Sold to the Surgeon (6 page)

He laughed softly and the sound unexpectedly tore at her heartstrings. “OK,” was all he said. Then he tipped her face up to his, smiling quizzically at her flushed features. “On reflection,” he continued, “I think perhaps I'm hungry for that pizza now, it smells delicious.” Turning away from her, he picked up his shirt, completely dry by now, and pulled it over his head.

To Abigail's immense surprise and relief, the rest of the evening passed in easy conversation. She had expected to feel shy and awkward with him, but soon found they had plenty to talk about. She forgot her initial shyness as Greg told her about himself and his family. She learned that his mother was Italian and his father an American dentist, just about to retire; they planned to spend at least half the year in Italy, Greg told her. His sister was the same age as herself, and a successful model in New York. From his affectionate anecdotes about his family, Abigail could tell they were very close, and found herself envying him.

“I hope you'll be able to meet my parents soon,” said Greg as he polished off his pizza. “I shall take a vacation with them in Italy. You could always visit—they love visitors.

Abigail just smiled. The chances of her taking a holiday in Italy were zero, she reflected wryly; the upkeep of the cottage saw to that! Instead, she told him about her father, and how she still missed him; how she had never known her mother very well because she had died when she was a small child.

“Don't you have any other family?” asked Greg.

“No one,” said Abigail, “not unless you count a very elderly aunt who lives in Aberdeen, and I've only met her once!”

“That's sad,” said Greg slowly, looking at her with his dark eyes.

She tilted her chin proudly. “Don't feel sorry for me,” she said defensively. “I've got plenty of friends, and I've got Rupert.” But even as she said it, she knew she did envy Greg and his close-knit family. From what he had told her they sounded fun, especially his mother, who sounded terribly Italian, over-dramatising everything to larger-than-life portions.

“I don't feel in the least bit sorry for you,” replied Greg quickly. “Don't be so prickly!” Then he grinned. “What I should have said is that you've got the kind of personality that would fit in well with a large family group. I can just imagine you surrounded by hordes of children, with your hair hanging down in riotous curls. Like it was the first day I met you.”

Abigail blushed furiously at the memory. “Thanks for the backhanded compliment!” she replied, collecting the plates and glasses from the table. “However, I cannot imagine myself like that—I'm a career girl at heart.”

Greg pulled a disbelieving face which she ignored. Stacking the dishes in the sink, she suddenly realised how late it was. The kitchen window was open, and the warm night air wafting in was filled with the fragrant fresh perfume that always comes after summer rain.

“Time for you to go,” she said decisively, turning back towards him. “I've got a lot to do tomorrow.”

Greg allowed himself to be ushered out without protest. He left, not attempting to kiss her goodnight, and after he had gone Abigail leaned against the solid wood of the front door, not knowing whether she was pleased or sorry!

Chapter Five

Monday and Tuesday of the following week passed by in a flash. The ward was busy with plenty of new admissions, and Abigail was very pleased to see dear old Mr. Weatherspoon well enough to go home. He had recovered very well from his laser surgery, and Greg had told her that he was hopeful he had managed to remove all the tumour.

“His prognosis is good,” he said.

Mrs. Weatherspoon had bought in a large stone jar of homemade cider when she came to collect her husband, “Can you make sure Mr. Lincoln gets this?” she asked Abigail as together they packed her husband's belongings in a suitcase “I've told him about English cider, but I don't think he believed me when I told him how strong it was!”

Abigail laughed. Mrs. Weatherspoon was looking quite concerned. “Don't worry, I'll make sure he gets it, and the message. I'll warn him to drink it at home, when he has nowhere to go. He'll be sorry to miss you, I know, but he's busy operating today.”

After Mr. and Mrs. Weatherspoon had departed, Abigail and Sue Parkins cleaned out the room ready for the next occupant. Sister Collins had decided to keep the room temporarily empty, in case they had an emergency admission. Privately Abigail thought it was a silly idea. If they did have an emergency, the patient would need to be near the nursing station to be observed, and that would mean moving someone else into Mr. Weatherspoon's old room. It would have been much better to have moved a patient now, she reasoned, when they had some spare time, rather than to leave it and have to do it when they were rushed off their feet with an emergency admission. She sighed. Sometimes Sister Collins didn't seem to use any common sense at all, in spite of all her years of nursing experience.

As it happened, when the emergency case did come in, it was the following day, just before Abigail was due to go off duty—an old lady was admitted with a chicken bone lodged in her throat.

Abigail almost felt like saying, “I told you so,” to Sister Collins when Greg came along and told them about the patient, adding that she would need to go into the bed opposite the nursing station.

“As Mr. Smith is going home tomorrow,” he said, “he can be moved into the side room, and we can put Mrs. Jewell into his bed.”

“Mr. Lincoln,” Sister Collins replied icily, “I am quite capable of organising my own ward.”

“Good,” was the only comment, before he strode off down the corridor.

