behind his eyes. Cathy took the bull by the horns.
‘Mr Carver, you still don’t know if you have cancer. If you have, it’s in the very early stages. Your chances are excellent.’
He paused at the door. ‘Will I be treated any quicker if I go privately?’
‘I very much doubt it. I think you’ll find you see someone in a day or two. Why? Have you got private health insurance?’
He shook his head. ‘We haven’t got round to it. I’ve got life insurance, though, although I must say I never thought I’d need it.’
She gave him a wry smile. ‘I think it’s extremely unlikely that you will need it, at least for a good many years.’
He answered with a grim smile of his own. ‘Let’s hope you’re right. And thank you for your help.’
‘You’re welcome.’
He left her, and for the next couple of hours she was swept along by the tide of patients that followed.
It took her longer than usual to deal with them because she had to get used to a new computer system, but finally she reached the bottom of the heap of notes, and with a sigh she went out into the kitchen at the back, from where a delicious smell of coffee was drifting.
Max was sprawled at the table, one foot across the other knee, a cup of coffee propped on his belt buckle.
‘Well, well—you’ve finally finished your surgery.’
She flushed under the implied criticism. ‘I’m sorry I took so long, but the computer doesn’t seem to like me.’
John Glover came in behind her and chuckled. ‘Join the club. It has me for breakfast every day. The only person it seems to like is Max, and he can get it to turn circles on the ceiling. Oh, and Andrea, of course—the practice manager. But then she could charm the birds out of the trees.’
Cathy disagreed, but she had the sense to do so silently. She had met the coldly efficient practice manager that morning, and had taken an instant dislike to her—a dislike that was apparently mutual.
‘So, how did it go?’ Dr Glover asked, settling himself down with a cup of coffee and dunking a chocolate biscuit in it.
She looked away. She couldn’t afford the luxury of biscuits. She had enough trouble with her figure without eating between meals.
‘OK. I had a patient this morning who thinks he’s got testicular cancer, and I have to say I think he’s probably right. He’s the right age—early thirties—and all his symptoms fit.’
‘Did you examine him?’
‘Yes—there’s no doubt, he’s definitely got a little lump.’
‘Who was it?’ Max asked, idly stirring his coffee.
‘Samuel Carver—’
‘Sam? You’re kidding!’ He shot upright, slopping his coffee on the table. ‘I played squash with him on Friday night, and he didn’t say anything then.’
‘He didn’t know then. It started to hurt after he played, so he checked himself yesterday. He got the leaflet from the practice nurse a few months ago and he’s been doing it regularly.’
‘Bloody hell.’ Max sank back against the chair, his face pale, and drew patterns absently in the pool of coffee. ‘So what did you tell him? Perhaps I’d better give him a ring and put his mind at rest about the treatment.’
‘I’ve done that. He knows exactly what will happen to him and what to expect,’ she informed him a trifle tartly. How dared he imply that she would have sent a patient away without sufficient information and reassurance?
‘I think I’ll ring him anyway. Was he frightened?’
She eyed him closely. ‘No more than you would be.’
He laughed without humour. ‘Don’t worry, I’d be petrified. I know it’s illogical, but it’s the Big C, isn’t it? We’re all afraid of it, even though we ought to know better, and even though it kills far fewer people than heart disease, for instance. And that, in its own way, is much more insidious. Poor old Sam. Do you want me to ring the urologist?’
‘I think I can manage,’ she told him drily. ‘Perhaps you could give me the name of the man I want?’
‘Sure. Andrea’ll give you the number. It’s a guy called Hart.’ He unravelled his legs and stood up, stretching lazily like a big cat. ‘I’ll catch you both later. I’m going out on my calls now.’
She watched him leave, her temper still severely provoked by his implications.
‘Ignore him,’ John Glover said quietly. ‘He’s only baiting you. Your predecessor didn’t make herself over-popular, and I’m afraid you’re being judged in the same jaundiced light.’
‘I thought there was something,’ Cathy said wryly. ‘What did she do—apart from being born a woman?’
He grinned. ‘Pauline joined as a single woman in her late thirties, moved in with a friend of Max’s and promptly got pregnant. Far from doing the decent thing and leaving, she had the cheek to take maternity leave and come back, very much on her own terms, and she nearly drove Max insane. Every time the baby had a cold, she took the day off. Her mind was never on the job, she didn’t follow up properly—oh, she was just generally sloppy. In Max’s eyes that’s totally unforgivable. When she got pregnant for the second time, I thought he was going to leave, but in the end her partner got moved to another part of the country and she went with him. Good riddance, too, but she was one on her own. A blind man on a galloping horse can see you’re an entirely different kettle of fish, but it’ll be an uphill struggle to convince Max of that. Of course, the worst thing is he blames himself because he introduced them to each other!’
John Glover’s pleasant, homely face creased with unholy laughter. ‘I don’t think he’ll ever forgive himself for that mistake!’
Cathy smiled. ‘Well, you don’t have to worry about me, Dr Glover. My days of romance are over. I’ve settled into middle age with a sigh of relief, and all I want to do is raise my son and get on with my job.’
Her remark was greeted by a snort of derision. Glancing up, her eyes collided with the brilliant blue of Max’s sardonic scrutiny.
‘Commendable but unlikely,’ he said drily. ‘But in order to aid you in your ambition, I thought this map might help you find your way round when you go out on call.’
He dropped a folded map of the town and surrounding area on the table and left again, radiating contempt.
Dr Glover’s eyebrows shot up. ‘He’s really got a burr under the saddle over you, hasn’t he? How’s the flat working out? Seen much of each other?’
‘None—thankfully. I think you could fairly say that we’re avoiding each other.’
He sighed. ‘I’m sorry you don’t get on. I was hoping that once you got to know each other—I know he seems a bit of a bigot, but he’s a good bloke really. Filthy rich, of course—old money, as they say. Lovely house.’
‘Yes—yes, it is. Which reminds me, when you said you’d find out about accommodation for me, did you know that estate agent had Max’s flat on his books?’
Dr Glover’s eyes twinkled. ‘Rumbled, am I? The estate agent happens to be a friend of mine. I told him to let the other properties slip from his mind if you asked.’
Cathy was astonished. ‘But why?’
He shrugged, looking a little embarrassed. ‘He’s lonely, you’re a pretty girl—I know you make all these noises about middle age, but you’re still a young woman, Cathy. A little light-hearted romance would do you both the world of good.’
She glared at him. ‘I don’t believe it! I thought Max