A Very Single Woman

by Caroline Anderson

  Lawrence shook his head. ‘Funny, isn’t it? You get some people who scrub themselves with a scouring pad before they come to the doctor, and others that live in total squalor and don’t seem to care or notice.’

  He rubbed a hand over his chin and avoided Nick’s eye. ‘So, how’s the admin been going? I gather from Julia you’ve been getting on really well with it—’

  ‘Oh, no,’ Nick said with a laugh, raising his hand to ward off the suggestion. ‘You don’t get out of it that easily! If you imagine you can skive off for a week or two and come back and find it’s off your schedule for keeps, you’ve got another think coming. You’re the senior partner, you deal with it.’

  Lawrence snorted in disgust. ‘You’re a hard man, Nick Lancaster,’ he said reproachfully.

  They exchanged a smile, and then Nick got to his feet. ‘I’ve got calls to make—and you’ve got some paperwork to attend to. Julia’s got it all ready for you.’

  He grinned mischievously and walked out, almost bumping into Helen in the hallway.

  Immediately his body went into overdrive, and he dragged some much-needed air into his lungs and nodded a curt greeting before striding away down the corridor to the office. He picked up the notes, put on his jacket and was out of the door before Helen entered the room.

  Nick was gone. She’d wanted a word with him, having spent the early part of the morning trying to avoid him but having come to the conclusion, somewhere in between Mrs Hardy and the end of her surgery, that it wouldn’t work.

  She needed to talk to him, to dispel the awful tension between them, to apologise for what she’d done the night before—or rather, hadn’t done.

  And now he was out, doing his rounds, and by the time he came back she’d be long gone, up to her elbows in paintbrushes and not-quite-white emulsion. Damn.

  Helen changed into her oldest jeans, pushing aside the silk shirt that she’d worn last night with the little watermark over one nipple. Just looking at the faint stain made her body yearn, and she pulled out a T-shirt and slammed the drawer shut. The sooner she was moved into her own place and had a plentiful supply of her own clothes, the better. Then she wouldn’t have to keep showering and changing at his house, and borrowing his clothes.

  Not that it was likely to happen again, not after last night. He’d been so distant with her this morning that it seemed highly unlikely he’d ever talk to her again except when it was unavoidable and strictly business.

  Still, it was what she wanted, wasn’t it? No involvement?

  Heartsick and exhausted from lack of sleep, she drove up to the cottage, let herself in and went upstairs. The bathroom door was open, and she could see the tiles that Nick had so patiently and carefully put on the walls just yesterday.

  It seemed impossible that it had only been twenty-four hours ago. So much had happened, or not happened, and just looking at the tiles made her want to cry. They’d been getting on so well, but then suddenly their relationship had moved too fast and she’d panicked.

  And why? Because she’d realised that she loved him? That was silly. There was no point in having a relationship with somebody she didn’t like, and just because she loved him it didn’t mean she couldn’t have a relationship with him. She’d realised that, at some time in the middle of the night, when she’d been fidgeting about restlessly in her lonely bed. It didn’t change anything, she still wasn’t going to marry him or live with him, but it needn’t change her plans for adopting a child. Lots of people had affairs and didn’t live with anyone. Why not her? And with the gap in the fence at the end of the garden, they could be so discreet about it that no one would ever know.

  Except, of course, that Nick wasn’t talking to her this morning, and so all this speculation might be completely in vain.

  She pulled on her new overalls, prised the lid off a tin of paint and started on the woodwork in her bedroom. By the time the light faded, she’d finished all of it, some of it with a second coat, and she was starving hungry.

  She realised she’d been secretly hoping that Nick would pop in with his usual offer of supper but, of course, he hadn’t. She hadn’t really expected it, but it was only now when he hadn’t come that she registered the feeling as disappointment.

  She really didn’t fancy another take-away, either Chinese or Indian, and she couldn’t cope with fish and chips. She went back to the surgery, made herself a piece of toast and a cup of tea, showered and went to bed. At eleven her mobile phone rang, and she answered it warily.

  It was Nick.

