‘Then the decision is easy. Work with me. Our first patient is due in about.’ he glanced at his watch ‘.five minutes. Do you need a plaster for your arm?’
She stopped pressing on the cotton wool and removed it. No telltale oozing of blood. ‘No, I’m fine.’
‘And no bruise.’
Which was a good thing. Because she might not have been able to stop herself asking him to kiss it better.
When their first patient came in, Orlando introduced Eleanor. ‘Signora Giordano, this is Dottoressa Forrest—she is an English doctor, working with me for the summer. Would you mind if she sat in on our consultation?’
Signora Giordano smiled shyly. ‘No.’
‘She might ask questions, but I will translate for you,’ Orlando reassured her. ‘Would you step on the scales for me?’
Signora Giordano sighed. ‘I’ve been trying to lose weight, really I have. I walk the dog twice a day.’ She took the pedometer from the waistband of her skirt. ‘Ten thousand steps a day. And still the weight won’t come off.’
‘I know you’re trying hard,’ he reassured her.
Eleanor read the display on the scales and tapped the figures into Orlando’s computer. ‘No change since last month,’ she said quietly.
Orlando translated rapidly, then took Signora Giordano’s blood pressure. ‘Still a bit on the high side,’ he said. ‘If it’s like this next month, we’ll need to change your drugs. How are you feeling in yourself?’
‘A bit low,’ she admitted. ‘My family say I’ve lost my sense of humour. And sometimes I cry—but I just need to pull myself together.’
Low mood, struggling with her weight—Eleanor had heard this before. Tamsin’s mother had had a similar problem. And, like Signora Giordano, she’d worn a cardigan even though it had been quite warm outside. And her eyes seemed slightly protuberant, too.
‘May I look at the back of your hand?’ she asked. At Signora Giordano’s nod, she examined the woman’s skin. ‘It seems very dry. Do you need to use more hand cream than usual?’
‘Si. And it doesn’t really work any more.’
‘And your periods, your flusso mestruale—how are they?’
Signora Giordano made a face. ‘I haven’t wanted to bother Dottore de Luca with it because it’s not really an illness, but I have to get up a couple of times at night to.’ She flapped an embarrassed hand. ‘To change.’
Orlando exchanged a glance with Eleanor, as if he knew exactly where her questioning was going. ‘And your energy, Signora Giordano?’
‘I get tired,’ she admitted. ‘I go to bed earlier than I used to. But that’s my age.’ She put a hand to her mouth. ‘I’m too young for the menopause, surely!’
Eleanor glanced at the screen to check Signora Giordano’s date of birth. Forty-two. ‘Unless your mother and sisters went through the change very early, yes, you’re a little young for that. Permesso, it’s a very personal question, but making love with your husband is, um, less than it used to be?’
Signora Giordano blushed. ‘We work hard. We’re too tired.’
The symptoms were really adding up. ‘I’m sorry, these questions must be embarrassing for you, but is there any change in your toilet habits?’
‘It’s more difficult to go, yes—the pharmacist said I needed to drink more and do more exercise.’
‘That’s better than using laxatives, yes,’ Eleanor agreed, ‘but if it’s not working you need to talk to us about it. I would like Dottore de Luca to give you a blood test, because I think you may have an underactive thyroid.’
‘Your thyroid is a gland in your throat, just below your voicebox,’ Orlando explained. He reached over to touch Eleanor’s throat in demonstration, and her skin felt hot where he touched her. ‘It regulates your energy—as Dottoressa Forrest says, we need to do a blood test to check, but I agree with her that your thyroid is probably underactive. Your symptoms all add up to a clinical picture.’
‘But they’re all such silly things. I didn’t want to waste your time,’ Signora Giordano protested.
‘Singly, they’re little things, but together they add up,’ Eleanor said gently. ‘Heavy periods, constipation, tiredness, dry skin, lower libido and slight depression. I think your thyroid isn’t working as it should, and the earlier we spot it the earlier we can do something to make you feel better. We can treat it with tablets—we’ll have to increase the dose gradually until we get the right one, or you’ll feel really ill.’
