Doctor's Orders (8 page)

Isabel hesitated. What does one say in a situation like this, she thought wildly, restraining an absurd impulse to giggle hysterically. Eventually she took a deep breath and said rather tamely, “Thank you for the meal!”

“I'm
not going to say thank you for a lovely evening,” he replied sarcastically, “because I didn't get the cherry on the cake!”

Isabel drew in her breath in a sharp hiss of anger, outraged at his brazen remark. “That's your fault, you chose the wrong cake,” she spat at him, rage spilling over, making her reckless. “Next time you go shopping, choose your cake more carefully. Anyway, what you need is a tart, not a cake!” With that invective she scrambled out of the car. As she did so she heard him mutter something in reply, but couldn't catch the words.

Still trembling with anger, she glowered in his direction in the darkness as she slammed the door violently shut. Then without another glance she stalked up the path towards the residence block as the car roared off into the night. Judging by the way the wheels spun when it started, he must have stamped his foot down to the floor, she thought, trying to keep back the tears that were threatening. Blinking desperately, she fumbled with the key to the front door of the block. Damn, damn the man! It had been her proud boast that no man had reduced her to tears, and he had succeeded in doing that after only a few short hours!

Flinging herself into bed, she prayed for sleep. She needed to face the next day! But sleep eluded her as she tossed and turned, dreading the coming of dawn. A whole day working with Mike Blakeney again, could she stand it? She knew for certain that every time she saw him she would think of those wonderful ecstatic moments in his arms. But then the spectre of his proposition and their resulting quarrel would return too! Perhaps I should have said yes, she thought restlessly, wishing she could change her nature and be free and easy, like so many of the girls she knew. If only he had shown some tenderness, instead of just baldly asking her to go to bed, in much the same way he would ask for an ampoule of a drug in theatre!

Isabel sat up in bed and hugged her knees to her chest. I'll wait for my knight in shining armour, she decided, someone to love and cherish me, then I'll go to bed willingly. But I will
not
be used, and certainly not by a man with a reputation for being a cold fish. Although a sexy cold fish she admitted to herself, giving a wry grin. Gradually rationality and her own effervescent good humour began to creep back. She remembered Susie Wee's words about him always losing interest in girls halfway through the evening. Not even bothering to kiss them good night! I suppose it's a sort of back-handed compliment, she thought ruefully, at least he didn't lose interest and he certainly kissed me!

Slowly she lay back down and settled herself comfortably. Yes, he certainly kissed me, she thought sleepily, as tiredness at last began to overtake her confused thoughts. All in all, it was a kiss she wouldn't forget in a hurry!

At the shrill ring of the alarm she sat bolt upright in bed, the memories of the night before hitting her like a physical blow between the eyes. I've got to show that man that I'm cool, calm and collected and that he doesn't ruffle me in the least, she thought feverishly. Although anyone watching her rush through her morning routine in her flat, might have thought she was just the opposite. However, once in the familiar clinical atmosphere of the anaesthetic room a sort of uneasy calm settled on her. She checked and rechecked everything, the last thing she wanted was him to find fault. The minutes ticked by on the theatre clock, the patient was late in arriving, and Mike Blakeney hadn't arrived either, although the surgeon was already there. It was Mr Goldsmith again that morning, and Isabel noticed with relief that he seemed to be in quite a jolly mood, flashing her a twinkling smile from beneath his tufted eyebrows as he walked by to scrub up. At least we'll get off to a smooth start, thought Isabel, that's something.

She was uncertain what sort of mood Mike Blakeney might be in, and wondered whether or not he had even given her another thought. They had parted in anger the night before although, she reflected wryly, it hadn't been her fault. It had been his, for expecting too much!

