Friends for Life

by Carol Smith

  Yet there was still something about Sally that Duncan didn’t entirely trust. It might have been the raw sexuality and the reflective way she looked him up and down whenever he appeared in the doorway, the way a sailor just back from a long stint at sea looks at a tart. It was so deliberate, it was actually quite funny, but Duncan, though certainly not a prude, was not particularly amused. This was his patch and he took his vocation seriously. Also, she was Beth’s friend and should not be acting this way, certainly not around him. She wore a uniform of jeans and a skimpy T-shirt, nothing else, and all she had to offer was on full view to the world. He found this disconcerting, as any red-blooded male was bound to, but what could he do? She was only going to be here for a week and she was doing him a favor. If she stayed on longer, he might suggest she wore an overall; meantime the dowagers would just have to lump it if the sight of those glorious breasts offended them.

  Beth took it like a lamb, but that was Beth all over. Duncan had been nervous about telling her but Sally got her twopenny-worth in first so he was glad he’d had the foresight to mention it, if only to prove he had nothing to hide. Sally was there already when Duncan walked in, ensconced in her usual place in Beth’s kitchen and apparently just through telling Beth about her brilliant new job.

  “That’s wonderful, sweetie,’’ said Beth, flinging her arms round his neck and rubbing her nose in his beard. “But how did all this come about? Don’t tell me you two have been meeting behind my back?’’

  “We bumped into each other in the pub,’’ said Sally cheerfully, winking at Duncan and putting him instantly on his guard. “And since old Sourpuss had just asked for time off, nothing seemed simpler than for me to step into the breach. Right, Duncan?’’

  He was annoyed but tried to hide it. He had been right not to trust her, he sensed she was basically bad news, but as far as Beth was concerned the sun shone out of her backside. That was something he’d have to watch.

  “Hurry up and get sorted out,’’ he said, making a show of kissing Beth’s neck. “I was planning to take you out for a change.’’

  “But Sal’s here,’’ objected Beth. “How’s about we all stay in and I’ll throw together some spaghetti or something?’’

  “You’re always doing that.’’ Now his anger was beginning to rise and he had to take a firm grip on himself. Beth noticed nothing but he saw Sally watching him shrewdly and knew she had his measure.

  “You guys go,’’ she said. “And I’ll stay here and wait for Imogen. I love that kid,’’ she explained to Duncan. “She’s everything I ever want in a child, when I finally get around to doing it myself. Though it has to be a girl. I can’t stand boys.’’

  “What do you mean, you can’t stand boys?’’ said Beth, in amusement. “I rather got the impression you were addicted to them.’’

  “Not small ones, with runny noses and scabby knees. Ugh! Can’t bear them, won’t have them near me. They bring me out in a rash!’’

  They both screamed with laughter while Duncan felt dismay. The kid; he’d forgotten. Now he really was in the doghouse. Sally was smiling but he wanted to slap her around the face.

  “Spaghetti sounds just the job,’’ he said lamely, taking Beth in his arms again and hugging her to him. She felt so good, this lovely lady; so warm, so comfortable. He couldn’t get enough of her.

  “Spaghetti for four coming up!’’ said Beth gaily, shaking loose. “You set the table, Sal, while I fix the sauce. How does everyone feel about anchovies?’’

  “I’ll just pop round the corner for a couple of bottles of Valpolicella,’’ said Duncan, knowing when he was beaten.

  He still couldn’t figure out the thing that was elusively nagging in the corner of his brain, irritatingly just out of sight.

  • • •

  It was Friday evening, Sally’s last in the practice, and still she lingered. The last patient was long since gone and Duncan was puttering around in the surgery, reduced to rearranging the drugs cupboard and wishing she would go home so that he could lock up. He was reluctant to leave with her as he wanted to avoid that crucial parting exchange that would result, almost certainly, in either a drink or the promise of future work. Which he was not prepared to give.

  She wandered into the surgery now, barefoot, and heaved herself up on the examination table where she sat with legs apart, watching him.

  “Do you always work this late? What is it, don’t you have a home to go to?’’ She was mocking him; he felt her eyes burning into the back of his neck.

  He muttered something from the depths of the cupboard and told her not to bother to wait.

  “I’m in no hurry,’’ was all she said.

  Finally he’d finished and could delay things no longer. Besides, his back was killing him. He straightened up, closed the cupboard door, and locked it, slipping the key back on to his keyring and into his inner pocket. Where drugs were concerned, you simply couldn’t be too careful. He turned to face her and, as he did so, she took hold of the lapels of his starched white coat and drew him slowly toward her, all the time holding his gaze with her luminous, aquamarine eyes.

  Duncan hesitated but only for a moment. She was so close he could smell the honey of her hair and he was, after all, just a man, with the same basic appetites as the next guy. He laid his hands on her shoulders and felt the heat of her skin through her skimpy T-shirt and those impressive breasts pressed up hard against his shirt. She was pushing the coat from his shoulders and he bent his head and kissed her firmly on the mouth, feeling it open to draw him in, her tongue soft and sinuous against his own.

  But then he straightened and pushed her gently away, seeing the rage and incomprehension flare in her eyes, knowing that in one false move he had made himself an enemy.

