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Steve borrowed a few moments out of his busy morning to appraise the pretty face and slender figure and shining hair of the hovering nurse. He grinned at her suddenly. 'I haven't seen
you
before,' he said with a warmth of admiration. 'You must be our new surgical nurse.'

She liked his pleasant smile, his easy and acceptable friendliness. 'Gillian Grant,' she volunteered readily, smiling.

'Welcome to Greenvale, Gillian. When I'm not so busy I'll give you a warmer welcome,' he promised, eyes twinkling. 'In fact, I'll buy you a drink one evening if the boyfriend doesn't object.'

Her eyes danced. 'I'd like that—and there isn't a boyfriend,' she said lightly, obligingly.

The swing doors of the prepared theatre swung back and a tall, green-gowned figure, complete with boots, mask and surgical gloves, appeared in the doorway.

'I'm waiting for my patient,' he announced brusquely. 'She'll be coming round if you don't get her in here and properly under, man!'

'Right!' Seeming not to mind the impatient tone of his colleague, Steve adjusted his own mask and trundled the trolley towards the open door.

Mark stepped to one side. Steely grey eyes regarded Gillian coldly above the green operating mask. Nothing was said but she bridled at the slight scorn in his manner which seemed to imply that he suspected her of delaying the anaesthetist with quite unnecessary flirtation. He must think she was man-mad, she thought crossly. For a brief moment, their eyes met and held, open hostility between them. Then he turned away and the swing doors closed on him.

Gillian discovered that her hands were tightly clenched. She smiled wryly at the evidence of tension. She was a fool to let him get under her skin so rapidly. But there was something about him that made all her hackles rise in a moment. But it wasn't an unreasonable dislike, she told herself firmly. He had given her plenty of reason to dislike him in a very short time.

She went to the door of the theatre and looked through the small round window with a very natural interest. Mrs Maddox was already on the operating table and Steve was busy with his complicated equipment. The theatre nurse was hovering over the trolley with its neat array of gleaming instruments. Mark Barlow stood slightly apart from the main tableau, very still, gloved hands poised for action and a scalpel at the ready. Gillian wondered if he was 'tuning in'.

She had known many surgeons and each one had their individual approach to their work. For instance, Peter Lincoln whistled under his breath and out of tune all the time he was operating, almost driving the theatre staff round the bend. Sir Geoffrey was very cheerful and loud-voiced, telling the most frightful jokes and talking non-stop as though his conversation was far more important than the patient on the operating table. He worked non-stop, too. Gillian had needed to be constantly alert so that each instrument was slapped into his hand at the very instant it was required.

Paul Ritchie was much slower, deliberate in his movements, explaining every step of an operation even to those who knew it by heart anyway. He was a brilliant surgeon but he had some irritating mannerisms. Philip Arne was good but somehow he didn't inspire confidence and theatre staff were usually on edge during his list, waiting tensely for something to go wrong— although it had never happened to Gillian's knowledge. Everyone breathed sighs of relief when he stepped back from the table and stripped off his gloves and mask.

Gillian lingered, watching intently as Mark Barlow stepped forward at a nod from the anaesthetist and prepared to cut down. His hands moved swiftly and deftly. She could almost sense the coolness and the confidence that emanated from the surgeon. It was impossible to imagine that his hand could falter or to suppose that there was the slightest doubt in his mind as to his skill or the swift recovery of the patient. She might not like him but she couldn't help admiring his professionalism.

She only wished that she was assisting instead of wistfully watching from a distance. She couldn't see exactly what he was doing but in her mind she followed every move and played the part of theatre nurse, handing Km the right instrument at exactly the right moment and being quite indispensable.

Steve was the most important man in that theatre, of course. But somehow the anaesthetist's part in the drama was always overlooked. He sat at the patient's head, quietly adjusting taps and dials and carefully observing her condition and everyone forgot that her life was really in his hands for much of the time. Everyone except the surgeon who turned to him constantly for reassurance that all was well.

It was a straightforward hysterectomy and didn't take very long. Mark straightened after tying the last suture and stepped back, nodding satisfaction. Pulling down his mask, he turned to look directly at the eager face that was framed in the window.

