows lengthening, and she didn’t like this stretch of road. She always felt as if someone was following her, watching her. Ridiculous. The rapist hadn’t struck again, and it seemed likely that he had been a visitor to the area.
He was probably long gone. She turned onto the home stretch, powered down the road and turned into the drive with a sigh of relief.
The security lights came on automatically as she ran round the back, and she let herself in, relocked the door and punched her number into the alarm, resetting only the outside doors and the practice.
Then she went slowly upstairs to her flat, peeling off her clothes as she went, and headed straight for the bathroom. She reached for the blind before she turned on the light, and for one terrifying moment she thought she saw someone standing on the other side of the street looking straight at her.
Then a car came down the road, headlights on, and she realised that it had been the shadow of a tree.
She was getting stupid, she told herself. She snapped down the blind, flicked on the light and climbed into the shower. By the time she came out Matthew had swung his car into the car park and was running up the stairs.
His eyes tracked down her body, clad in a little towel that hardly met over her breasts, and the gun-metal turned to molten steel. She smiled and dropped the towel, walking away from him into the bedroom. To hell with playing the mouse, she thought. When he looked at her like that—
She bent over to pick up her clothes and he came up behind her, grasping her by the hips and sliding home without a word.
Her breath caught and she writhed against him, taking him deeper. With a gutteral groan he pushed her onto the bed and thrust home over and over again, his hand coming round to find the sensitive nub that ached for his touch.
She bucked against him, the waves crashing over her, shudders racking her body as the climax ripped through her. Then he fell on her, his body spent, and she laughed weakly.
‘Well, hello there,’ she said with the last ragged scraps of her breath.
‘Hello. Had a good day?’
She chuckled. ‘Better towards the end.’
He kissed her shoulder. ‘Witch.’
‘Any more calls?’
‘No.’ He eased off her and she turned over.
The Real Fantasy Page 12