Sold to the Surgeon

by Ann Jennings

  Oh, heavens, thought Abigail with a sinking feeling, this is going to be an awful evening. She hated girls who deliberately turned on the “little girl” charm and flirted with men, it was something she could never do.

  “I don’t feel the need to be spoiled,” she said coldly. “You’re welcome to them both, Penelope, if that’s what you want.” It was a bitchy remark, and out of character, but at that particular moment she could have quite cheerfully spat blood!

  The awkward silence at the table was broken by Greg giving the order to the waiter, who had been hovering attentively near by. Abigail bent her head to hide her furious expression, and fondled the ears of a black and white dog who was sitting, looking expectant, by their table.

  “I wouldn’t touch the dogs around here,” said Penelope in her supercilious tone, the one she reserved for elderly patients and foreigners. “For a start they’re not well bred, and you never know what you might catch.”

  “Penelope’s right,” chimed in Rupert. “You never know…”

  “No, you don’t, do you?” said Abigail quietly.

  Rupert flushed uneasily, and she knew the innuendo had gone home. “I worry about you,” he said defensively. “You don’t want to be ill while you’re away.”

  “I daresay the dogs here are as healthy as anywhere,” said Greg, and picking up a pretzel from the dish on the table, he tossed it to the dog, who snapped it up eagerly.

  He had broken a potentially awkward situation again, and this time Abigail knew he had done so on purpose, and was grateful. She was feeling confused and angry, and the last thing she wanted to do was quarrel with Rupert. When we’re on our own, we’ll be able to talk reasonably, and sensibly, and everything will be all right, she told herself; controlling the upsurge of jealousy that threatened to swamp her, with an effort.

  So she smiled at Rupert, and was glad to see him smile back, relief written all over his face. He had never been faced with an acid-tongued Abigail before, and she couldn’t help thinking, just a little bit smugly, that he didn’t know how to handle her in that mood! Almost simultaneously, though, the uncomfortable thought flashed across her mind that Greg would have known exactly how to handle it—he would have lashed back and they would have had a flaming row! In a strangely contradictory way, she wished she and Rupert had rowed there and then, and to hell with the embarrassment!

  But for the rest of the hour they spent at the bar, Abigail made a point of being sweetness and light itself; so much so that Greg leaned over at one point and whispered in her ear, “Be careful, or you’ll go over the top!”

  Abigail rewarded him with a shrivelling glance as Penelope asked, “What did you say, Greg?”

  “Give the dog another biscuit,” he replied, with a deadpan face.

  Abigail couldn’t help it, she giggled. He looked so serious, and picking up a handful of pretzels, she started feeding them to the dog one by one.

  “Pongo!” shouted the waiter, and the dog pricked up its ears, then slunk sheepishly away along the edge of the square.

  “Tell him it’s my fault,” pleaded Abigail, clutching hold of Greg’s arm anxiously. “He didn’t beg for food, I offered it.”

  Greg laughed, and said something in rapid Italian to the waiter, who beamed from ear to ear and whistled the dog back, giving it a friendly cuff around the ears as it came bounding back up to the table. As he made out their bill, he continued chatting to Greg.

  “What did he say?” asked Abigail when he’d gone.

  “He said the dog always picks on the pretty English girls, because he knows they’re soft-hearted,” answered Greg, smiling widely.

  “I’m not soft-hearted,” said Penelope.

  You can say that again, thought Abigail, biting back the words with difficulty. It seemed that neither Greg nor Rupert heard Penelope’s remark, as they made no comment.

  Rupert merely remarked mildly to Abigail. “You’ll be partly to blame for that animal’s premature middle-aged spread!”

  Abigail laughed and linked her arm through his. “Dogs don’t worry about their figures,” she said.