Nervously she checked through the drugs laid out on the tray ready for the first operation. A long procedure, a parathyroidectomy. The minutes ticked by, still no patient, her long slender fingers gripped the side of the stainless steel tray, wishing that the day's work would get under way. The suspense of waiting for Dr Blakeney to arrive was killing her. It was impossible to prevent her thoughts from continually returning to the episode of the previous evening. She wondered how he would have reacted if she had said yes, but even as she wondered she was pretty certain. He would probably have used her and then dropped her when it suited him. She sighed softly, she had seen it happen so many times to so many of her friends. It always seemed that women gave their hearts as well as their bodies, but as for men! She shrugged. It seemed that when the moment of pleasure was over they could forget all too easily. They very rarely became as completely involved as a woman. That is the female Achilles heel, she thought ruefully, we always become too involved.

Unknown to her Mike Blakeney had entered the anaesthetic room and overheard her sigh. “I hope that sigh doesn't mean you are tired,” he snapped irritably. “We have a long day ahead of us, I need an alert assistant!”

Startled, Isabel turned towards him. “I'm not tired,” she said politely, trying to ignore the curt, unfriendly tone of his voice. “I am…” she was going to say ready to start, but he didn't give her the opportunity.

“Good, let's get on, I don't have time for talking.”

Pulling her mask up to hide the hot flush of resentment that spread across her face, Isabel turned towards the anaesthetic trolley. He
was
still angry about the night before, she was certain of that. Well, if that is the sort of petty man he is, she thought crossly, a man to harbour grudges, she was glad she hadn't given in to his demands. He wouldn't make tears come to her eyes again, she vowed, giving the anaesthetic machine an angry shove towards the table. She watched him smiling gently at the patient. Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, she thought, that's what you are!

The morning was hard work, and the first patient presented difficult anaesthetic problems. Mike Blakeney snapped orders at Isabel, who responded quickly, the urgency of the situation making her completely forget that the man snapping the orders was the one who had asked her to go to bed with him the night before. All her professional training rose to the surface and, in spite of the difficulties with the first case, the rest of the morning proceeded reasonably smoothly, the patients all recovering well.

When the lunch time break came, Mr Goldsmith came into the anaesthetic room. Mike Blakeney had already left, taking the last patient to recovery, and Isabel was resetting the anaesthetic room ready for the afternoon operating list.

“I wouldn't like to go back to the old days, when surgeons operated without anaesthetists,” remarked Mr Goldsmith, watching Isabel lay up the anaesthetic trolley.

She laughed. “I think this morning would have been rather difficult,” she agreed. Then she said, “Didn't they give their patients gin to drink before the operation?”

Mr Goldsmith roared with laughter. “That was before my time,” he said, “in the days of the barber surgeons. Of course, the best surgeons were the ones that drank the gin themselves!” He roared with laughter again. “That's a point which is always being thrust under my nose by my brother-in-law, who is an eminent professor of anaesthesia. He says the only reason surgeons are called ‘Mr' is because they weren't proper doctors, only skilled barbers!”

“Really?” said Isabel raising her eyebrows, “I've never heard that before.”

“The nuisance of it is,” grumbled Mr Goldsmith, walking out of the anaesthetic room, “that he is right, and that is why today we are still called ‘Mr.' However, it
is
a prestigious title now, I'm glad to say.” He paused at the swing doors. “By the way, thank Mike Blakeney for me for managing that first patient so well. A difficult case.”

Isabel nodded her head. If he will listen to anything I say she thought, but she couldn't very well say that to Mr Goldsmith, and as it happened he bumped into the tall anaesthetist just outside the anaesthetic room, and Isabel heard him congratulating Mike on the way he had managed the patient.

Although she had finished her work in the anaesthetic room, she stayed where she was, waiting in silence for the two men to walk away. The less she saw of Mike Blakeney the better, as far as she was concerned.

It wasn't until she reached the canteen that she began to relax a little. As she sat down at the table with her new found friends, she realised just how tense she had been all morning. She felt a physical stiffness. Cliff Peterson was already there, and he made room for her to sit at his side, grinning cheerfully as he did so.

Gratefully Isabel squeezed in beside him. She felt better already. “Why weren't you in theatre this morning?” she asked. “I thought you usually assisted Mr Goldsmith?”

He grimaced. “I had to do an outpatient clinic,” he groaned. “Mr Walters, one of the other general surgeons, was admitted on to the coronary care ward last night. His registrar is away on holiday, so muggins here had to do the clinic.”