It was just as if he had known all the time that she was watching, Gillian felt, disconcerted. And perhaps he had. For a surgeon had to be sensitive in many ways, after all.

She backed hastily away from the small but revealing window. She had just reached the outer door of the ante-room when he spoke.

'If you were interested, why didn't you scrub up and watch at close quarters?'

Gillian turned. 'I thought you might not appreciate an audience.'

He surveyed her thoughtfully. 'Interested in theatre work, are you? You won't learn about it from a distance.' His tone was dry.

Her chin went up. 'You seem to think that I'm a novice. I'm not only state registered but I've just had six months as a theatre sister at Kit's.'

Amusement glinted in the grey eyes. 'Well done,' he drawled.

Gillian glared, resenting the mockery in his tone. 'I'm a very good theatre nurse!'

He raised an eyebrow. 'Self-praise is no recommendation. You'll have to prove that to my satisfaction.'

'I've worked with some of the best surgeons in the country,' she told him indignantly.

'With plenty of back-up,' he pointed out. 'Surgical officers and housemen and other qualified nurses—and more on call if you need them. Here, it will be just you—and me! Heaven help you if I get the wrong instrument slapped in my hand at a crucial moment or if you fail to note something that I've overlooked.'

Gillian smiled scornfully. 'Is it possible that you could overlook anything?' she asked sweetly, very cutting.

'No.' Tone and manner were uncompromising. 'But you'll need to be constantly on your toes, anyway. I don't tolerate fools or incompetents—in or out of the theatre!'

Gillian boiled over. 'You really are a pig, aren't you?' she snapped.

He looked at her steadily. 'You don't have to like me. Just do your work properly, that's all. Personal feelings have no place in the operating theatre.'

'I shouldn't think they play
any
part in your life!'

'Very little,' he agreed smoothly.

Gillian glowered.

Steve put his head round the door of the ante-room. 'The patient's gone into recovery and doing nicely,' he announced. 'It's the ovarian cyst next, isn't it?' He winked at Gillian. 'Still with us? You didn't need to wait around for Mrs Maddox, you know. She'll be kept in the recovery room for an hour or so before going back to the ward.'

'I do know the routine,' she said tartly.

He blinked, taken aback by the snap in her voice. 'Sorry I spoke!'

Gillian smiled at him, contrite. He was really rather nice. Any man would seem nice after her brush with the infuriating and detestable Mark Barlow, of course, she admitted. But the cheerful anaesthetist was very easy to like and promised to be a friend. Newcomer to job and surroundings, she was going to be grateful for friends, after all.

'Sorry I snapped. But everyone's treating me like a very green junior,' she said with a bitter glance for the tall surgeon who stood with his arms folded and a sardonic expression on his good-looking face. 'I've been nursing for five years!'

Steve leaned over to look at her badge. 'Kit's nurse,' he said, impressed. 'We don't get many of those in our little backwater, do we Mark? You're a Kit's man, aren't you? Know each other?' He grinned at Gillian. 'I hope he isn't the lure that brings you to Greenvale, Gillian,' he went on, a mischievous twinkle in his blue eyes. 'I'd written you down as mine!'

'I never met him until today,' she said firmly, her tone unmistakably announcing that their meeting had not enriched her life in the least. Their eyes met across the small room. Chin tilting, she refused to recognise the gleam of amusement in the depths of the grey eyes that seemed incapable of smiling without mockery.

'She doesn't like you, Mark,' Steve declared, triumphant. 'I guess I've won the girl this time!'

Mark shrugged, moving to the door. 'I wasn't competing,' he said dryly. 'I don't share your absurd weakness for pretty nurses.' The door closed behind him.

Gillian looked after him with dislike. She turned to the anaesthetist. 'Are you friends?' she asked impulsively.

Steve laughed. 'Sure! Why not? He doesn't steal my women and he doesn't beat me at golf.'

She smiled doubtfully. 'Is that your criteria for friendship?'

'Can you think of a better one?' His tone was blithe. 'Women and golf are my main interests in life.'

She shook her head at him in amused reproach. 'I must go,' she said, rather reluctantly. 'Nurse Hughes will be wondering what's happened to me. I ought not to have stayed so long but surgery fascinates me, I must admit.'