  ‘Where are you?’ he asked, and his voice sounded a little gruff and unused.

  ‘At the surgery.’

  ‘Can we talk?’ he suggested. ‘I’ve got Sam here, so I can’t leave, but I’d really like to see you.’

  ‘Now?’ She hadn’t told him she was in bed, but she wasn’t in any danger of going to sleep, so it didn’t really matter.

  ‘I’m sorry, it’s late. Forget it.’

  ‘No, Nick—’

  He’d hung up. She stared at the phone for a moment, then threw it in her bag, scrambled out of bed and pulled on her clothes. He wanted to talk to her, and she wanted to talk to him. There didn’t seem to be any point in letting him put it off.

  The kitchen light was still on when Helen arrived at his house, and she parked on the drive, with the car tucked round the corner out of sight of the street, and with her heart in her mouth she raised her hand to tap on the door. He opened it instantly, before she’d had a chance to knock, and his face was carefully expressionless. ‘I didn’t mean to keep you up,’ he said quietly, but she shook her head.

  ‘I wasn’t asleep. Anyway, I wanted to talk to you, too.’

  ‘Come on in. I was about to make hot chocolate. Do you fancy one?’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, feeling suddenly awkward and unsure of her reception. But that was silly, because he’d phoned her, and now he was offering her a drink, so after all this he wasn’t going to tell her to keep the hell out of his life.

  At least, she hoped he wasn’t, because she didn’t think she’d be able to cope with that.

  She followed him to the kitchen but, instead of sitting on the stool and making herself at home, stood awkwardly to one side with her arms wrapped round her waist, supporting herself before she fell over. Her heart was pounding, her palms felt damp and she thought she’d be sick with tension.

  He turned with the mugs in his hand, took one look at her and put them down, then drew her into his arms.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled against her hair. ‘I don’t know what happened last night. I didn’t mean to push you so hard.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ she whispered, leaning against him and absorbing the hard warmth of his body, the tremors slowly leaving her as she absorbed his forgiveness as well as his warmth. ‘I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have run like that.’

  ‘I gave you no choice.’

  ‘That’s rubbish. You gave me a perfectly good choice. I just panicked. I should have stayed.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I wish I had.’

  He groaned quietly. ‘Don’t tell me that—not now, when Sam’s here and there’s nothing I can do about it.’

  She smiled against his shirt. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t apologise,’ he ordered gruffly, tipping her chin with one blunt fingertip. It traced her mouth, glided up the line of her jaw, came back to outline her lips again.

  She flicked her tongue out to moisten them, and his fingertip dragged slightly on the damp skin. She let her breath out on a ragged sigh, and his eyes darkened and he lowered his head to hers.

  ‘You’re so beautiful,’ he sighed, his mouth whispering over hers, hardly making contact. ‘I want you.’

  ‘I know,’ she said unsteadily. ‘Nick, we can’t.’

  ‘I know. It’s OK. Trust me.’

  His hands cradled her face, and his kisses were gentle and undemanding.

  They were no less arousing for that, and by the time he lifted his head her body was trembling an
d his was as taut as a bowstring. He wrapped her in his arms and eased her closer, and she felt the hard ridge of his arousal against her body.

  He groaned, rocking against her, and she swallowed hard and struggled for air. It was impossible. Her breath kept jamming in her throat, and her body ached with need.

  ‘I wonder if I can get a babysitter?’ he said with a strangled laugh, and she smiled ruefully.

  ‘Probably not—not one that won’t tell the whole village what we’re doing.’

  ‘Right now, I couldn’t care less,’ he said gruffly, and hugged her hard before releasing her. ‘Come on, let’s drink this hot chocolate.’

  Nick picked up the mugs and pulled a face. ‘Did I say hot chocolate? Try tepid.’

  He whirled them in the microwave for a moment, then they went through to the sitting room and sat on the sofa, their shoulders and thighs touching, and bit by bit the raging fire in her subsided.

  It didn’t go, not completely, but that was too much to expect, because it had never completely left her since she’d first met him two and a half weeks ago.

