The Doctor's Christmas Gift

‘Of course, Dr Lewis.’

Margaret’s tone was so bland that the words conveyed exactly the opposite meaning they should have done. Catherine felt heat suffuse her when she realised that the receptionist didn’t believe a word she’d said. Did Margaret think that Matt had been wasting his time chatting her up instead of seeing to his patients?

It was on the tip of her tongue to assure Margaret that wasn’t the case when she suddenly thought better of it. Wasn’t there a saying about protesting too much?

‘I’ll send in your next patient, then, shall I, Dr Lewis?’ Margaret asked in the same bland tone.

Catherine nodded because it seemed an awful lot safer. No protestations would pass her lips, no explanations, nothing. She wasn’t going to give the staff at the surgery anything to gossip about!

‘Has she gone?’ Matt glanced furtively along the corridor as he sidled back into her room. He treated Catherine to a conspiratorial smile. ‘I should have warned you that Margaret is a real termagant when it comes to her beloved appointment system. You dice with death if you mess it up! Anyway, I daren’t risk getting in her bad books again so I’ll see you after surgery. In the kitchen around twelve-thirty. OK?’

‘I…um. Why? I mean, what do you need to see me about?’ she demanded, her voice rising by at least an octave. She cleared her throat, striving hard to achieve her usual even tone. ‘There isn’t much we can do unless Lauren is prepared to tell us what is really wrong with her.’

‘There isn’t. However, it wasn’t Lauren I wanted to talk to you about.’

Matthew cast another wary glance over his shoulder when the door leading from the waiting room opened. ‘I need to ask your advice this time, Catherine. The old two heads theory and all that. So, I’ll see you in the kitchen later. And don’t let Margaret know that I’ve been in here again or she’ll have me shot for dereliction of duty!’

He disappeared and a moment later Catherine heard him greeting his patient with some quip or other. The sound of their laughter was abruptly cut off as his consulting-room door closed.

She took a deep breath, added another for good measure, then went for the hat trick. It didn’t work. Maybe Matthew’s invitation to meet him in the kitchen hadn’t had quite the same ring to it as Meet me under the clock and I’ll wear a red rose, but it had certainly had an effect on her equilibrium. Making a date…any kind of a date…with Matthew Fielding made her feel very vulnerable indeed!

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_3c2d10b6-bbfa-5296-bbb2-f4ad4a46d9ed)

‘HI, THERE! I’ve made coffee and there’s some sandwiches if you’re hungry.’

It was twelve thirty-two, precisely. Catherine had checked her watch enough times to know that without having to check it again. The whole time she had been working through the rest of her morning list she had been conscious of the minutes ticking away and bringing the moment for her meeting with Matt ever closer. Maybe it was ridiculous to have got herself so worked up, but she hadn’t been able to help it. It certainly didn’t settle her mind to see the coffee-mugs and plates of sandwiches arranged on the table either. Was this really a work-related meeting, as he’d claimed?

‘Sit yourself down. It’s just milk, isn’t it? You don’t take sugar?’ Matthew picked up the coffee-pot and brought it over to the table. He put it down on a mat and frowned when he realised she was still standing in the doorway. ‘Catherine?’

‘I…um. No.’ She saw his brows arch and hurriedly tried to get a grip on herself. She wasn’t helping the situation by acting like a halfwit.

‘No, I don’t take sugar,’ she explained as much for her own benefit as for his. Keep things simple, Catherine! she chided herself. Stick to the rules. Rule number one was to always maintain her composure. Rule number two was never to mix work with pleasure. Rule number three…

She sighed because there was no point going any further. Rule number three—always to be on her guard—was proving as difficult to adhere to as numbers one and two. Matthew seemed to have a particular knack of sliding past her defences!

She pulled out a chair while Matt filled the mugs with coffee. He shoved the plate of sandwiches towards her then sat down opposite her. ‘Try one of these. You won’t be disappointed, I promise you. Mum makes the best sandwiches ever.’

Catherine took a sandwich simply because it was easier to comply than refuse. She bit into the moist brown bread and gave a little sigh of pleasure as the flavour of perfectly cooked roast beef and grainy mustard rioted around her taste buds.

‘Told you, didn’t I?’

The smugness in his voice made her smile despite herself.

‘Yes, you did, so you can stop crowing. I don’t suppose your mother would like a job? My cooking leaves an awful lot to be desired!’

‘No way! You are not poaching her off me. Oh, I might agree to share her on the odd occasion but I saw her first, so hands off.’ He took a swallow of his coffee then looked enquiringly at her. ‘Anyway, haven’t you a mother of your own who will take pity on you?’

