Trust Me, I'm a Vet
Read Trust Me, I'm a Vet Online
Authors: Cathy Woodman
Table of Contents
Cover
Copyright
About the Author
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Trust Me, I’m a Vet
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Other books by this author
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Epub ISBN: 9781409099567
Version 1.0
Published by Arrow Books 2010
2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1
Copyright © Cathy Woodman 2010
Cathy Woodman has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work
This book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
First published in Great Britain in 2010 by
William Heinemann
Random House, 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road,
London, SW1V 2SA
Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited can be found at:
www.randomhouse.co.uk/offices.htm
The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 9780099543565
The Random House Group Limited makes every effort to ensure that the papers used in its books are made from trees that have been legally sourced from well-managed and credibly certified forests. Our paper procurement policy can be found at:
www.randomhouse.co.uk/paper.htm
Typeset by SX Composing DTP, Rayleigh, Essex
Printed and bound in Great Britain by CPI Cox & Wyman, Reading RG1 8EX
About the Author
Cathy Woodman began her working life as a small animal vet before turning to writing fiction. She won the Harry Bowling First Novel Award in 2002 and is a member of the Romantic Novelists’ Association. She is also a sessional lecturer in Animal Management at a local college for land-based industries.
Trust Me, I’m a Vet
is the first of a series about the Otter House Vets, a practice set in a fictional market town in beautiful East Devon where Cathy lived as a child. Cathy now lives with her husband, two children, two ponies, three exuberant Border Terriers and two cats in a village near Winchester, Hampshire.
To my family and friends –
both human and animal
Acknowledgements
I should like to thank my family, my agent, Laura Longrigg, and everyone at MBA, my editor, Emma Rose, and the rest of the team at Arrow Books for their enthusiasm and support.
Chapter One
First Blood
It’s a far cry from Starbucks. In fact, the blue and yellow gingham curtains with matching tablecloths and the paper doilies give the Copper Kettle a rather retro feel. There are no lattes or cappuccinos here. The coffee comes either with milk, or without. The local clientele look decidedly downbeat too with their blue rinses, and floral polyester dresses and macs, and the only buzz about the place emanates from a wasp which crawls feebly about on our table, having woken from its winter slumber a couple of months too early.
‘So what do you think, Maz?’ My best friend, Emma, sits opposite me with a cream tea and a piece of simnel cake in front of her because she can’t decide between the two. The sun’s rays slant through the window, emphasising the dark shadows under her eyes.
‘I think you’ve been overdoing it,’ I say.
‘It did cross my mind to book myself in for a quick eyelid tuck when I looked in the mirror this morning,’ Emma goes on. ‘I look like some old spaniel.’
‘Emma, you’re exaggerating,’ I say, smiling. She has the most amazing cheekbones, naturally long lashes, and lips which need little enhancement. ‘The last thing you need is surgery.’
‘You’re right. A good night’s sleep would do.’ I watch her pour two cups of tea from the pot, which sports a tea cosy knitted from oddments of wool. ‘Now, where was I?’
‘You need a locum to run the practice while you’re away.’ I’m glad she’s decided to take a break at last – no one can say she hasn’t earned it. I pick up a knife, slice my scone in half and scoop up a generous blob of strawberry jam, real jam with the pips left in.
‘When you’re in Devon you’re supposed to put the cream on before the jam,’ Emma whispers. ‘You’ll be drummed out of town if anyone notices.’
‘As if,’ I say. ‘You are joking?’
‘We’re very set in our ways here in Talyton St George,’ she says, her cheeks dimpling and her dark eyes sparkling with merriment as a tractor rumbles past, rattling the teacups. Yes, a real tractor – not one of the Chelsea variety, which I’m more used to.
I wipe my knife and scoop up a small portion of clotted cream instead, then take a second, more generous dollop.
‘Have you been in touch with any of the agencies yet?’
‘Of course not. I want you to do it.’ Emma gazes at me through the fringe of her brunette bob, which has grown overlong like an Old English sheepdog’s. ‘I want you to look after Otter House for me,’ she goes on as I choke on my scone.
Don’t get me wrong – I’m not averse to the idea of helping Emma out, but here in this quiet market town, where nothing ever happens? Let’s just say I wish she’d set up her practice even a tiny bit closer to London.
‘All right, I know we disagree on a few things like –’ she struggles to think of an example ‘– like how to pronounce the word “scone”, but we have a pretty similar approach when it comes to work, which’ll suit my staff and clients.’
‘I’ve never taken sole charge of a practice,’ I say doubtfully. The idea of being responsible for absolutely everything, from dealing with disputes to handling finances, is daunting. I like being a vet, just a vet.
‘If I can do it, you can, Maz.’
‘I haven’t had much experience of the business side of things either.’
‘I’ve already thought of that. Nigel, who looks after the practice computers, he’s agreed to handle the admin and accounts, so you won’t have to worry about those.’
‘I’m really not sure.’
‘Well, I can’t trust anyone else to look after it.’ I notice Emma stealing a glance at the small child who’s squirming about in a high chair at the table beyond ours and squeezing vanilla sponge between his fingers. ‘It’s like . . . well, it’s my baby.’
At the word ‘baby’, there’s a sudden hush. Scones hover between plate and mouth, teaspoons between sugar bowl and cup. Cheryl, proprietor of the Copper Kettle, who I could swear was behind the counter slicing freshly baked chocolate cake a moment ago, appears at our table, wiping her hands on her frilly apron.
‘Baby? Did I hear someone say they’re having a baby?’ she says. ‘Congratulations, Emma – I guessed you were eating for two.’
‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, Cheryl,’ Emma says, her eyes overly bright and her smile forced. There’s something wrong, something she isn’t telling me. She’s only thirty, like me, so there’s no great hurry, but she used to joke about having a family the size of a football team, until setting up and running the practice took over her life. I realise that she hasn’t mentioned babies for a long time.
‘So you aren’t?’ Cheryl says, sounding surprised.
‘No,’ Emma says sharply, and a spoon chinks against a dish, a cup against a saucer, ‘absolutely not.’ Her voice softens as she goes on, ‘Please, don’t go spreading that rumour around town.’
I suspect from Cheryl’s crestfallen expression that the rumour has already been spread, and I’m upset for Emma. It must be pretty hard living in a small town where everyone’s talking about you. I know I’d find it difficult to put up with.
‘I’m trying to persuade my friend Maz here that Talyton is a much nicer place to be a vet than London,’ Emma tells Cheryl.
‘Our babies are registered with the Talyton Manor Vets,’ Cheryl says, referring to the other practice in Talyton, a father and son outfit, a traditional mixed practice treating farm animals and horses, as well as cats and dogs. ‘The Fox-Giffords have generations of experience behind them. We’d never trust anyone else.’
Emma winks at me. I can tell she’s more than happy with that arrangement. Anyone who calls their pets ‘babies’ is going to be very demanding of their vet, and Cheryl, with her sharp features and short dark hair set in tiny, precise curls, doesn’t strike me as the easiest person to please.