  Rupert smiled down at her, and she felt some of her old happiness return. She had an over-active imagination, that was her problem, she decided. But when they reached the parked car, she wasn’t certain whether or not it was her imagination that Rupert hesitated just a second before opening the door of his car for her. For a moment she had almost thought he was going to usher Penelope into the car, but then, as she told herself later, it was a natural mistake. He had arrived with Penelope, and she with Greg, but she drove back to the villa with Rupert. On the way he seemed to be his old self, explaining what he had been doing while waiting for her to arrive, and Abigail’s worries evaporated—she definitely had an over-active imagination, something she would have to curb in the future.

  The days passed quickly one after the other, there was so much to do, sailing, windsurfing, sightseeing, and always they ended the day sitting late into the evening on the patio, eating and drinking under a star-spangled sky.

  Abigail was pleased that Rupert had finished his work for Sir Jason, and so had plenty of time to spend relaxing, although she did sometimes wish they could have more time together, just the two of them. She had hoped, after the departure of Sir Jason and Lady Orchard, that Penelope would spend more time with Greg, but it seemed that everything had always been arranged, and it was always a foursome. Rupert didn’t appear to mind at all, and on the few occasions Abigail had mentioned it to him, he had said they couldn’t very well be rude as they were staying in Greg’s villa.

  One particular morning, however, when Abigail went down to breakfast, she found herself alone on the patio. From the debris of crumbs and half-empty glasses of orange littering the table, it was obvious that everyone else had already breakfasted.

  Pouring herself a glass of fresh orange juice, she wandered slowly to the edge of the patio, leaning on the balustrade overlooking the lake. Suddenly, a movement far down below caught her eye; it was Penelope and Rupert running down the slope towards the boathouse on the shore of the lake. They had their arms linked, and their laughter floated up clearly through the still morning air. Abigail bit her lip. They had obviously decided to take an early morning sail, although judging from the mirror-smoothness of the lake there wouldn’t be much wind for sailing.

  Turning away, she tried to ignore the feeling of emptiness in the pit of her stomach, trying to blot out the disturbing scene of Rupert and Penelope together. But it was impossible, and all the vague doubts that had been troubling her the past week returned in force, numbing her heart with unhappiness.

  Suddenly she looked at the ring on her finger. The diamonds seemed to sparkle coldly in the morning sunlight. Impulsively snatching it from her finger, she held it in the palm of her hand, where it winked back at her with a mocking glitter. Unhappily she wondered what she should do, what could she do? She just didn’t understand Rupert, he had wanted their marriage date brought forward, and if he had changed his mind he certainly hadn’t mentioned it, although talking to him about anything had been difficult. They never seemed to be alone together.

  “You’d better put that back on, you might lose it,” said a quiet voice beside her.

  Startled, Abigail looked up. She’d been so engrossed in her thoughts that she hadn’t heard Greg cross the patio towards her.

  “I…” she began.

  “Put it on,” he commanded, then added with a wry twist to his lips, “if you were thinking of throwing it over the edge in a fit of pique, I would advise against it.”

  “I am not,” said Abigail, “given to fits of pique!” She put the ring back on her finger.

  “You’re thinking that Rupert is neglecting you,” began Greg.

  “Certainly not,” cut in Abigail quickly—much too quickly, she realised as Greg raised an ironical eyebrow. “I didn’t know he intended to go s
ailing this morning. I was just a little surprised.”

  Maria appeared in the doorway leading from the villa to the patio, bringing out a tray of fresh bread rolls, which she placed on the breakfast table.

  “Come on,” said Greg, taking Abigail’s arm, and leading her away from the balustrade. “This is one advantage of taking a late breakfast, we can have fresh bread, straight from the ovens.”

  Abigail walked with him, noticing for the first time how immaculate he looked in cream-coloured slacks and a pale lemon shirt which accentuated his deepening tan. “You’re looking very smart this morning,” she couldn’t resist saying. It was true, he usually wore jeans and a T-shirt, the most practical clothes for sailing or sightseeing.

  He threw her a thoughtful glance as he said, “there is a reason, but you’ve obviously forgotten.”

  Abigail frowned. What on earth was he talking about? “Forgotten what?” she asked.

  “The visit to the hospital,” he replied. “I’m operating at Siena later today, and you’re helping me, remember?”