Orlando swiftly took a blood sample. ‘Come back and see us next week when the results are back,’ he said. ‘And then we can talk about your treatment.’ He smiled at her. ‘And I can promise you, you’ll soon start to feel a lot better.’
‘Grazie, Dottore de Luca—Dottoressa Forrest,’ Signora Giordano said.
‘Prego,’ they said in unison.
‘Good call,’ Orlando said when their patient had left. ‘You’re a natural with family medicine. Have you come across this before?’
‘My best friend’s mum had it. I remember her symptoms,’ Eleanor said. ‘And you picked up on what I was thinking.’ ‘We work well together,’ he said. ‘A good team.’ Yes. But was that going to be enough? Eleanor wondered.
* * *
On Wednesday afternoon, Orlando went with Eleanor to see Bartolomeo.
‘We won’t know whether the tissue is a match until at least Monday,’ Orlando warned. He’d agreed with Eleanor that they’d tell Bartolomeo the later date, so he wouldn’t be uptight, waiting for the results, if they were late.
‘But there’s a chance. Hope,’ the older man said, his eyes glittering.
‘Well, I’m staying here in Italy for a while, regardless of what the tests show,’ Eleanor said. ‘So I’m going to look for a place to rent.’
‘I have a spare room—more than one. And you’re my daughter. You can stay here with me,’ Bartolomeo said.
She stroked his hand. ‘That’s a lovely offer—but I’m used to having my own space,’ she said quietly. ‘So thank you, but no.’
‘There are hardly any places to rent around this part of Naples,’ Bartolomeo said, ‘and I won’t have you staying in a rough part of the city.’
‘I won’t move to a rough part,’ she promised. ‘Orlando will help me find somewhere—he’ll tell me which areas I should avoid.’
The older man’s eyes narrowed as he looked at Orlando. ‘You won’t let her move somewhere bad?’
‘Of course not.’
‘I’d still be happier if you moved in with me, Eleanor,’ Bartolomeo said, his mouth compressed.
There was a solution. One that was going to test Orlando’s self-control to the limit. One that was really a very bad idea indeed, given that he wanted to take things slowly. But the words came out anyway. ‘I, too, have a spare room.’
Eleanor’s eyes widened. ‘You’re suggesting that I move in with you?’
‘That way, you’re not far from your father but you have your independence. And if this transplant goes ahead, I’d rather you were staying with someone, not in an apartment on your own,’ he said. ‘I would recommend having someone to keep an eye on you for a few days.’
Bartolomeo’s eyes widened. ‘So there are risks with this procedure after all? Eleanor might be ill afterwards?’
‘No, there aren’t.’ She glared at Orlando. ‘He’s scaremongering.’
‘Actually,’ Orlando said, trying to keep his tone as reasonable as possible, ‘anyone who knows you, Eleanor, also knows you’re likely to overdo things instead of resting the first couple of days. That’s why I think someone should keep an eye on you. And who better than a fellow doctor?’
He’d told her he wanted time to think about things. Space between them. And what was he doing? Making sure she spent even more time around him. He must be crazy.
She clearly thought so, too, because she brought it up when he took her back to her hotel. ‘I can’t possibly move in with you.’
‘Yes, you can. Look, do it for Bartolomeo
’s sake. He’s worrying about you. And that means he’s stressed. He already has enough stress lined up for when the transplant goes through.’ Oh, lord. She had him at it now. Saying ‘when’ instead of ‘if’. ‘Think about it. It’s the sensible option. And you, Eleanor Forrest, are a sensible woman.’
‘Why does that sound like a insult?’
‘Because your imagination is playing tricks on you. Look, it will stop your father worrying.’
‘So I just move into your house.’
‘To my spare room. You will have your own key, so you will be completely independent. Come and go as you please.’ ‘Won’t I get in your way? Disturb you?’ She’d disturb him all right. Though not in the way she meant. ‘No,’ he fibbed. ‘And when I am not on house calls, my car is at your disposal.’
‘That’s too generous. I’m perfectly capable of using public transport.’