  “Sorry, sweetie,’’ he said, shaking his broad shoulders back into his white coat. “But I don’t believe in mixing business with pleasure.’’

  “Aw, come on!’’ She couldn’t believe he was serious, already had her T-shirt halfway over her head.

  Duncan switched off the lights in the surgery and went on outside to the deserted waiting room. He had never been in a situation like this, where it was being offered to him on a plate and he found he had lost his taste for it. But these days the image of Beth was uppermost in his mind and he knew he’d never be able to live with his conscience if he trifled any further with this delectable little whore. But how was he going to get rid of her tactfully, without damaging her feelings any more?

  And then Duncan heard a sound he had never imagined he would welcome, the crunch of tires on the cobbles outside, announcing the arrival of the cavalry.

  “Coo-ee, anyone home?’’ called Serena, as she barged on in through the door without waiting for a reply. She was wearing pearls and a little black number and her hair hung straight and shiny over her shoulders. She was fresh back from the Maldives so her impeccable tan was classily authentic and she looked at Sally as if she were dirt as she followed Duncan, barefoot, from the darkened surgery, jerking her T-shirt back into place.

  “Working late?’’ she sneered before she could stop herself, trembling on the verge of bursting into tears. Duncan drew her into his arms, with more enthusiasm than he felt, and kissed her full on the lips.

  “Just locking up, my love,’’ he said cheerfully. “If you wait a sec, I’ll be right with you.’’

  Serena’s astonishment showed but at least it put a stop to the tears; she glanced back at Sally, who was flamboyantly brushing her hair, with a look of pure triumph.

  “I’m on my way to the Philipsons,’’ she said, slightly mollified. “They’re having a drinks do and I thought you might like to come.’’

  “Terrific.’’ Duncan took off his white coat and tossed it into the corner. As usual, he was dressed head to foot in denim but it didn’t stop him looking like a million dollars.

  “Am I too casual?’’

  She shook her head. Just looking at this man rendered her speechless; she knew he would hav
e the same effect on her friends and longed to show him off.

  Duncan waited while Sally, with a bad grace, slid her grubby feet back into her thongs, grabbed the canvas bag in which she toted her possessions, and crammed her denim hat onto her springy hair.

  “Can we drop you anywhere?’’ Duncan asked as he locked the door but Sally, as she pushed on past him, was far too choked to speak.

  Much later, after he had endured an hour or two of inconsequential banter on a penthouse terrace with views across the Thames, Duncan excused himself from Serena’s boisterous friends, who were set on going clubbing in the West End, by pleading middle age and an early start in the morning. He let her down as gently as he could, seeing how close to tears she was again, kissed her paternally on the forehead, and promised to ring sometime soon when maybe they could grab a movie or something. He knew it was unlikely he ever would. These lightweight girls just weren’t worth the strain on his nerves.

  He took a taxi back to the surgery, where he picked up the Land Rover, then meandered on down to the Fulham Road for a late-night cognac before turning in. All he wanted in the world was Beth; both today’s amatory encounters had simply served to focus his thoughts and underline how very much he loved her. He cursed himself for wasting so much time and knew that if he lost her, it would only be his own damned fault. Tonight was really too late for an impulsive visit to the house in Ladbroke Grove that was fast becoming the center of his universe but he swore to himself he would do something positive first thing in the morning. Besides, he needed all his wits about him for the important decision he was on the brink of making.

  He drove back home to Putney deep in thought. A short, sharp shower, some food, and a few hours’ kip should set him up. Tomorrow would decide his fate—for the rest of his life he hoped, the way he was feeling now. He had wandered around the world too long, in some sort of time-warp soft-shoe shuffle. The fact that the feel of Sally’s firm young breasts had faintly repelled him was telling him something he could not ignore. He was no longer the wild young man he used to be; it was time to abandon his macho attitude toward life in general and women in particular, to think about putting down roots and taking things a tad more seriously. In an odd way, he was grateful to Sally—Sally and Serena. When you felt you were losing your appetite, it was surely time to quit.

  The message light on his answering machine was blinking so he flicked it on and played back the tape while he poured himself another cognac. The voice from Western Australia sounded cautious and ill at ease at making a long-distance call and it was difficult to hear what it was saying through the static on the line. But eventually he got the picture. It was his parents’ nearest neighbor in Perth and she sounded fairly distraught. His father had had a coronary and been rushed to the hospital.

  “I’d come quickly if I were you,’’ she said.

  Chapter Forty-four

  When Georgy eventually opened her eyes, she thought she must have died and gone to heaven. The one face she loved most in the world, her father’s, was hovering over her with eyes filled with concern and love, and furthermore he was weeping. She closed her eyes again and tried to throw off the dream but gentle fingers were caressing her cheek and a deep, familiar voice whispered endearments with a catch in the throat that made her want to cry too.

  “Daddy?”

  “My darling.”

  So it was true. He was really there.

  Strong fingers enfolded hers but she found she could not move her arms to embrace him because of the tube in her wrist and what felt like a lead waistcoat around her ribs which restrained her as effectively as a straitjacket. Also, it hurt, monumentally, whenever she tried to move.

