by Kate Hardy
Florence Jacobs could be seriously scary.
Though she was absolutely right. Of course he couldn’t drive. He was way too distracted with pain and worry, and he’d be a danger to other road users.
‘Thank you,’ he said instead.
‘You’re welcome. I’d better get back to the department.’
And she still hadn’t had a rest from work. She’d spent her break looking after him. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘There’s nothing to apologise for. When you’re feeling rough at work, you need a colleague to look out for you,’ she said.
Which put him in his place. She’d just made it clear that she saw him as a colleague, and a temporary one at that.
Though he knew she could’ve just left him to struggle on. Instead, she’d helped him. Bossily, but she’d helped him.
‘I’ll see you later,’ she said, and left him to the ministrations of the renal department.
* * *
Rob Langley must feel absolutely dreadful if he was actually listening to her and doing what she suggested, Florence thought.
What she’d said to him was true enough. She would’ve done the same for any of her colleagues who were feeling ill on shift: made sure they were OK, and arranged cover if there were more than a couple of hours of their shift left.
But she still felt guilty about the way she’d behaved towards Rob almost a fortnight ago. She’d bolted from his hotel room, the morning after they’d spent the night together, without any explanation. He’d done nothing wrong, and she’d treated him badly. And she’d been starchy with him ever since, thanks to a mixture of awkwardness and shame. He’d snapped at her for nearly breaking his confidence, and that had stung enough for her to avoid him as much as possible.
Perhaps now was their chance to get back on an even keel.
She took the head of their department to one side to let him know that Rob was in the renal department, getting checked over, then got on with her shift.
The renal team called literally two minutes after the end of her shift. Perfect timing. She did the handover, then headed to the renal department to find Rob. He was sitting in the waiting area, looking terrible.
Did that mean he’d had bad news? Was his body rejecting his brother’s kidney?
‘How are you doing?’ she asked.
‘Fairly rubbish,’ he admitted. ‘They’ve run all the tests. The good news is that it’s just an infection and they can give me something to clear it up.’
Not that his transplant was failing. He must be so relieved. ‘Glad to hear it.’
‘But the bad news,’ he said with a grimace, ‘is that they’re signing me off for a week to recuperate.’
‘Which is probably sensible,’ she said.
‘Rest is a four-letter word. Literally and metaphorically,’ he said. ‘Remember the guy with the dislocated shoulder who hated the idea of being off work for a few days? I know exactly how he felt.’
‘You don’t have any choice. Suck it up, Dr Langley,’ she said.
Which told him.
‘And I’ll give you a lift,’ she added. ‘Lucky for you I’m on an early as well, and I’ve done my handover, so you don’t have to go and wait for me in the cafeteria or anything until my shift is done.’
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I owe you.’
She shook her head. ‘It’s what any colleague would do for another. You’d do the same for me. Where do you want me to take you? You said your parents live near here. Shall I drop you there?’
He rubbed a hand across his face. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way. I love my mum and dad dearly. I’d do anything for them. But my mum practically cocooned me after the transplant and I couldn’t stand it. It’s why I found myself a short-term flat lease when I started the job here. I really can’t face going home to my parents. Mum’ll go into panic mode and drive me crazy, and the last thing I want to do is snap at her and hurt her when I know she loves me and she’s got my best interests at heart.’
She liked the fact he clearly knew himself well, and was thinking of his mother’s feelings. ‘Your brother’s, then?’
‘He’s busy at work. Anyway, he’s already done more than enough, giving me a kidney.’ He lifted one shoulder in a casual shrug. ‘I admit that I appreciate the lift, but I’ll be fine on my own in my flat.’