  ‘How’s the cottage coming on?’ he asked, and Helen had an insane desire to laugh. He couldn’t really be interested, she thought, but as a ploy to distract them from more fundamental issues it was probably as good as any other, so she played along with him.

  ‘OK. I’ve nearly finished my bedroom, and the plaster’s dry in the sitting room now so I can do that next, and I thought I’d get all my things that are in store delivered at the end of the week.’

  ‘So you’ll be in by the weekend?’

  She nodded. ‘I hope so. There’s no point in trying to do it before then, because I’m just not ready, but I can spend the weekend unpacking.’

  ‘Sam’s going to Sue’s parents for the weekend,’ he said softly, and heat shimmered over her skin. ‘I could help you.’

  ‘When does he go?’ she asked, trying not to sound too eager.

  ‘Friday night. I’ll take him over at about six—they live near Cambridge, so I won’t be back until about nine.’

  And then they’d have the whole weekend to themselves, she thought with heady anticipation.

  It was Monday. That left Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday to get through.

  It was going to be a long week.

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE weekend seemed an awfully long way away. Helen contacted the removal firm and arranged to have all her furniture and boxes delivered at midday on Friday, and then the pressure was on.

  She still had a great deal to do, so all her spare time that week was dedicated to working furiously on the house, partly to get it ready, and partly to give her something to do to take her mind off Nick and the coming weekend.

  It didn’t help, of course, that he came round in the evenings to ‘help her paint’, and ended up distracting her. Even when he did nothing, even when he really worked, just having him there nearly drove her crazy.

  He had a pair of tatty old jeans and a ragged T-shirt with a rip in it that he wore for decorating, and because the rip was L-shaped the flap hung open, giving her a perfect view of his rippling back muscles as he moved. Several times she nearly tore it off him, but somehow she managed to restrain herself, often by taking herself off into another room and doing something completely different, just so she didn’t have to look at him.

  And every evening, she ended up eating either with him and Sam, or alone with him, picnicking cross-legged on the lawn in the middle of her garden.

  As a refined form of torture, it was without equal. She tried to concentrate at work but, having heard about the new doctor, a large number of her ‘patients’ had absolutely nothing wrong with them at all.

  As far as the rest were concerned, most of them seemed to be women, relieved at last to have a female doctor. And amongst these, of course, were serious problems that had been neglected. Mrs Andrews, a woman in her early sixties, came to see her on Thursday morning, complaining of abdominal distension, bowel symptoms, pain on intercourse and, most worryingly, accompanying weight loss.

  She said if she lay down and relaxed, she could feel a lump inside, and when Helen palpated her abdomen, she could feel a definite mass in the lower right quadrant. She gave her a pelvic examination, and something about the feel of the mass made her suspect either an ovarian cyst or an ovarian cancer.

  That worried her. Ovarian cancer was the most common of all gynaecological cancers, the hardest to diagnose, and it had the poorest prognosis. On the other hand, ovarian cysts were common, had similar symptoms and would certainly present with a similar mass.

  Whatever, Mrs Andrews needed urgent referral, and while Helen tried to play down the possible significance of the symptoms, she also had to make sure that Mrs Andrews was aware of the importance of following up this problem as quickly as possible.

  ‘Do you think I have cancer?’ the woman asked her frankly, and Helen had to admit that it was a possibility.

  ‘I’m going to make an urgent referral, but if you have private medical insurance, or if you would rather pay, you could see somebody sooner.’

  ‘We have insurance, it’s part of my husband’s retirement package,’ the woman said. ‘What do we have to do to speed things up?’

  ‘I can phone the consultant,’ Helen told her. ‘I’ll have to send him a letter, but I can write that as soon as my surgery is finished, and you can collect it at twelve o’clock. You should be seen before the end of the week.’

  She nodded. ‘Thank you. I was going to come sooner, but I was afraid to. Now I wish I had, but I didn’t want to see one of the men, not for something so personal. Isn’t it silly? Now I know it’s something so serious, or could be, that seems all so trivial.’