  “Daddy?”

  “Sweetheart, I’m here.” Lips touched the back of her hand and she felt something suspiciously like a tear.

  “What’s going on? Where am I?”

  “Take it easy, my love, you’re quite safe now.”

  “But what happened?”

  Emmanuel Kirsch, rubbing his sleeve across his eyes, let go of her hand and rose to his feet, shrugging his shoulders helplessly to the two uniformed policemen waiting discreetly at the foot of the bed. One of them, the more senior, nodded his head and touched Emmanuel’s shoulder, indicating he should continue.

  “There was an accident, sweetheart, and you were hurt. Don’t you remember?”

  She didn’t. She lay there, immobile, and ran her confused mind over her jagged memory. An accident. All she knew was she hurt like hell, it seemed all over, and Daddy was here, holding her hand and actually crying. That was all that mattered right now.

  It’s a gag, right? A—what do you call it?—April Fool? Any minute now some joker is going to leap around that door and holler, Gotcha!

  Her fingers tightened over her father’s. He hadn’t gone away.

  “Daddy,” she said, in a whisper this time.

  “My darling.”

  “Please take me home.”

  • • •

  He did, too. Yes, there were questions she couldn’t quite understand, let alone answer, and strange uniformed figures looming over her and then receding, and Beth—she could swear it was Beth—kissing her cheek and talking in a low, concerned murmur, and then a lot of noises and movements with Georgy drifting in and out of consciousness until finally they were in an ambulance and driving away to safety, Daddy still with her, still holding her hand.

  “I’m so sorry,” she tried to say a number of times, but it seemed he couldn’t understand, so she waited awhile and then tried again.

  “Sorry for what?” he whispered, smothering her face with careful kisses and trying hard to control his tears. “It’s I who should apologize, I ought to have been there. All these years, while you were growing up . . . And to think. I might have lost you . . .”

  And then she was comforting him, which was a novel idea but a delicious thought, if only she could work out why he was so upset.

  The plane was a bit of a performance but there were nurses to give her injections and take care of her, just as if she were still safely in the hospital. She was dimly aware that there seemed to be no other passengers but someone explained it was an air ambulance, so she really was flying in style. Thank God for Dad and his money.

  “Oh, Lord,” she thought as the drowsiness took over, “did I remember to pack my Burberry? And my passport? And what about presents for the family? They always expect presents. And what about getting my legs waxed? It’s summer already and Ma will go on about it.”

  Then she had the most worrying thought of all.

  Myra—give me strength. And won’t there be one helluva row when she sees me like this with Daddy.

  She slipped off into a gentle, drug-induced doze.

  • • •

  Emmanuel Kirsch sat in the air ambulance and worried about his daughter. He was only just beginning to recover from the shock of hearing that she might be dying and blessed his stars they had reached him in time, on a stopover in New York before he’d reached home. He turned his head to look at her now, sleeping peacefully nearby, bound up like a papoose in red hospital blankets, as small and defenseless as the child he had once worshiped but had lately neglected so shamefully.

  Well, this time round he was going to make up for all that. Sylvia was right when she said he was too obsessive; it was a miracle that this latest marriage had survived at all considering his track record and how little time they actually managed to get together. He owed it all to Sylvia. She was a wonderful, caring woman of unfathomable strength and staying power who had curtailed her own high-flying career with scarcely a murmur because, she told him, she had her priorities right and wanted only to make this relationship work. And, of course, now there was Ariel to consider too.

  At the thought of his son, a tender smile crossed Emmanuel’s careworn face. Whoever would have thought that, this late in life, he would finally be given the son he had always longed for? Ariel had brought new meaning to his life and in his presence Emmanuel
felt quite humble. He had always considered himself an exemplary paterfamilias, but raising girls was not the same as having a small replica of himself to follow in his footsteps. It might be an unpopular view in these days of political correctness, but Emmanuel Kirsch was an old-fashioned man and proud of it. That was how he felt.

  Once he had felt that way about Georgy, had smothered her with love and admiration, and lugged her around with him whenever he could. But then things had radically changed. He had abandoned her mother and left his first family to cope without him. His Little Princess had been tossed to one side, when she was not much older than Ariel was now. Guilt filled him; he knew how badly he had behaved and also how it had affected his daughter. She had every right to feel bitter and deserted; the question was, would she ever be able to forgive him? He swore he would do everything within his power to try to make things up to her. He could only thank the Lord he had been granted a second chance.

  Sixteen times she had been stabbed; who could possibly have hated her that much? Though they had permitted him to take her away, the case was by no means closed and the really sickening part was that the police appeared to have practically no firm leads at all. Emmanuel sat back and, for the hundredth time, ran his incisive mind over the list of possible suspects.

  The cook first, the one whose knife had been used in the attack. The odds against it being her were gigantic. Quite apart from her open, friendly personality and her obvious fondness for his daughter, there was surely no way she would be so stupid as to use her own weapon and then leave it carelessly at the scene of the crime? But Emmanuel Kirsch was accustomed to keeping an open mind. In his profession he knew not to jump to any conclusion until he had hard evidence to back it up.