‘No.’ Catherine picked up her mug and drank a little of the excellent coffee, using the few seconds it took to remove all expression from her face. ‘She died when I was a teenager.’

‘Oh, hell! I’m sorry, Catherine.’ He reached over the table and squeezed her fingers. ‘Me and my big mouth, eh?’

‘You weren’t to know.’

She eased her hand out of his grasp and picked up her sandwich again but there was a lump the size of Everest in her throat. It was strange because she had thought she had got over the pain of her mother’s death a long time ago, but it was as though Matt’s sympathy had released all the pent-up emotion. She had a horrible feeling that she was going to cry and hated the thought of him seeing her howling like a baby.

‘It must have been hard for you. How old were you when she died?’

His tone was neither overly sympathetic nor totally uncaring this time and Catherine felt her emotions subside to a more manageable level. ‘Fifteen. She was killed in a road traffic accident on her way home from work. She was knocked down by a bus while crossing the road.’

‘I see. So what happened to you afterwards? Did your father take care of you?’

‘No. My parents had divorced a couple of years before the accident happened. My father had moved to California and we’d lost touch,’ she explained flatly. She’d had years to come to terms with her father’s rejection and it no longer hurt as it had done once upon a time. She shrugged when Matt’s expression darkened.

‘These things happen, Matt. It’s not a big deal. Anyway, as there was no one else to look after me I was put into care and I stayed there until I went to med school. The rest, as they say, is history.’

‘So they do, but the trouble with history is that an awful lot gets lost along the way. We remember the key events but so often it’s the small, seemingly insignificant moments which have made the biggest impact on us.’

His tone was light enough to be taken as a general observation but Catherine couldn’t help wondering if he had realised that she’d left out an awful lot. The idea was far too disturbing so she decided right there and then that she should change the subject. After all, this meeting hadn’t been arranged to delve into her past. Matt had said that he needed her advice so maybe it was time she reminded him of that.

‘Anyway, enough of all that. Let’s get back to what I wanted to speak to you about.’

In the event it was Matt who set the conversation back on track and she couldn’t help feeling irritated at being forestalled. It was galling to feel as though she had no control over what was happening even though he had only done what she’d been intending to do.

‘And that was?’ she asked coolly.

‘David Marshall. He’s the patient with motor neurone disease I was called out to see the night you came for your interview, if you remember.’

His tone was bland enough yet she knew without the shadow of a doubt that he had picked up on her irritation. How did he do that? she wondered in dismay. How could he read her mind with such apparent ease? She had no idea but it was disturbing to know that he was so receptive to her mood.

‘Of course I remember,’ she replied curtly. ‘You were discussing him on the phone with Glenda.’

She realised her mistake the moment the words were out of her mouth. Matt had had no idea that she’d overheard his conversation that night but would he remember what he’d said about her? Her nerves tightened as she waited for him to answer, but he gave no sign that he was disconcerted by the comment.

‘That’s right. Both Glenda and I have treated David since he first became ill. We find that it helps him to see different people. He’s become increasingly housebound in the last couple of years and misses the contact with the outside world. We alternate our visits so that he gets a bit of variety, so to speak.’

‘It must be very difficult for him,’ Catherine observed, relieved that he hadn’t noticed her slip. ‘It’s such a cruel illness, especially in its later stages. Those people who suffer from it retain their full mental powers and awareness yet they are locked into a body which won’t obey even the most basic commands.’

‘Unfortunately, David is fast reaching that point. Until fairly recently he had some mobility and the characteristic muscle tremors weren’t too bad. However, the disease seems to have put on a spurt of late and he’s now in a wheelchair. It’s been a bitter blow for him because he was always so active. He was a rugby player when he was younger, and played for England several times. He also ran his own software company, which was extremely successful.’

‘How sad. I take it that he has help—physiotherapy, nursing care, maybe a wife or family who look after him?’

Matt sighed. ‘We’ve managed to get him nursing care and physio, but that’s basically it, I’m afraid. He was married but he and his wife got divorced when he first became ill. She couldn’t cope with the thought of him becoming disabled, apparently. That’s why Glenda and I tend to see him a bit more often than is strictly necessary. There’s very little we can do but…’

‘But you try to keep up his spirits by visiting him?’ Catherine finished for him.

He laughed. ‘How did you guess? But you’re right, of course. The problem is that David hates the idea of anyone feeling sorry for him. He’d be mortified if he discovered that we don’t need to visit him so often. We have to be very careful and do all sorts of medical procedures as a cover. I don’t think we have another patient on our books who has his blood pressure taken so many times a month!’

‘You should be working for MI5!’ Catherine declared. ‘Between sneaking about when Margaret isn’t looking and undertaking clandestine visits to patients, you’re absolutely wasted as a GP.’