She waved a dismissive hand—the sheer Italian-ness of the gesture amused him, but he didn’t want her to get the wrong idea so he propped his elbow on the table and rested his chin on his hand, making sure to cover his face so she couldn’t see him smiling.
‘I have a weekly ticket,’ she continued, ‘so I can catch the metro, a bus, a tram, a funicular railway. No problem.’
‘True. And I live reasonably near a metro station. But the offer is there. You might want to take Bartolomeo for a drive along the coast or something.’
She was silent for a while. ‘If I move in—and I mean if—then I insist on paying you rent.’
He smiled. ‘That’s not necessary. I said I would support you through this.’
‘Emotionally. You don’t need to do it financially. I’m, um—look, my parents left me a house and money. I don’t need support in that way. And I would still expect to do my share. You know, chores in the house.’
He made a dismissive gesture. ‘No need. I have a cleaner.’
‘Cooking, then.’
‘We’ll negotiate that later.’ He paused. ‘So. Do I have a house guest?’ ‘Yes. Grazie?
‘OK. Do you want to check out now or tomorrow morning?’ She gaped. ‘That’s a bit fast!’
‘It’s Wednesday. If we get the results back on Saturday afternoon and if they’re the right ones, you’ll be starting treatment on Monday. Whatever we’ve said to your father, we don’t know how you’re going to feel. So it makes sense to move now, have a couple of days to settle in, just in case you start to feel rough.’
He was pushing her. He knew it. And he also knew it was crazy. If anything, he should be thinking up reasons why she shouldn’t move in. Reasons to keep his distance.
But he yearned for her to be near.
And this was a way of doing it without having to explain how he felt or probe the emotions he normally kept at bay.
‘I need time to pack my things,’ she said.
‘Pack them. I’ll go back to the surgery for a couple of hours and do some admin work, then I’ll fetch the car and pick you up.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I’ll see you at five. A presto.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
AT FIVE o’clock exactly, Eleanor opened the door to Orlando’s knock. ‘Nearly done,’ she said. ‘I’ve finished packing. I just need to settle the bill.’
‘Bene. I’ll load your things into the car, then.’ He smiled at her. ‘Hold out your hand.’
She frowned, but did as he asked. He dropped two keys onto it. ‘It’s obvious which is which,’ he told her. ‘One is for the car and one is for the front door.’
‘Thank you.’ She took her keychain from her handbag and added Orlando’s keys to it. It felt oddly intimate, having his keys nestle against hers. He trusted her with his keys. Would he trust her with his heart?
As soon as she’d settled the bill, she joined Orlando in the car and he drove them to his apartment. ‘I live on the fifth floor,’ he said, taking her baggage from the car and gesturing to the enormous ancient building in front of them. ‘There is a lift.’
‘This place is amazing,’ she said as they travelled up. ‘It’s a palazzo, yes?’
‘Yes. It dates from the fifteenth century, though it was converted into flats years ago, and my apartment was renovated not long before I bought it. One of these days I’m going to research it, find out who lived here.’ He shrugged. ‘I like it. It’s convenient for work and convenient for the city.’
Smack in the middle of the city; she’d noticed plenty of shops and caffès on their way here. And yet the area wasn’t that noisy: the palazzo overlooked a large pedestrianised square.
‘Welcome to mia casa—my home,’ he said softly, and opened the front door. ‘I’ll show you around.’ He set her cases down in the hallway. ‘This is the kitchen.’ It was very modern, with stainless-steel appliances, maple cabinets with long tubular brushed aluminium handles, granite worktops and a dark slate floor, but it was definitely a kitchen for use rather than a kitchen for show. Pans hung from a rail, and there were fresh herbs growing in pots on the window-sill.
‘Living room, dining room.’ There was an arch between the two rooms; the walls were painted a bright sunny yellow, and the curtains at the large windows were white voile. Again, it was very modern—a glass-topped dining table with white leather chairs, with a state-of-the-art plasma TV and beige leather sofas in the living room. On the walls were framed prints of Whistler nocturnes.
But there was nothing personal there, she noticed. No photographs of family, no children’s drawings made especially for a favourite uncle, not even any friends’ wedding photographs. Nothing to give away who Orlando was.
