Caroline Anderson - A Very Special Need

She looked round the elegant, high-ceilinged room with the ornate plaster cornice and beautiful marble fireplace with a lovely iron and tiled centre. It was a wonderful room, she thought. The decor was subdued but effective, soft smoky green colour-washing below the dado rail and a very traditional stripe above, with the green echoed on the ceiling and the plasterwork picked out in off-white. The muted brick tones of the carpet warmed the scheme and gave it colour, reflected in the curtain fabric and the tiles of the fireplace. Very clever. Very effective. Very restful. She wondered who had chosen the scheme. His wife? The receptionist?

No. Probably a fancy interior designer who had been paid a fortune. She glanced at her watch and wondered how long she would have to wait. Ten minutes? Fifteen? Perhaps until both of these patients had been treated—if he would even see her then—

‘Mrs Wright?’

She looked up—straight into a pair of the most startlingly blue eyes she had ever seen—and felt a jolt of something that rocked her to the core.

Lightning? If she hadn’t felt so shaken by it, she might have laughed. She didn’t laugh, though. She couldn’t. She stood up, pulled to her feet by the power of those astonishing eyes, and crossed the room, dropping the magazine absently on the table as she passed it.

‘Hugh Barber,’ he said by way of introduction, and held out his hand. She took it, her own engulfed by the powerful fingers in a firm and yet gentle handshake. Their palms met briefly, and she dropped his hand at once, shocked by the searing heat. No, not heat. Warmth, and something else—something big and strong and comforting that made her want to bury her head against that solid chest just in front of her eyes and give in to all the anguish and worry and torment of the past fourteen years.

She didn’t, though. By a miracle she managed to avoid hurling herself into his unsuspecting arms and went through the door he indicated. The room was the mirror image of the one she had just been in, the colours a similar soft, muted green and cream, designed for relaxing in.

Judith didn’t feel relaxed. She was about to do something she hated doing, and she could feel the tension coiled in her like a watchspring. He waved her to a chair beside the desk, perched on the treatment couch with one leg dangling and smiled encouragingly at her.

‘I gather you wanted to talk to me about your son,’ he said, and his voice swirled through her like dark chocolate.

She looked down at her hands to avoid those searching, stunning eyes. ‘Yes. He’s had a fall—he says he tripped. He’s got mild cerebral palsy—he is a little clumsy at times, but I think this was deliberate. Whatever, his back’s injured in some way—jarred. I wondered if you could tell me what I should do to help him.’

Of course. I’ll have to see him, obviously. I have a children’s clinic on the other side of town on Tuesdays. Is that any good to you?’

She grimaced slightly. ‘Transport’s difiicult,’ she told him, hoping that would be enough. It wasn’t.

‘I’ll see him here, then, if it’s easier. Have a word with my receptionist and she’ll make you an appointment. I take it you are able to get here?’

‘We only live round the corner, but just at the moment I don’t know that he could walk that far. I’ll have to see,’ she flannelled. ‘If you could just give me some advice initially…’

‘I really should see him to be on the safe side. Have you taken him to the hospital for an X-ray?’

‘Um—no. I’m sure he’s just jarred it. There’s nothing broken.’

‘Then if you could manage to get him in to me—perhaps a taxi?’

Damn. He wasn’t going to just give her advice, that was clear. She swallowed. A taxi was totally out of the question. Al’s mother, Belle, might be able to give them a lift if she wasn’t working, but she was a community midwife and worked strange hours—as well as juggling Al and Flora as a single parent.

No. She couldn’t ask Belle. ‘We’ll manage. We’ve got a wheelchair we can use.’ Judith drew in a steadying breath, lifted her head and met the man’s searching eyes. He seemed to be waiting, as if he knew there was something to follow—something difficult and awkward and embarrassing. She hated what she was going to have to do, but she’d do it for Woody.

‘I haven’t got any money,’ she told him with quiet dignity. ‘I’m hoping to get a job soon for the term. I wondered…’ she swallowed ‘… if you would be able to bill me for the treatment and let me pay you back as I earn the money.’

There. It was said. She held his eyes, resisting the urge to run away, and brazened it out.

Hugh looked deep into the challenging eyes of this gutsy little woman daring him to turn her down, and wondered at the hurdles she’d had to overcome and the struggles she’d had to face.

There was such determination in the jut of her chin and the tilt of her head, such uncertainty deep in those lovely, soft grey eyes. What had she had to cope with? She hadn’t said how old her son was, but he guessed around ten, probably. She looked as if she was in her early thirties—maybe not that old if life had been cruel.

He was sure it had. Life was. His own had been cruel, leaving the indelible marks of grief etched on his face. It didn’t hurt so much now, but it had and the scars showed.

Mrs Wright had scars, too—worry and strain engraved on such soft, fine skin that it seemed a travesty. His fingers ached to soothe away the worry.

That wasn’t all that ached. For the first time in what must be years, he felt attracted to a woman, not only physically but somewhere deeper in the hidden recesses of his subconscious. When he’d touched her he’d felt the most unbelievable warmth flow through his hand. He’d never felt anything like it before. It was more than simple sexual chemistry. It felt almost like—destiny?

Lord, he was going nuts. Anyway, inevitably she was married to the probably undeserving Mr Wright. Hugh wondered if the lucky dog realised just how lucky he was. If not, he wondered if there was some other fortunate ingrate keeping this lovely woman warm at night.

He felt a sharp, shocking twist of something which could only be jealousy. Good grief! What on earth was the matter with him?

Anyway, he’d probably imagined his reaction and, even if not, it was almost certainly not reciprocated.

He curled his fingers over his still-tingling palm and got back to the reason for her visit.

‘How old is your son, Mrs Wright?’

‘Thirteen—and it’s Miss. I’m a single parent.’

He ruthlessly suppressed the urge to whoop with delight. ‘And has he had any back trouble before?’

‘Aches and pains—nothing the physio and I couldn’t keep under control.’

‘And what makes you think he needs to see an osteopath and not a physiotherapist this time?’ Hugh asked, curious about her motives.

‘Experience. I know him, and I know the limitations of physio. I also know about bad backs to an extent. There are times when nothing else works.’

‘And you think this is one of those times?’ Hugh pressed.

‘Yes, I do.’

Even her voice was wonderful. Soft, well modulated, almost a caress. He forced himself to stop fantasising and engaging her in needless conversation, and got to the point.

‘It may take several treatments.’

She swallowed. ‘I know.’

He nodded. ‘OK,’ he murmured. ‘I’m sure we can stagger the payments if that will help you,’ he told her, and was rewarded by the bright glimmer of tears in her eyes before she dropped her head forwards.

‘Thank you,’ she whispered.

He stood up, angry with himself for dragging out her misery and making her justify herself just so he could hear her voice. ‘Have a word with my receptionist—I can probably fit him in at lunchtime today so he doesn’t have to wait over the weekend. I’m sorry, I’m going to have to press on, I’ve got a patient waiting. I’ll see you both later.’