'I saw the face at the window,' Steve told her, smiling. 'Why didn't you scrub up and come in? Mark wouldn't have noticed—or cared. Nothing disturbs his concentration when he's operating.'

'He's good, isn't he?' She had no real desire to praise the man but fair was fair. Even at a distance with the door between them and unable to see just what those strong, capable hands were doing, Gillian had been aware of his skill and sensitivity and the reassuring lack of tension in the theatre. Confident and relaxed, he had known just what to do and done it to the very best of his ability.

'Very good.' The assurance was firm, unhesitating.

She would enjoy working with a good surgeon, Gillian felt. She might even be able to overlook his unattractiveness as a person ...

She went back to her ward and discovered that she hadn't been missed. She had been assigned to Mrs Maddox until her eventual discharge and it had been assumed that she would stay to watch the hysterectomy and await any special instructions from the surgeon.

Penny Hughes suggested that she went to lunch while Mrs Maddox was still in the recovery room. It had been an easy but eventful morning and Gillian emerged into the bright sunshine of the June day with a feeling of relief.

Taking her Mini, she drove a mile or so down the country road to a quaint little pub. She sat in its quiet garden with a glass of ice-cold lager and a sandwich. Two old men, half-asleep, were the only other occupants. Gillian looked about her with pleasure. It was warm and peaceful and very pleasant. Greenvale and Mark Barlow seemed a million miles away.

She wasn't sure how she felt about the new job. Greenvale was so different from Kit's and she had always liked to be busy, always responded to the challenge of each day in a big teaching hospital. She felt that there might be too much time on her hands, too little use made of her excellent training. But she had overdone things in those last weeks at Kit's before her illness. Perhaps she needed the calm, the slow pace of the backwater that was Greenvale, she thought, remembering the cheerful anaesthetist's description with a flicker of amusement.

She liked Steve. He was a type that she had met very often at Kit's—extrovert, cheerful and undemanding. They made good friends and obliging companions and didn't insist on being lovers. No doubt he would make a pass if she went out with him. They all did. But he would probably accept her lack of interest in casual sex with a philosophical shrug and a smile and be quite happy to go on seeing her on a friendly basis. Gillian didn't want any emotional complications while she was at Greenvale. So far, things were
going
well.

She had been lucky to find a ground-floor flat in an old house in the heart of the bustling market town. It was not only furnished but she had access to the small garden, little more than a patch of lawn and some scrubby flower-beds, but useful. She had leased the flat for a year at a remarkably reasonable rent. The furniture was shabby but comfortable, and somehow the place felt like home.

It was five years since Gillian had left the bosom of her family to train at Kit's. Then she had shared a cramped flat on the top floor of the Nurses' Home with three other first-years. Unusually, they had all completed their training and still been together five years later, state registered and working at Kit's, sharing a tiny terraced house in a side street conveniently near the hospital.

It was going to feel strange and perhaps rather lonely at first, living alone. But Gillian was a very private person and there had been times when she had longed to get away from her friends, dear though they were. She could never have hurt their feelings by saying so. Now, Sue and Helen and Babsi were a hundred miles away and someone else had moved into the tiny box-room that had been her bedroom. So far, she had no regrets.

She liked the flat. She liked the small town and its friendly people. She liked the nearness to the sea, too, only twenty minutes' drive along the quiet roads and over the rolling Sussex downs.

Gillian loved the sea. She liked to stroll on the shore, feeling that every little anxiety, every uncertainty about the future, every irritation vanished before the soothing influence of wind and wave sweeping in from the sea.

Despite Mark Barlow's hostility and her own instinctive reaction to it, Gillian felt that she was going to enjoy her year at Greenvale. It would certainly be a new experience.

Relaxed and almost drowsy in the warm sun, watching a few birds fighting over the last crumbs of her sandwich, Gillian was more content than she had been for some time. Much as she loved nursing, happy as she had been at Kit's with her work and her friends and a full social life, there had always been a void that it seemed only one person could fill—and so far she hadn't found him. Perhaps she would prove to be mistaken but she had a feeling that she was destined to find her real happiness through this new job and new surroundings.