Everyone was concerned to hear about Mr Walters. It seemed he was an elderly consultant surgeon, very near retiring age, and it was obvious to Isabel that he was popular.

“I think everyone should be forced to retire at sixty,” said Sally Mannering decisively, “surgery is far too demanding to go on with until you are sixty five. No wonder so few of them live to enjoy their retirement.”

“How is Mr Walters?” Isabel asked Cliff, “is he seriously ill?”

“He'll survive,” said Cliff, “I just hope he gets the message and takes early retirement. He ought to. Not like my father,” he added, “he dropped dead six months after he had retired. My mother had never seen much of him during their married life, because he was always at the hospital. Then, when she thought they could go on all the holidays they had planned together…” his voice trailed away.

“Oh, Cliff, I'm sorry,” impulsively Isabel touched his arm. “Your poor mother, I suppose she worries about you now.”

Cliff grinned and held on to her hand. “I've told her not to. I'm not particularly ambitious. I intend to find myself a nice little niche as a consultant, where I can quietly get on with my job without killing myself, and I shall retire at sixty, if not before.” He smiled, “What I need is a nice sympathetic lass to look after me, to make sure I'm well cared for.”

Isabel smiled back, but gently withdrew her hand. The way he was looking at her was much too serious for her liking. “I'm sure you'll find the right girl,” she said firmly, and returned to her lunch. “Just keep looking,” she advised.

“Do you know, I think I have already found her,” was Cliff's cryptic reply, but Isabel didn't rise to the bait and ask who. She had an uncomfortable feeling that he was slotting her into that category.

Cliff Peterson was nice, although he had quite a reputation with the girls, one which, in Isabel's opinion at least, he didn't deserve. But when he had kissed her he hadn't turned her world upside down! Not like the surly, demanding anaesthetist, who she could see out of the corner of her eye, queuing up to collect his lunch. He was still with Mr Goldsmith, who was talking animatedly. Isabel shrank down a little in her seat, hoping she wouldn't be noticed as they walked by, but it seemed that some second sense told him that she was there. For he turned his head, and coolly and deliberately looked at her, the cold steel of his glance seeming to pierce right through her. Not a glimmer of a smile or acknowledgement flickered across his handsome face. Defiantly Isabel stared back, she was damned if she would look away first, she had nothing to be ashamed of!

“What are you doing tonight, Isabel?” The sound of Cliff's voice cut through her thoughts. He was too busy tucking into his pork pie and salad to notice that she and Mike Blakeney had been fighting a silent duel with their eyes. With one last defiant flash from her sparkling blue eyes, Isabel turned her attention back to Cliff.

“I'm staying in,” replied Isabel firmly to his question. “I haven't finished unpacking properly yet, and I've got to make out a list of estate agents to go to at the weekend.”

“Why?” asked Cliff, a forkful of pork pie poised in mid-air, “are you going to buy somewhere of your own?”

“I might,” said Isabel, “if I can find anywhere cheap enough. Or perhaps I'll rent. One thing
is
certain, and that is I don't want to stay in that tiny room I've got.”

“Huh, you've got my sympathy there,” said Cliff. “I bought a house when I moved down here from London, and I should make quite a healthy profit on it when I sell it next year. I had to buy something, I just couldn't stand hospital accommodation any longer!”

“Then why are you going to sell it next year?” Isabel was puzzled.

“When I move on to my next job,” said Cliff by way of explanation. “Registrars only have two-year contracts, you know. When I'm a senior registrar I shall know I can stay somewhere for at least four years.” He laughed, “If you're still looking this time next year, you can buy my house.”

“And help you to make a healthy profit,” retorted Isabel. “No, I'm afraid I wouldn't be able to afford to do that.”

Cliff shrugged his shoulders good-naturedly. “It was just an idea,” he said. “Anyway, you may decide to move on from here yourself.”

“Yes, that's true,” replied Isabel, looking at the back of Mike Blakeney's bronzed head across the canteen. It was impossible to miss him, his height and the colour of his hair made him stand out from the crowd. “Yes,” she repeated slowly, “I might have to move on.”