She disagreed. ‘Rob, you’re feeling rough now and you’re brewing an infection, so you’ve probably got a couple of days of feeling even worse before the meds kick in. If you feel anywhere near as terrible as you look, you need someone else around.’ But Rob was stubborn. Telling him would put his back up, or make him do the equivalent of sticking his fingers in his ears and singing ‘La, la, I can’t hear you’. She’d appeal to the clinician in him, so it would be his own idea. ‘If you had a patient in this position, what would you recommend? Would you be happy for your patient to be on their own?’
‘No.’
Before she realised it, the words were out. ‘Then that leaves us with just one solution. Come and stay with me.’
* * *
Had his consultant just given him something that had a side-effect of hallucinations? Rob wondered. Had Florence Jacobs just invited him to stay with her?
But they weren’t even friends. They were temporary colleagues. And they’d had a one-night stand almost a fortnight ago that had made her back away from him so fast, there had practically been scorch marks under her feet. Why on earth would she invite him to stay with her?
‘I’m sorry. Did you just...?’
Colour flooded through her face. ‘I haven’t been very fair to you. Very nice to you. So it’s...’ She blew out a breath. ‘Look, there aren’t any strings. It’s what I’d do for any other colleague in your situation.’
Including one she’d slept with?
But she’d just specifically said no strings.
Maybe it was because he was feeling rough that his head wasn’t working properly and he couldn’t quite understand what she meant.
He’d probably said it out loud, because she clarified, ‘It means if you feel really rough, you won’t be on your own—you’ll be staying with someone who’s a medic and will know when to panic and when to back off.’
Which was a good point, he knew. It was why he ought to ring his brother. But he didn’t want to risk getting in the way of Oliver’s happiness, the way he had before—even though Gemma was very different from Tabby, Rob still didn’t want to put a burden on Oliver.
And staying with Florence meant he’d get the chance to know her better.
He knew it wasn’t sensible—but it was too much of a temptation to resist.
‘No cotton wool?’ he checked.
‘I’m not a fan of the stuff outside work,’ she said. ‘It’s not eco-friendly. The bleaching and mixing means it doesn’t biodegrade. Bamboo cloths or muslin are better.’
He couldn’t help smiling. ‘Good point. OK. Thank you. That’d be nice. As long as you let me contribute. I’m not a great cook, but I can do the basics. I’ll do my share.’
‘Apart from the fact you’re not well enough, you’re my guest,’ she said.
‘Guests always bring something nice for their host.’ He shrugged. ‘Perhaps I can pay for some takeaways to be delivered, then.’
‘We’ll argue about that later. Let’s go while you can still stand up.’
He liked the fact that she was brisk with him.
He liked her.
But he still wanted to know why she’d been so desperate to escape that Saturday morning.
Maybe spending time at her place and getting to know each other meant she’d feel comfortable telling him whatever had spooked her—and then they could move on. Maybe take things forward. Because the more time he spent with her, the more he realised he liked her. And Florence was the first woman in years who’d intrigued
him enough to want more from a relationship.
‘Would it be OK to stop at my flat and pick up some clean clothes and my medication?’ he asked.
‘Yes, of course.’
They didn’t chat on the way to his place, once he’d given her the postcode for her satnav, but it was a comfortable silence rather than an awkward one. And he noted that Florence was as competent and confident when driving as she was in an emergency room, saving a life.
At his flat, she refused his offer of a mug of coffee. He packed an overnight bag quickly with a couple of changes of clothing, his medication, his laptop and a couple of books.
‘You pack light, I see,’ she said with a smile.
He shrugged. ‘I learned that from climbing; keep it light and keep it simple, so you have room for the important stuff.’
‘That’s a good life lesson,’ she said.
What did that mean? She’d said that night that she had unwanted baggage...
He shot her a sidelong glance, but her expression was unreadable. And now wasn’t the time to probe—not when he was feeling like death warmed up and he was likely to misread all the signals. Better to keep his mouth shut.
By the time she parked the car, all he wanted to do was to curl up in a ball and sleep for a month.
‘You look all in,’ Florence said gently. ‘Come and sit down. I’ll get you a hot drink and something to eat.’
