Шэрон Кендрик: Surgeon Of The Heart

‘And we’ve found the most fantastic restaurant,’ rattled on Beth excitedly, flashing her eyes at Glenn, not noticing that his attention was totally taken up with the green-eyed girl with the shiny red-gold hair who stood before him. ‘It isn’t far from here, Cat—and you’ll never guess what.’

‘What?’ asked Cat, wondering how she instinctively knew what was about to follow.

‘They only serve English food! After days of oily muck, we’ve finally found one! What do you think about that?’

Catriona thought that it was about time she asserted herself.

Rome. The eternal city. She had been here for three days and she might as well have been in Blackpool. The days themselves were taken up with attending the prestigious cardio-thoracic conference—and that had been OK, more than OK, in fact, with detailed, slick lectures showing the latest developments in the exciting and exacting speciality of cardio-thoracic surgery. The fly in the ointment had been that the organisers had taken it upon themselves to organise every spare second of the delegates’ free time. Consequently they had been herded on to buses, day after day, with a hostess deafening them with her well-learned patter as they went on yet another guided tour.

Oh, yes, they had seen many of the magnificent sights that abounded in this remarkable city—the Vatican; the Coliseum; the building that so resembled a wedding-cake—and which had caused David to wink at Catriona so repeatedly that she’d been forced in the end to ask him if he didn’t have something the matter with his eye! But the real Rome, the ordinary Rome, the city that was enjoyed by the people who actually lived there, Catriona felt they hadn’t touched on at all. She longed to stroll unhurriedly through the streets, to find a little restaurant where the Italians actually ate! They hadn’t had one meal since their arrival that couldn’t have been replicated in her local Italian restaurant in Leeds. She was sick to death of the ubiquitous pollo sopresa and the stodgy lasagne that was no better than that which was served in her hospital canteen! The Italians were world-famous for their cuisine—she’d just like to get a chance to sample some!

She gave the three faces a polite smile. ‘Thanks very much, but I’m afraid that I won’t be joining you.’

‘Won’t?’ queried Glenn, scowling. ‘Why not?’

She resented the proprietorial tone he had adopted, but, after all, she wouldn’t be seeing him again after breakfast tomorrow, so what was the point of telling him to mind his own business? ‘Because I want to see a bit of this city before I go home tomorrow, and because the last thing I want to do is eat English food,’ she said. ‘After all, don’t they say—when in Rome. . .?’ Her corny joke was met with a cold-eyed glare.

‘You don’t mean to tell me you’re planning to go out on your own?’ He asked the question so indignantly that his voice rose to the level of a pre-pubescent schoolboy.

‘Yes,’ said Catriona, bemused. ‘Is there a problem with that?’

‘A problem?’ he expostulated. ‘I should think so! You simply won’t be safe. You know what they say about Italian men!’

Biting back the urge to tell him that so far she’d encountered far more problems with Welsh men than she’d ever done with Italian men, she gave him a smile, which, if he’d known her a little better, he’d have been wary of! ‘Well, I appreciate your concern, but I’m not planning to frequent ill-lit alleys. So. . .’ She tucked her cream leather clutch-bag under her arm, and made to turn away, but Glenn had not yet finished.

‘Well, I don’t think you ought to go,’ he blustered, but she halted him in his tracks with a chilly stare.

She could just imagine how he would be on the wards, a little tin god! ‘I am over the age of consent,’ she said coolly. ‘And when I decide I need a guardian I’ll let you know. Goodnight.’ And, so saying, she walked away, ignoring his snort of anger, feeling as though she had just been relieved of an extremely heavy and uncomfortable burden.

Outside, the sensation of freedom became even stronger. The warm June evening seemed to beckon her with the promise of untold pleasure. People were sitting outside cafés, sipping their aperitifs, their mood relaxed. Laughing and chattering, all the time in the romantically lilting tone of the Italian language.

As she walked along the wide streets Catriona reflected that it was a world away from her usual life as a busy staff nurse in a huge Leeds hospital.

Born in the south of England, she had nevertheless eschewed London for her general nursing training, preferring instead the wild beauty of the north, together with that part of the country’s reputation for good, solid and gritty common sense. Leeds Northern General Hospital, too, was not simply famous throughout Great Britain for its standards of care, but throughout the whole world. And in particular it had one of the best equipped cardio-thoracic units anywhere.

Surgery was carried out by the General’s own fine surgeons, but such were its prestige and teaching facilities that visiting surgeons from all around the globe vied for places there.

Catriona had known quite early on in her career that the exacting role of theatre nurse was her preferred speciality. She loved the order that theatre work demanded, coupled with the excitement of participating in an operation. It suited her cool, quick-thinking temperament. The ward nurses were often scornful about their colleagues in Theatre, saying that they weren’t proper nurses, since they had nothing to do with patients, but Catriona thought this a load of baloney. The strictness and discipline needed to get you through a nursing training were exactly what were needed to equip you with the skills to assist a surgeon.

In search of a suitable restaurant, she walked along, sniffing at the air appreciatively, not feeling a bit like Catriona Bellman, the staff nurse widely tipped for early promotion—the coolly efficient creature the juniors liked, yet feared, so exacting were her standards. The theatre nurse who was respected by the surgeons, yet so immune to their frequent passes that she had earned herself the nickname ‘Ice-Queen’. She smiled to herself. If they could see her now, soaking up the heady warmth of the summer evening, strolling along without a care in the world. She wasn’t remotely recognisable as the ‘Ice-Queen’ tonight!

She didn’t, she reflected, even look much like the usual Catriona Bellman. The usual chic, understated garments that had become her trademark had proved hopelessly hot and too confining for the blazing furnace of the sticky Roman summer, which she had badly underestimated. The clothes she had brought were totally unsuitable, so what better excuse for spending some of her hard-earned wages than to splash out on some new ones?

She was wearing a floaty dress of green she had bought in a small boutique. It drew attention to the unusual green of her long-lashed eyes, in whose depths could occasionally be seen flecks of a darker green, and of gold. The tiny shoulder-straps lay over skin tanned to a pale brown, a tan that was unexpected, considering that her hair was a cross between blonde and red, a colour that defied description. Thick, but hopelessly straight, the superbly cut bell shape of the bob made the best advantage of it.

She eventually found a restaurant that satisfied all her criteria for eating out on her last evening. It was full of Italians, it wasn’t too expensive, and the food was superb. She ordered green lentils cooked with oyster mushrooms and bacon, followed by slivers of duck in fresh pasta, and a home-made lemon ice-cream. Much to her surprise, she managed to eat the lot! Feeling pleasantly replete after a cup of strong and delicious coffee, she took her time and meandered slowly back towards the hotel, vowing that one day she would return to this beautiful city. And hadn’t she thrown her coins into the Trevi Fountain on the previous day? That meant she would definitely come back!