Thank you very much! Abigail felt morose. He had come in, with a few words stirred up Sister Collins into a foul mood, then marched off, leaving her to bear the brunt of Sister's bad temper. But there was no time for more than a fleeting mental grumble—there was work to be done, and by the time Mr. Smith had been moved, lock, stock and bedside locker; and an anxious Mrs. Jewell installed in the appropriate bed, it was way past the time when Abigail should have been off duty.

Oh heavens, she thought, glancing down at her watch, Lynne will be waiting—I'll be late for the barbecue. She'd brought some jeans and a teeshirt into the hospital with her, and hastily scrambled into them in the changing room. When she finally made the frantic dash downstairs, it was to find Lynne pacing up and down impatiently in the car park.

“About time too,” was her comment, as they both jumped into Lynne's old banger, laden up to the gunwales with boxes of food and wine. “Come on, it takes absolutely ages to get the charcoal going.”

It was a gorgeous summer's evening, a clear sky splashed with streaks of gold, the temperature warm and balmy. In spite of the temporary set-back of the storm of Friday night, the spell of good weather was holding. Lynne drove quickly, chattering non-stop all the way to the site, which was several miles out of the town, set deep in a clearing of woods belonging to the Forestry Commission. A Forest Ranger was waiting for them when they arrived, and helped them to get the fire for the barbecue started before he left.

Derek Thompson had also arrived early, and was rigging up lights strung between the trees, to be run from a small petrol-driven generator he had put behind the old barn which stood on the edge of the clearing.

“Sorry, girls,” he said as soon as he spied them, “but I'm not going to be able to stay. Bob Raleigh has been stricken with some ghastly bug, and I've got to go back on duty.”

“Oh Derek!” wailed Lynne, her big eyes round and reproachful.

“Sorry,” said Derek, completely misunderstanding her disappointment, “but don't worry, I've organised one of the theatre technicians to take down the lights. All you've got to do is take the generator back in your car. I'll pick it up from you tomorrow.”

“But you'll miss the barbecue,” grumbled Lynne.

“Needs must,” answered Derek, putting the finishing touches to the lighting. “I'll come round to your place tomorrow night and pick up the generator, if that's OK, and perhaps we could go out for a drink. That is,” he added hastily, “if you're not doing anything else.”

“Good idea. I think I'm free,” said Lynne nonchalantly.

Abigail hid a smile. She thinks she's free! She knew very well that Lynne would move heaven and earth to be free for a date with Derek Thompson; and she teased her about it when Derek had left.

“Well, I don't want to appear too keen,” said Lynne, smiling complacently, “I might have put him off.” She laughed happily. “Come on, we've got loads to do.”

Between them they managed to time it just right. Some senior house officers from Casualty came, and organised the drinks side of the evening, and Abigail and Lynne soon had the steaks, hamburgers, sausages and jacket potatoes cooking on the huge grill of the iron barbecue. It was hot and smoky work, but Abigail didn't mind that; she was hot and sticky and had soot streaked across her face, but she was enjoying herself. The barbecue was going with a swing, the fairy lights sparkled merrily between the trees, and muted music echoed round the forest clearing.

She was happily turning over sizzling steaks with a long prong held in one hand, and drinking red wine from a plastic beaker held in the other, when she was suddenly aware that three people were looking at her.

It was Rupert, with Penelope hanging on his arm, and standing slightly behind them, Greg Lincoln. Suddenly Abigail was aware that she was very scruffy indeed, knowing her face was flushed from the heat of the fire and the red wine, and she was also acutely conscious of the contrast between herself and Penelope, who looked coolly immaculate as usually in cream-coloured cotton slacks and a purple silk blouse.

“Abigail what a mess you look!” laughed Rupert, confirming her worst fears. He came up and pecked her on the cheek. “This girl never does anything by halves,” he added, turning to Greg and Penelope, still laughing.

“You must be mad, Abigail,” said Penelope, wrinkling her straight little nose in disgust. “You'll smell smoky for a week!”

“Somebody has got to lend a hand and help out,” retorted Lynne sharply—she'd never had much time for Penelope. “If we waited for you to volunteer, we'd wait until next year!”

“Not until next year,” corrected Penelope, giving one of her tinkling laughs, as she drifted away to talk to some acquaintances, “for ever! Only fools volunteer for hard work!”

“It'll be a fine day when she volunteers for
any
kind of work,” said Lynne indignantly, venomously prodding a sausage.

Abigail couldn't help laughing at Lynne's outraged expression. “It doesn't worry me,” she said truthfully, “and Lynne, please don't treat that poor sausage as if it's Penelope Orchard!”

Lynne laughed and speared the sausage even more viciously, then mischievously waved it under Greg's nose, “I didn't know you were coming,” she said. “Your name wasn't on my list.”

“Derek Thompson said I could eat his share,” he replied, grinning back at her. “Shall I give you a hand? I think you should move some of that meat now, unless you want your steaks to end up as charcoal!”

With Greg's help they piled up the cooked food to one side and left people to help themselves; the glowing embers of the fire were left to die down a little.

“Come on,” said Greg in Abigail's ear, “I've got a plate of food for you—come and sit over here and eat it, you deserve a rest. You too,” he added to Lynne, “you both deserve to take it easy. Rupert, can you carry Lynne's plate?”

