dying for the opportunity to witness Callum Hughes’s reaction to this slimly built but rather opinionated young woman, but then the telephone shrilled into life again and she reluctantly indicated a big notice at the end of the corridor. ‘Turn left at the end and just follow the signs to Dr Hughes’s consulting room—you can’t miss it!’ she said quickly as she picked up the phone. ‘Good morning! Purbrook Surgery!’
Nancy had to pick her way across the waiting room and every pair of eyes followed her—as they did all new arrivals—with an interest which bordered on the hypnotic.
There were very few people left, but it was almost eleven and consultations began at around eight-thirty. Nancy suspected that the waiting room would be full to bursting first thing in the morning.
The patients left were the usual mixed bunch—a hot-looking baby, grizzling in his frazzled mother’s arms, a pale and sulky-looking boy of about ten who kicked listlessly at the leg of his chair and two people who appeared to be in the best of health, though sniffing loudly and intermittently. They looked ideal candidates for the diagnosis of heavy colds, though Nancy, but you never could tell. She knew that one of the cardinal rules of diagnosis was that you should never even think about making one before being cognisant with all the facts!
Nancy glanced around her as she walked towards the corridor where Dr Hughes had his office. Most of the waiting room, whilst decorated in the usual bland, pale shades, had a distinctively homely feel to it. Glossy magazines were stacked everywhere and brightly coloured toys were littered in one corner of the blue-grey carpet, where a small child was playing quite happily.
Nice to see that patient care had won over tidiness, thought Nancy approvingly. Though it was a bit like walking through a minefield, she decided with some amusement as her elegant navy court shoe only narrowly missed landing on a teddy bear’s plump abdomen!
Dr Hughes’s consulting room was at the far end of the corridor, and as she drew to a halt in front of it she noted that his brass name-plate was much longer than those of his two partners—for the simple reason that he seemed to have twice as many letters after his name as they did!
She rapped smartly on the door, and heard the equally smart response, ‘Come!’
Nancy walked straight into the surgery and her veneer of composure was shattered like the breaking of a glass as she stared into the piercing green eyes of the broad-shouldered man, sitting behind the desk
WHEN Nancy Greenwood’s name had been brought up earlier by Jenny, Callum’s first thought had been that he remembered her only briefly and vaguely—but now he discovered he was wrong. Completely wrong.
Because when the door opened and the woman in the navy blue suit stood on its threshold, staring into his eyes, he was aware of nothing more than a bone-shaking familiarity about her. As if that earlier brief and apparently vague glimpse of her been enough to commit every line of her to everlasting and glorious memory.
She was as small as he remembered—a tiny, wee thing with soft, pale skin and clear brown eyes which were shaped like pebbles. Her hair was dark and shiny and clipped back rather severely from her face, though, in Callum’s opinion, such restriction was unnecessary for he found he could imagine it, hanging in a glossy curtain to her shoulders, the way it had been when he’d interviewed her before.
He cleared his throat but, even so, his voice sounded even deeper than usual as he said, ‘Come in, Dr Greenwood, though perhaps I’d better call you Nancy. You don’t mind me calling you by your first name, do you?’
He raised his dark eyebrows enquiringly and Nancy shook her head automatically, both bemused and charmed by his obvious friendliness. At that precise moment he could have called her anything he darned well pleased!
‘I’m Callum Hughes,’ he continued. ‘And you must, of course, call me Callum. We’re very informal here.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Nancy, forcing herself to step forward on legs which threatened to tremble and wondering what it was that had changed.
Why did Dr Callum Hughes suddenly look like the most vital person she had ever seen? More real and more of a man than any man had a right to be? She found that her chest was tight as she looked at him, her breathing was rapid and shallow and her normally cool skin was feeling oddly clammy.
Had he changed? she wondered frantically. Or had she?
‘How delightful to see you again,’ Callum said, and extended a hand with strong, square fingers, experiencing such a disconcerting flare of disappointment as he noticed the shiny gold wedding band which circled her finger. Had she been wearing one before? he wondered.
Nancy allowed her hand to be firmly taken and shaken by his and tried to dampen the panicky feeling which was welling up inside her. Sucking in a deep breath, she forced herself to examine instead the man who seemed to be the cause of it.
From beneath the silky black cover of her eyelashes she allowed herself a brief but thorough scrutiny of the man with whom she would be working so closely for the next year.
Quite the most distinctive thing about him was his size, she decided immediately. He was well over six feet tall, with a powerfully muscular frame to match—more of a farmer’s physique than a physician’s, in Nancy’s opinion, with those strong, solid limbs and rugged features. He had a healthy looking energy about him that suggested a life spent mainly in the fresh air, rather than in the dark and smoky atmosphere of a nightclub.
And, although it was January, he was more tanned than last time she’d seen him. His skin was the deep, glowing colour produced by the sun on the ski-slopes, rather than the even tan of the dedicated sun-worshipper. His shoulders and arms certainly looked powerful enough to make light of the blackest of black runs, Nancy found herself thinking. Then she drew herself up, appalled at the forbidden paths her mind was taking. And she a married woman, too!
His deep voice interrupted her confused thoughts. ‘Do sit down. I’ll ring for coffee—’
‘Oh, please don’t, not just on my account,’ Nancy protested.
‘I’m not. It’s on mine. And don’t worry,’ he added, with the glimmer of a smile, ‘I won’t feel at all inhibited or put out by the fact that you don’t wish to join me—’
‘Actually, I’d love some coffee,’ said Nancy with sudden fervour, sinking into the chair he had indicated. She briefly closed her eyes and relaxed for the first time in days.
His eyes narrowed as he saw some of the tension ease out of her petite frame. Then he lifted the telephone on his desk to ask for coffee while Nancy cast her eyes quickly round his consulting room, wondering just how much she would be able to tell about Callum Hughes from his working environment.
His was a large, pale surgery with one huge window, the bottom half of which was glazed in frosted glass—presumably to allow for patient privacy, Nancy decided. The top of the window allowed a view of the still-bare branches of trees, etched like broomsticks against the bright blue of the winter sky.
An old-fashioned wooden playpen, standing on one comer, was filled with a variety of toys, and on a brightly painted shelf above it was an impressive line of story-books for all different ages.
So he was considerate with children, too, thought Nancy, and a funny little lurch in her chest made her feel momentarily rather uncomfortable...
In one corner of the room stood a large fish tank full of rainbow-coloured shapes that darted around plants which swayed in the bubbles of the illuminated green water.
Callum had been watching her slow appraisal, and he waited until she had finished before saying with some amusement, ‘And do you like my surgery, young Dr Greenwood?’
And then he wondered why he had said something as archaic as ‘young’! Not something he normally did. So, was his subconscious, he asked himself critically,