Caroline Anderson - Once More, With Feeling

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Cover

Title Page Once More, With Feeling Caroline Anderson www.millsandboon.co.uk

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Epilogue

Copyright

‘AT LAST!’

Emily turned into the health centre car park and killed the engine, glancing at her watch with a sigh of relief. She still had three minutes to spare, but only by the grace of God.

With a wry grin she recalled the advert for the job.

‘Four-partner practice in rural North Devon urgently needs full-time replacement partner because of unforeseen retirement due to ill health. Must be on obstetric list and do minor surgery, CHS and IUCD. Most important qualification an ability to map-read …’

They weren’t kidding! She had meandered back and forth across Exmoor, which would have been lovely if she’d had time to appreciate the scenery, but she was determined not to be late.

The trouble was, the roads were all so tiny it was hard to tell which were major and which were minor. Assumptions, she had fast discovered, were a foolish luxury. Still, she was wise to their tricks now and read every single sign—hence her arrival with three—no, two now—minutes to go before her interview.

She had spoken on the phone to the senior partner, Dr Allen, who had sounded very welcoming and encouraging—or was that just wishful thinking on Emily’s part? Whatever, she would still have to run the gauntlet of the other two partners.

And she wouldn’t do it sitting in the car.

She glanced at her reflection in the mirror, dragging a comb through her thick dark hair. It swung neatly back into the bob, the ends curling obediently under, just grazing her shoulders. Her smoky green eyes, wide and incapable of deceit, stared unblinking back at her.

Just for courage, she winked at herself and her reflection winked cheekily back.

Here goes.

She got out of the car, locked it and strode confidently to the door.

The waiting-room was deserted, and the receptionist looked up with a smile. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Yes, I’m Emily Thompson. I’m here for an interview.’

The smile widened. ‘Oh, hello, Dr Thompson. Dr Allen wasn’t expecting you just yet—you can’t have got lost.’

Emily laughed softly. ‘Only a little. The directions were excellent.’

‘I’m glad you thought so. I’m Sue Hooper, by the way—receptionist and general dogsbody. I’ll tell Laurence you’re here. Would you like to take a seat?’

‘Thanks.’

She settled herself in one of the hard, upright chairs and looked around. Tiled floor—practical, but not very welcoming. Neat pile of magazines, but none of your glossies. Farmer’s Weekly, Woman’s Weekly, My Weekly , the odd Reader’s Digest— a far cry from her last practice in Surrey.

There were pictures on the wall, faded and fly-blown, and the paint had seen better days, but the health-promotion posters and clinic details were fresh and up to date.

She glanced towards the door that must lead to the consulting-rooms, and saw an indicator board, with names and coloured lights, clearly used to call the next patient.

She scanned the names, and her heart came to an abrupt and grinding halt.

Dr D Trevellyan.

David.

Her mouth felt suddenly dry, and she flicked out her tongue and ran it over her lips. It couldn’t be. Surely not? Trevellyan was a common enough Cornish name, and here, only forty miles or so from the Cornish border, it wouldn’t be so very unusual.

And besides, the last she had heard of David he was working in London—probably destined for stardom as a Harley Street surgeon. God knows he had been a brilliant doctor even then, eight years ago. By now, with experience under his belt, he must be superb.

She glanced around the shabby, simple waiting-room. There was no way he would have to settle for this.

No, it couldn’t be him. She hoped it wasn’t, with all her heart, because quite apart from the fact that she wanted this job desperately for Jamie’s sake she wasn’t sure she could bear to see him again.

Sue came back, followed by a tall, stooping man with twinkling blue eyes and a welcoming smile.

‘Dr Thompson—I’m sorry to keep you. You made very good time. I’m Laurence Allen.’

She rose to her feet, praying for calm, and returned his smile and handshake. ‘You did specify an ability to map-read,’ she reminded him.

He laughed. ‘Yes—Robin’s idea. The roads are a bit like that, and the practice is very widespread. Come on through and meet him. I’m afraid David’s not here at the moment, but he shouldn’t be long. He had to go out on a call, but there’ll be plenty of time to meet him.’

David. Oh, God, no, it couldn’t be …

‘Right, you’ll do, Joe. Take it steady, give yourself time to get over this before you get back out there.’

The old man’s wife gave a wheezy laugh. ‘Might as well save your breath, Doctor—you know well as I do soon’s your back’s turned he’ll be out there on the hills again.’

‘Just give him the antibiotics and make sure he takes them regularly, Mrs Hardwill. Nothing you can do to help those that won’t help themselves, eh, Joe?’ David fixed the old man with his best steely glare. ‘You help me, and I’ll help you. I can’t fix you without co-operation.’

Joe’s racking cough filled the dingy, smoky room. He reached for a cigarette and David calmly removed them from him and put them on the mantelpiece.

‘No—absolutely not.’

‘Evil bugger, you are.’

‘And I love you, too,’ David said affectionately. ‘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.’