Rupert nodded, and they followed Greg across to one of the rustic wooden picnic tables which were dotted about the site.

“This is nice,” said Lynne, while Greg went off in search of some wine for their party. “He's thoughtful isn't he?”

“Sometimes,” replied Abigail, making a face; she was thinking of that afternoon when he'd left her to shoulder the wrath of Sister Collins!

Greg returned and they sat squashed together eating and drinking. “It tastes really good,” remarked Abigail, tucking in with relish. “I didn't realise how hungry I was. I could eat a horse.”

“You probably are,” joked Lynne.

Rupert laughed, “It's because of all that energy you've used up,” he said, putting an arm around Abigail's shoulder and giving her an affectionate squeeze. Then he wrinkled his nose. “Penelope was right—you do smell smoky.”

“You have no taste,” Abigail teased him. “It's the latest perfume, ‘Smoke gets in your Eyes'!”

“Sorry, but I definitely prefer Chanel No 5,” said Rupert. “Promise me you'll be wearing that next time I see you.”

“I promise,” laughed Abigail, and kissed him lightly on the side of his cheek before turning back to her barbecued supper.

It was as she turned that she was startled to catch a strange gleam in Greg's dark eyes. She was certain it was almost a kind of anger she saw glinting in the depths of his eyes. At least, she thought it was a kind of anger. But why? Why should he be angry? Puzzled, she stared back, only to find his gaze caught hers and ensnared it. Suddenly the memory of him on the night of the storm flashed before her mind's eye; she could see him sitting in her kitchen, his bronzed torso gleaming in the light of the lamp while his shirt had been drying. At the uninvited memory, an involuntary shiver ran the length of her spine, and hurriedly she looked at her plate, afraid that her agitated thoughts might be mirrored in her eyes. Precisely at that moment Penelope Orchard chose to come across to their table, and for once in her life Abigail was actually glad to see her.

“Hi, everyone,” Penelope purred throatily, sliding her elegant form down on to the wooden seat beside Rupert. “I really must congratulate you, Lynne, you've organised a superb barbecue supper as usual, and I gather we're to have live music as well as the canned variety this year.”

Lynne looked at her watch. “Thanks,” she said briefly, then stood up. “I'd better ask Bruce and Dougie to start playing, we only have until half past midnight on the site.” She left them and went off to find the two guitar players.

The assembled company crowded round the fire, which had been given a new lease of life. Someone had thrown on some dry logs, and the orange flames licked hungrily at the tinder-dry bark, illuminating the faces of the crowd. Soon everyone was singing along in company with the lilting music.

In the crush Abigail lost sight of Rupert, but she didn't worry, she knew he was there somewhere and she would find him when it was time to go. She was content to sit on the sweet-smelling grass watching the faces of her friends in the flickering firelight.

“You look like a pixie sitting there with your knees hunched up under your chin.” Greg's voice at her side startled her. He sat down beside her and casually draped an arm around her shoulders. “It's a lovely evening isn't it?” he said.

Abigail stiffened at the touch of his arm. “Yes, it is a lovely evening,” she agreed uneasily. “At this time of the year the weather is usually beautiful in England.”

“It wasn't the weather I had in mind,” he rejoined, his low voice and teasing. “I was thinking how lovely it was sitting here with you.”

“Oh,” said Abigail, totally at a loss, and not knowing what to say next; unprepared for such a direct compliment.

Laughingly he pulled her closer. “You are a puzzlement, Abigail,” he said softly. “When I kissed you last Friday, you responded at first like a warm, passionate woman; the kind I like. But then you drew back, and made that quaint comment about being engaged to Rupert.” He laughed again.

Abigail turned her head swiftly, flashing him an angry look in the semi-darkness. “I
am
engaged,” she answered in a low trembling voice. “Maybe I'm old-fashioned, but I don't approve of flirting with other men.”

Greg's only comment to her angry rejoinder was, “I'm sure Penelope Orchard isn't old-fashioned!”

Still angry, she turned her head away. “I don't care to emulate Penelope Orchard,” she said stiffly. “What she does is her business, and what I do is mine!” Scrambling hastily to her feet, she stood up, intending to walk away, but to her consternation he also stood up, and grasped her slim wrist in his hand, the long fingers fastening like a steel vice around her wrist.

“There's no reason to take offence,” he said, and Abigail thought she had detected an annoyed note in his voice too, then just as suddenly it disappeared as he laughed and added, “I wasn't trying to seduce you.”

“You couldn't, even if you wanted to,” she said very deliberately. “I can't speak from experience, as I've never been seduced, but I've always imagined that one has to be, at the very least, slightly attracted to the man concerned!”

She knew the barbed remark went home, as Greg dropped her wrist immediately; an opportunity she took to walk swiftly away. She didn't look back—she didn't need to. She knew he was standing alone on the edge of the crowd watching her, but his tall, lean figure had been swallowed up by the darkness as she approached the light of the fire. To her intense relief she soon found Rupert, who was still with Lynne and Penelope.