‘Thank you, but I’m not really hungry,’ he said.
‘You need to eat, and so do I, so you might as well eat with me,’ she said firmly. ‘Is there anything you don’t eat?’
‘Grapefruit,’ he said, ‘because of the medication I’m on, and for the same reasons I’m keeping my salt intake low. Other than that I eat anything.’ As far as he was concerned, apart from good chocolate and cake, food was merely fuel. There was a world out there to conquer, and Rob wasn’t going to waste time selecting herbs, chopping them finely, and decorating the top of every dish. Any more than five minutes in a microwave or a stir-fry pan, and the recipe wasn’t for him.
‘Let’s go.’ She took his bag and ushered him inside, and he didn’t have the energy to protest that he could carry his own bag—especially because he knew that right at that moment it would sap his already diminishing energy.
‘The guest room is here on the left,’ she said, setting his bag down and indicating the door. ‘Mine’s next to it, the bathroom’s opposite, and the kitchen and living room are at the end of the hallway. Take your time to freshen up, then come and sit down when you’re ready. I’ll be in the kitchen.’
‘Thanks.’ He opened the door and smiled. He had a feeling her guest room was geared to her nieces, as the double bed had a bright pink duvet and there were three teddies wearing leotards, tutus and ballet shoes sitting on the pillows; each teddy had an initial embroidered on the leotard. He had a sudden vision of three little girls all cuddled up in that big wide bed with their teddies, and Florence sitting on the end of the bed, reading them a story.
And then his head morphed that into something even weirder. Three little girls with his own blue eyes...
No, no and absolutely no.
Clearly the infection had addled his brain as well as threatening his kidney. Since when did he ever fantasise about settling down and having kids? He spent his time working and climbing. There wasn’t time for a family in the middle. He’d never met anyone who’d tempted him to want to settle down and have kids. And, if he ever did, he’d expected it to be someone who was a fellow adventure junkie, not someone who was domesticated and settled.
Yet the woman in his fantasies had been Florence.
Slightly spooked, he concentrated on hanging up his clothes and putting his wash bag in Florence’s bathroom, then splashed his face with water. He still felt terrible, but he could hardly just crawl under the covers and sink into oblivion. The very least he should do was tell Florence that he was heading for bed. He went to the kitchen, and discovered her busy doing something on the stove.
‘Something smells nice,’ he said.
‘It’s a quick dish: pasta with lemon and asparagus. I’m adding some sautéed chicken to give it a bit more protein, so it’ll still be light on your digestion but nutritious,’ she said. ‘Three more minutes and it’ll be done.’
From his mum, this would’ve felt like fussing and made him feel smothered; from Florence, it felt thoughtful and made him feel cosseted. It was a weird sensation, and he wasn’t sure whether it worried him or settled him. His head was all over the place. That momentary vision of three little girls—their daughters—was definite proof that he was ill.
‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ he asked.
‘Just sit down at the table,’ she said. ‘This pretty much looks after itself. Do you want tea or coffee?’
‘I...’ He blew out a breath. ‘Sorry, right now I’m too tired even to think, let alone make a decision.’
‘Water, then,’ she said, and added a slice of lemon to the glass.
He went over to the table—which she’d already laid—and sat down, grateful.
She’d given him space, with no pressure.
If there hadn’t been the awkwardness between them, he would’ve hugged her. But he didn’t want to risk making it even more awkward. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I appreciate this so much.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘I like the bears with tutus.’
She winced. ‘Sorry. I’ll move them and change the duvet cover to something more masculine.’
He laughed, then winced as it hurt. ‘It’s not going to kill me to sleep under a pink duvet cover. I take it your nieces sometimes come and stay?’
‘Yes.’ She gestured to the fridge. ‘And they’re the ones who’ve drawn me those lovely pictures.’
He glanced over and did a double-take. ‘Is that a dinosaur in a tutu?’