  Her hand flew guiltily to her mouth; she had completely forgotten. “I’d better get ready,” she gasped, hastily pushing back her chair.

  “Sit down and eat some breakfast first,” he growled, grasping her wrist and dragging her down beside him. Then he grinned wickedly, “Now you know why your darling fiancé and Penelope have gone sailing for the day, because you’ll be otherwise occupied.”

  “You told Rupert?”

  “Of course. I couldn’t very well steal his fiancée for the day without mentioning it, could I?” The remark was innocent enough, but there was a note of hidden laughter in his voice.

  Abigail flushed; he was mocking her, laughing at her for removing her engagement ring so impulsively. It seemed a stupid thing to do now that it all made sense. What a jealous, silly woman she had become—she almost laughed out loud at her own neuroses. Of course Rupert and Penelope would do something else, if she and Greg were going to be away all day in Siena.

  She took the bread roll he proffered and remained silent during their breakfast, her mind busily revising the theatre techniques she had looked up some time before. Gulping down her coffee, she made her excuses to go and get changed, even though Greg said there was no hurry. She wanted to look through the books just once more.

  “There won’t be too much for you to do,” said Greg, accurately reading her mind.

  “Maybe not,” retorted Abigail, “but I want to make sure that what I do is absolutely correct.”

  “You worry too much,” laughed Greg, lazily pouring himself another coffee, “I’ve told you so before.”

  Abigail didn’t answer, just made good her escape to her room, hastily fishing out the books, and feverishly flicking through the pages, familiarising herself with the theatre techniques, although she already knew them backwards. At the same time, she cursed Greg for not reminding her before the actual day had arrived!

  Changing into the most businesslike outfit she had brought with her, a blue and white tailored dress, she carefully pinned her blond hair into a neat chignon, then hurried down to join Greg in the courtyard. The journey to Siena took about an hour, and in spite of feeling apprehensive about the theatre work ahead of her, Abigail was entranced as usual by the scenery. Monasteries, hilltop towns perched on rocky crags, all combined with a kaleidoscope of ever-changing greens and golds into a timeless landscape.

  Greg looked down at her rapt face. “You looked bewitched,” he teased.

  Abigail smiled. “Perhaps I am.”

  “I’d like to think it was my enthralling company,” he said with a wry smile, “but I’m inclined to think that it’s Italy you’re in love with!”

  There was no time to continue the conversation, as they had arrived on the outskirts of Siena. The hospital where Greg was to operate was situated in a square just off the Piazza del Campo. Greg had been there before, and negotiated the narrow streets with an expertise born of practice, swinging the car into the hospital’s overcrowded parking area without a problem.

  As soon as they stepped into the interior of the hospital Greg was greeted with enthusiasm, and Abigail felt at home too; the familiar antiseptic smell, the long shining corridors, the atmosphere of calm ordered efficiency soothed her nerves. She suddenly felt more confident. She would be able to discharge her duties, and do it well; she would be a credit to herself and to Greg.

  The two hours’ work went well, and Abigail forgot everything else, as Greg snapped orders at her, and she carried out his commands without a moment’s hesitation. She also found watching the bloodless laser surgery completely absorbing—the invisible beam of light excising the skin and sealing the blood vessels in one split second. As Greg explained later to his attentive audience, this provided minimum discomfort to the patient during the post-operative period, as the usual oedema associated with major surgery was absent; the laser beam causing little trauma to the surrounding tissues.

  After the operating session, they were taken to lunch, where Greg was continually bombarded with questions. Abigail sat quietly eating her lunch, marvelling at Greg’s patience. She knew by now he must be feeling tired—two hours of difficult surgery, followed by another two hours of non-stop questioning. At last they made their escape, after many handshakes all round, Abigail only nodding her head and smiling, wishing she could understand the babble of excited conversation.

  They had started walking back towards the parked car when Greg paused and looked at his watch. “We still have time to fit in a little sightseeing,” he said. “Shall we climb the bell tower in the Piazza del Campo and take in an aerial view of Siena? That is, of course, if you can make it after that lunch!”