And it was very much a single person’s home—a young, single, urban professional person’s home, she thought. Underlining the fact that Orlando wasn’t a family man. Just like his consulting room in the medical practice, the room was incredibly neat: everything in its place. This wasn’t an apartment that would echo with the laughter of children and have crayoned pictures stuck onto the fridge with magnets. There wouldn’t be toys and books and socks scattered everywhere. Orlando was good with children—she’d seen him at work—but it was clear to her that he liked to keep them at a professional distance.
‘My study.’ It was painted a paler yellow, with a large desk, a state-of-the-art computer and tightly crammed bookshelves covering one wall. ‘If you want to read anything, feel free to help yourself. I’m afraid I don’t have many books in English, but you’re welcome to use my library card—they have a reasonable foreign section.’
‘Thank you.’ She smiled wryly. ‘It feels odd, thinking of English as a foreign language.’
‘It is, here,’ he pointed out. ‘Feel free to use my computer, too—you don’t need to find an internet café to research anything or check your email.’
‘Grazie.’ And she really was grateful for that: it meant she could have better contact with Tamsin, as well as researching extra information about Bartolomeo’s condition.
‘If you need to call anyone in England—your boss, your friends—you know the dialling codes from here.’ He gestured to the phone. ‘As they say in Italy, mia casa è sua casa.’
Tears pricked her eyelids. ‘I really appreciate this,’ she said, hoping her voice didn’t sound as cracked to him as it did to her.
He continued with the tour, dismissing the next door with a wave. ‘My room and bathroom.’ He led her to the door opposite. ‘And your room and bathroom.’
It was gorgeous, Eleanor thought. White walls with the faintest hint of peach, white voile curtains and a wrought-iron bedstead with white covers. Like that in the rest of the apartment, the flooring was beech—the real thing, not laminate. The bathroom walls were a rich turquoise, teamed with a black and white diamond-tiled floor and a white suite.
Orlando either liked things very simple, or had found an interior designer whose tastes he could live with.
And how.
‘Wow,’ she said, feeling her eyes widen in pleasure.
But he’d left the best to last. A terrace with wrought-iron balus
trading overlooking the piazza, with views of Vesuvius and the Bay of Naples. ‘This,’ she said softly, ‘is incredible.’ The perfect spot to linger with a mug of coffee or a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. There were olive trees growing in terracotta pots in the corners of the terrace, terracotta troughs with a jumble of red and white geraniums between them, and a granite-topped bistro table with two wrought-iron chairs.
‘Would you like to eat out here tonight?’ he asked.
She blinked. ‘Eat?’
‘Uh-huh. I was planning to cook for us. If that’s OK with you. Why don’t you unpack while I sort something out?’
‘Um, shouldn’t I be helping you in the kitchen?’
‘No need.’ He smiled at her. ‘And it’s not a chore. I enjoy cooking. It helps me relax.’
Which meant he’d be good at it. Orlando, she thought, was good at everything he did.
Including making love.
Which she’d promised herself she wouldn’t think about.
By the time she’d finished unpacking, the aromas emanating from the kitchen were making her seriously hungry. She followed her nose.
He looked up and smiled at her. ‘Bene. You’ve finished.’ He handed her a glass of wine. ‘Go and sit on the terrace. Take a book, if you want. I’ll bring the antipasti through when it’s ready.’
‘Thanks.’ She walked into his office. As he’d said, he had few English books. Though the bookshelves were clearly in some sort of order—medical textbooks, novels, poetry. Including Orlando Furioso.
Oh, lord. Her grip tightened on the stem of the wineglass as she remembered that night. Orlando Innamorato.
Except he wasn’t, was he? He’d offered her a place to stay. As a friend, not as his lover.
In the end, she went onto the terrace and just sat gazing out at the view. She was so lost in thought that she didn’t hear Orlando join her, and jumped when he spoke to her.
‘What are you thinking of, Eleanor?’
She shook her head. ‘Nothing important.’
‘Worrying about your father? We are doing what we can. What will be will be.’
Latin Lovers: Italian Playboys Page 30