‘Just be sensible, eh? Give your lungs a day or two to shake off this latest bout of bronchitis before you start poisoning them again.’
‘Cough worse without,’ he grumbled.
‘Yes—because all the little hairs inside your tubes come back to life and start trying to sweep the rubbish out of your lungs—’
‘Little hairs—load of old—’
David tutted and shook his head. ‘Some people just don’t want to be helped.’ He snapped his bag shut and straightened up. ‘Right, I have to get back; we’re interviewing for the new partner.’
‘Woman again?’
He nodded. ‘Hope so.’
‘Why any sane woman’d want to live in this Godforsaken part of the world beats me,’ Mrs Hardwill said. ‘Bain’t nothin’ here—no shoppin', no dancin'—or is she old, this one?’
‘My age.’
‘Spring chicken, then—bit of love interest, eh?’ Joe ribbed wheezily.
David smiled dutifully. ‘I doubt it, Joe. Don’t hold your breath. Anyway, she’s only recently widowed—and that’s if we even appoint her. She’s one of several we’ve seen. Now, remember, no smoking for a couple of days at least.’
He left the house to the sound of Joe’s hacking cough, followed by his voice, wheezy and cracked, demanding his cigarettes.
‘Damn quack—give me them down, woman.’
‘No, I shan’t, Joe Hardwill. You heard the doctor …’
He smiled and pulled the door to, and climbed back into his car.
Love interest, he thought as he headed back to the health centre. That was a joke. Since the disastrous demise of his marriage there had been no ‘love interest'. One or two abortive attempts at rebuilding his life, but no relationship that offered any permanence or hope for the future.
No, there was only one woman—had only ever been one—and like a bloody fool he’d sent her away.
As he turned into the car park he noticed a strange car, and the number-plate had the name of a Surrey dealership on it.
So, the interviewee had made it. Their merry widow, as Laurence called her. Dr Emily Thompson. Even the name hurt him, he thought. Emily. Not his Emily, of course, but the name dragged up so many thoughts and feelings. Night after night he woke reaching for her, only to find his arms empty—as empty as his heart. Emily …
He squared his shoulders, threw a slightly off-centre smile at Sue and headed for the common-room. The sound of masculine laughter drifted to him down the corridor.
The interview was obviously going well. Thank God for that, because the other candidates had been decidedly weak. He could always call her Dr Thompson if he found the name too much.
He pushed the door open, and froze on the threshold. His heart crashed against his ribs, his mouth felt filled with cotton wool. From somewhere far away, he dredged up his voice.
‘Emily …’
Like an old movie, frame by frame, heartbeat by heartbeat, she lifted her head and met his eyes.
‘David …’
His name was a prayer on parched lips, and her eyes drank in her first sight of him in eight long, lonely years.
He hadn’t changed at all—not in ways that mattered. His hair, thick and dark, like polished mahogany, tousled by his impatient fingers, as always threatening to fall across those same incredible, clear grey eyes, the colour of morning mist; that full, sensuous mouth that had known her so intimately; the broad, square set of his shoulders set off by the soft lovat-green of his sports coat; the deep bottle-green polo neck that hugged his solid chest and smoothed over the flat, taut abdomen above lean, narrow hips and long, straight legs in well-cut cavalry twill; feet planted squarely on the floor, the tan brogues well-polished but worn and comfortable.
Only the smile was missing, and she found her own had gone the same way, together with her voice.
In silence she stared at him, absorbing the wonder of seeing him again at the same time as she registered regret, because now this job couldn’t be hers, working with these wonderful, warm, friendly people in this beautiful part of the world.
‘You two know each other, I take it?’ Laurence said into the stretching silence.
Emily opened her mouth, but no sound emerged. She looked pleadingly at David.
‘You could say that,’ he murmured. ‘We were married for five years.’
‘Ah …’
Robin rose to his feet first. ‘Um, Laurence, why don’t we give these two a few minutes together?’
‘Good idea.’ Laurence scraped back his chair and stood up. ‘We’ll be in my office, David.’
David nodded. ‘Fine. Thanks.’
The door closed softly behind them, but the two hardly noticed. Their eyes were locked, trapped like flies in amber, unable to escape.
Then finally David dragged his eyes away and moved across the room, freeing her.
Ts the coffee still hot?’
His voice sounded strained—as well it might. Eight years was a long time.
‘I think so,’ she replied, and was amazed at the normality of her voice. Her greedy eyes sought out every tiny detail of his movements as he reached for the coffee-pot. Were his shoulders just a touch broader? Maybe. ‘You’re looking well,’ she added.
He turned towards her, pot in hand. ‘So are you—as lovely as ever.’ His eyes flicked away. ‘You got married again, I gather. I’m sorry to hear you lost your husband.’
Emily thought of Philip, one of the kindest, most generous men she had ever known, and felt a wash of sadness. ‘Thank you,’ she said quietly.
‘You’ve got a son.’ His voice sounded harsh, accusing almost. She ignored it.
‘Yes—James. He’s six now.’
‘Rather young for you to have a full-time job.’
‘I have to live,’ she said, still quiet but defensive now.
‘Yes—I’m sorry, your child-care arrangements are nothing to do with me.’ He sat down in one of the easy-chairs, big hand wrapped round the mug of coffee, and eyed her over the top. ‘So, what do you think of the practice?’
She shrugged. ‘Wonderful. I would have loved working here, I’m sure.’
‘Would have?’
She lifted her shoulders again. ‘Of course. This changes things, don’t you think?’
David was silent, regarding her through veiled eyes. She wished she could read his expression, but, like his looks, that aspect hadn’t changed. She could never read his eyes if he didn’t want her to.
The silence stretched on endlessly, and then finally he spoke. ‘It needn’t change things—not necessarily. We need a woman partner, and you were definitely the favoured candidate. We’re very pushed, and we have been for some time. We need to make an appointment as soon as possible, really. Locums are difficult to come by. In this part of the world they want to work in Exeter or Barnstaple, not sleepy little Biddlecombe.’
His eyes traced her features one by one, then flicked back to lock with hers, their expression still unreadable. ‘As for us—well, after all, it’s been eight years. We should be able to be civilised about it.’
She thought of all the rows, and then of the making up, the desperate depths of passion he had aroused in her. Civilised? Somehow, knowing him, she doubted it.
She glanced around