‘Oh, yes. That’s one you might not have come across before—a ballet-saurus.’ She grinned. ‘Margot loves dinosaurs even more than she loves ballet. Lexy and I took the girls to see the animatronic dinosaurs at the Natural History Museum in London over the summer, and Margot was in seventh heaven.’
He could imagine it. Florence, making a fuss of her nieces, taking them on days out and reading them stories. Domestic. The kind of things that usually made him want to run a mile because he liked to be in the big wide world, untrammelled, pushing himself to the limit.
But his life was going to have to change. And he was going to have to come to terms with being boxed in, at least for the next week.
‘Margot’s the oldest, isn’t she?’ he said. ‘Then Anna and Darcey.’
She looked pleased that he’d remembered. ‘That’s right.’
And then he found himself wondering: if Florence had a daughter, would she name her after a ballerina?
Oh, for pity’s sake. It was none of his business. And he didn’t want to think about Florence having babies. Particularly as he was still spooked by that vision of his own three small daughters...
The pasta was amazing. Rob didn’t usually pay much attention to food, other than good chocolate, but this was something else. ‘This is fabulous,’ he said.
‘It’s a very easy recipe.’ Florence looked at him. ‘You’re not a cook, then?’
‘I’m too busy to spend time in the kitchen. Ollie’s the cook, not me, and he loves his gadgets. I’m very good at sticking TV dinners in the microwave, though,’ he said. ‘Or I can do stir-fry. Anything that takes less than five minutes.’
‘Got you.’ She looked at him. ‘So is that because you’d rather spend your time climbing than skivvying in the kitchen?’
‘Yes. Though climbing is still off the cards for a while.’ He grimaced. ‘I’d never be stupid enough to climb on my own and put the rescue team at risk, but I also know I’m not fit enough to manage the kind of routes I e
njoy most—so I’d slow any climbing partners down to the point where none of us would enjoy it. And I’m sensible enough to know that if I push myself too hard, too fast, I’m going to end up in an even worse state than I am right now and have to wait even longer before I get my life back. But...’ He grimaced again. ‘It’s still frustrating.’
‘You miss it?’
‘More than anything. Climbing, for me, is like breathing,’ he said.
‘I’ve never climbed,’ she said. ‘The most I’ve ever done is walk up and down the steep cliff paths at Ashermouth Bay.’
Which was nothing like climbing: cliff paths were simply a difficult walk without any of the fun. How could he explain it to her? ‘It’s the most amazing feeling. Pushing your body to its limits, getting to the top of a climb, and knowing you’ve earned that spectacular view,’ he said.
‘So kind of like a runner’s high?’
‘Better than that. The only thing like it is sex.’
Oh, no.
How could he have just said that?
‘I—um—’ He didn’t dare look at her.
‘A climb is as good as a climax?’
She sounded amused, so he risked a look. ‘Yes.’ And then he wished he’d kept his mouth shut when she met his gaze. Because it looked as if she was remembering that night. And he could remember every second of pleasure they given each other. It shocked him to realise just how much he wanted to experience it all again.
Did she?
Was that faint hint of colour in her cheeks telling him that she, too, had been thrown by what had happened between them?
But he couldn’t ask. Not now, when he was barely capable of standing up, let along carrying her to her bed. He needed this conversation to be back to a neutral subject. Fast. Before he said something that caused an unholy mess. ‘Can I do the washing-up?’
‘No. Not just because you’re a guest, but because you look absolutely exhausted. Go and sit on the sofa,’ she directed. ‘Feel free to put whatever you want on the TV.’
‘I would normally argue,’ he said, ‘but I admit this bug has knocked me for six.’ And he hated it. He hated feeling so weak. The words burst out of him. ‘It feels like it did when my kidneys first packed up. I can’t bear to think of having to rest for ages again. This just isn’t me. I’m really not this weak, pathetic individual.’