  She seemed near to tears, and Helen asked her if she had come alone.

  ‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘My husband’s in the waiting room.’

  ‘Do you want me to talk to him?’

  She shook her head again. ‘No, it’s all right, I won’t worry him yet. I’ll see the consultant first.’

  ‘Well, if you don’t get an appointment very quickly, do come back to me, won’t you? And if there’s anything else you want to ask in the meantime, please, ring or come back.’

  Helen watched her go, mentally crossing her fingers that it was a simple cyst and nothing more sinister.

  As she put the finishing touches to her dining-room that afternoon, she thought about Mrs Andrews and how she’d been reluctant to see a male doctor. She could understand it, of course, and as Mrs Andrews herself pointed out, it was something that she now regretted.

  She told Nick about it when he arrived at six-thirty, and he rolled his eyes and groaned. ‘That’s so silly,’ he said heavily. ‘I’m just a doctor, she’s just another woman like every other one. Why won’t they come?’

  ‘Because it’s very personal, and they feel embarrassed. How would you feel coming to see me if you thought you had testicular cancer?’

  ‘More worried about cancer than my modesty,’ he said pragmatically.

  ‘How about sexual dysfunction?’

  He laughed softly. ‘I’d rather see a woman—they’re kinder, and you don’t have to keep up an image with a woman. Anyway, there’s no danger of that, not at the moment. I think my system’s in hyper-drive.’

  Helen felt soft colour flood her cheeks, and with a ragged laugh he pulled her into his arms. ‘One more day,’ he murmured. ‘Just hang on in there, it’s nearly over.’

  He kissed her, and she felt the now-familiar longing leap to life. Tomorrow, she thought. I’ve only got to wait until tomorrow, and we can be alone together without worrying about Sam.

  Just then they heard footsteps running down the path, and they broke apart guiltily just as Sam and Tommy burst into the kitchen. ‘Dad, we’ve had the wickedest idea! How about if Grandma and Grandpa come here instead of me going to them? Then they can see my tree-house!’

  Nick cleared his throat and avoided looking at Helen.
r />   ‘Um, I doubt if they’ll want to come all this way just to see your tree-house, Sam,’ he pointed out, but Sam was irrepressible.

  ‘They could come for the weekend!’ he suggested.

  Helen thought Nick was going to choke.

  ‘But they’re expecting you there. They will have bought all sorts of goodies to feed you on—you know what they’re like. Maybe another weekend, son,’ he said, and Helen wondered if Sam could hear the slightly desperate tone in his father’s voice.

  She had a terrible urge to giggle, and she had to take herself out of the room and busy herself with some trivial task until she had herself under control again.

  She could hear Nick reasoning with Sam, and also pointing out that before he burst into her house, it might be polite to knock.

  ‘Sorry,’ Sam mumbled, clearly crushed by his father’s lack of enthusiasm for his brilliant idea. ‘Come on, Tommy, let’s go back to the tree-house.’

  Helen listened to them go, then went back to the kitchen just as Nick turned to her, the laughter bubbling up in him. ‘I didn’t know if I was going to get away with that one,’ he said with a wry shake of his head.

  ‘It was a little close for comfort,’ she said with a smile. ‘I wondered how you were going to get out of it.’

  ‘You wondered?’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Anyway, I very much doubt if they could have got here for the weekend, because they’ve got dogs and cats and they’re all elderly now and can’t be left in kennels, and it takes them weeks to arrange any time away.’

  ‘Thank heavens for small mercies,’ Helen said with a grin. ‘Anyway, enough of that. Help me with this kitchen. What on earth am I going to do with it?’

  He looked around it and scrubbed his chin thoughtfully, and the rasp of his stubble against his hand was curiously arousing. She wanted to touch it, to feel the rough scrape of the coarse hairs against her palm, to feel them graze her body as his mouth trailed over it, feeding hungrily on her—

  ‘Helen?’

  She flushed, so caught up in her thoughts she hadn’t heard a word he’d said. ‘Sorry, I was miles away.’

  His smile was wry with understanding. ‘Hell, isn’t it?’