  “Of course I can make it,” retorted Abigail indignantly, “I’m very fit.”

  “Wait until we come down and then tell me whether or not you’re fit,” was the skeptical reply.

  Climbing up inside the spiral staircase of the bell tower was more difficult than Abigail had imagined, and she gratefully accepted the offer of Greg’s hand to help her up. Once at the top, however, the view of the surrounding Tuscan countryside, and the spectacle of Siena’s streets spread out like the spokes of a wheel, made it all worth while.

  A group of German tourists, puffing and panting, came squeezing past them to look from the other side of the tower, and Greg drew Abigail in close to make room for them. She was suddenly aware of the uneven hammering of her heartbeat reverberating in her ears, and at the same time she realised that she had not thought of Rupert for a single moment, not since the morning when she’d started out for Siena with Greg. Irritably she turned her head, trying to escape the shadowy image of Rupert, only to find herself looking into the depths of Greg’s coal-black eyes. For a fleeting moment, she thought she glimpsed a deep tenderness, but then it was gone, replaced with his usual enigmatic expression.

  His head with its mass of dark hair, bent fractionally towards her, and Abigail knew she was almost willing him to kiss her. His face was so close, and yet at the same time a million miles away. She could feel the warmth of his breath on her cheeks, and his lips came closer; then the German tourists came back, noisy and effervescent, bumbling past them, shattering the fragile moment into a thousand pieces.

  “We’d better start back down,” “said Abigail, watching the retreating back of the noisy crowd, “it seems to be getting dark already.”

  Greg looked at his watch. “Yes,” he agreed, “we don’t want to miss dinner. I hardly ate any lunch, it was difficult eating pasta and fending questions.”

  His tone was matter-of-fact and coolly friendly, giving her the uncanny feeling that the moment before the arrival of the Germans had been a figment of her imagination.

  During the drive back to the villa, Greg talked casually about the morning’s work, and answered some of her questions. She suggested that he should invite Sister Collins into theatre when he
returned, to see the “newfangled method” as she would still insist on calling it.

  “Perhaps I will,” he said, “although I must confess Sister Collins and the County General seem very far away at the moment.”

  “Not so far,” said Abigail pensively. “We shall be back there next week, and then all this will seem far away.”

  “Will you be sorry to leave?” he asked suddenly.

  “I’ve enjoyed my holiday,” she replied warily, choosing her words with care. She didn’t want Greg to know that she had been assailed with doubts about Rupert and Penelope ever since she had arrived in Italy.

  But almost as if he could read her innermost thoughts, Greg suddenly said, “I wonder if Rupert and Penelope had a good sail?”

  “I wonder,” replied Abigail.

  Then the surprising thought struck her; she wasn’t as anxious about Rupert spending his day with Penelope as she should have been. Could it be because she had enjoyed her day with Greg so much? It was a question she couldn’t answer, but somehow it didn’t seem to matter that much.

  Dinner that night was the usual prolonged affair, but Abigail thought Rupert seemed strangely edgy, although no one else appeared to notice, least of all Penelope. She, on the contrary, was in an extra vivacious mood, and regaled everyone with Rupert’s prowess at sailing.

  “He’s such fun to be with,” she said to Abigail. “He had me in absolute stitches all day.”

  Must have worn him out in the process, thought Abigail, glancing at Rupert’s tight face, but she didn’t allow a flicker of animosity to reach her face, merely saying, “I’m so glad you had a good day.”

  “Did you enjoy yourselves?” Penelope asked without interest, adding, “personally I can’t think of anything more boring than to work when on holiday. Talk about a busman’s holiday!”

  “It was fascinating,” said Abigail briefly.

  Penelope’s tinkly little laugh ricocheted around the patio. “I always knew you were a workaholic,” she said. Then she leaned over to Rupert and took his arm, whispering confidentially, “You’ll have to work on Abigail. You know what they say, all work and no play!”