The Registrar's Convenient Wife

She frowned. ‘I’m not with you.’

‘I overheard you talking to Tilly earlier.’

‘Oh.’ Her face was impassive. ‘Well, you do leave dead on the dot. And you don’t do nights.’

He nearly said, ‘Locum’s privilege,’ but stopped himself just in time. He needed Claire on his side, not against him. ‘I’m committed to my job, Dr Thurman. While I’m on duty, I’ll give a hundred per cent. But I can’t work longer hours, for personal reasons.’

Claire waited, as if giving him time to explain, but Eliot had no intention of doing that. He didn’t want pity from anyone. And he particularly didn’t want pity from Claire.

Though he wouldn’t allow himself to speculate about what exactly he did want from her. It was way too dangerous.

‘See you tomorrow,’ he said, and walked out of the door.

CHAPTER TWO

OH, GREAT. He would have to get stuck in a traffic jam. Eliot rang home and the answering-machine kicked in. He stifled the panic that lurched in his stomach. Of course Fran hadn’t left Ryan on his own. She wasn’t Malandra. She’d wait until he got home. Probably she hadn’t heard the phone, or she was busy cooking Ryan’s tea or something.

The message ended with a long beep, and Eliot gabbled his message. ‘It’s me—I’m on my way but I’m stuck in traffic. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

By the time he finally walked through the front door, he could feel his blood pressure simmering. He took a deep breath and reminded himself to stay calm, for Ryan’s sake.

Ryan was in front of the TV, half watching a cartoon and half concentrating on a complex model of a robot that he’d made from K’nex, snapping the rods and links together as if he instinctively knew the right pattern. Eliot always marvelled at how his son could produce an intricate three-dimensional jet or helicopter with a moving rotor in such a short space of time.

‘Hi, son.’

Ryan didn’t look up, he just muttered, ‘Hi, Dad,’ the way he usually did. Eliot suppressed the yearning to have his son run to him and hug him and look into his eyes and laugh. Hello, Dad. I missed you. I love you. Followed by lots of chattering about what happened at school today, what he’d been doing with Fran, what he wanted to do this evening.

Dream on, Eliot told himself savagely. You know that’s not going to happen. And it’s not his fault or yours. It’s just the way it is and you have to live with it.

‘Fran? I’m back.’

Fran appeared at the kitchen doorway. ‘I was just making Ryan’s tea,’ she said. ‘Chicken nuggets, chips and spaghetti.’

Not exactly the best nutrition in the world, Eliot knew—but he’d learned the hard way not to make food into a battleground. Nowadays he gave Ryan what he knew the seven-year-old would eat, and tried to sneak fruit and vegetables into his son when he could. ‘Thanks, Fran. I owe you an extra hour. Plus overtime,’ he added guiltily.

She didn’t look even remotely mollified. ‘You said you’d be home by half past.’

‘I know. And I would have been, but I got stuck in traffic.’ Eliot sighed. ‘I am trying, Fran.’

‘I’ve got a life, you know. I’m never going to be ready for my date tonight.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Sorry is as sorry does.’

Eliot almost snapped back at her—but thought better of it at the last moment. If he didn’t keep Fran sweet, she’d leave. And that would be a disaster. It had taken him four months to find Fran. Four months of Ryan being unsettled at the constant changes in his child care, four months of interviews and wondering if he’d ever find the right person to look after his child between school and his job, four months when he’d had to stop working and he’d lived on home-made vegetable soup and toast because it was cheap.

‘Look—have a drink or what have you on me tonight,’ he said, taking a note from his wallet.

‘Ta.’ Fran pocketed it swiftly. ‘The spaghetti’s in the microwave and the nuggets and chips are in the oven. They’ll be ready in ten minutes. See you tomorrow.’ She paused at the living-room doorway. ‘Bye, Ryan.’

Ryan didn’t acknowledge his childminder, simply continued with his model-making. Two others were neatly lined up and there was a space next to them ready for the one he was making now.

‘Tea’s in ten minutes,’ Eliot told him.

‘Mmm,’ was the response. Ryan was focused completely on his model.

Ten minutes later, they were sitting at the dining-room table. Eliot had managed to find the right knife and fork, made sure none of the three types of food touched any of the others and were on the right plate, and he’d filled Ryan’s mug with milk to precisely one centimetre from the top.

His thanks were simply that Ryan ate without fuss or comment. Apart from once, when he looked at his father’s sandwich. ‘Fran didn’t get you any bacon.’

‘That’s OK. Tuna salad’s cool.’ Actually, Eliot was sick to the back teeth of bacon sandwiches. Maybe he was pandering to Ryan’s little routines too much. The psychologist would tell him he had to fight more battles. Though Eliot didn’t want to fight his son. He only wanted to love him.

‘What happened at school today?’

‘Maths.’

Amazing how Ryan could answer an open question with a closed statement. Eliot tried again. ‘What was the best thing today?’

‘I had strawberries in my lunch.’

He knew that was as much as he was going to get. The same as he’d heard every other school day for the last month. Just for once Eliot longed to hear his son say he’d played football or found a butterfly or learned a new song. But he’d find out those sorts of things at the monthly review meetings with Ryan’s teacher and support assistant.

Eliot let his son eat the rest of his meal in silence.

‘Can I go on the computer now?’ Ryan asked.

‘Half an hour. When you’ve done your homework.’

‘It’s just reading.’

‘OK. How about half an hour on the computer, bath, then you read to me?’ It was a risk, changing his routine, but for once Ryan didn’t seem to mind.

‘OK, Dad.’

Ryan was gone, and within seconds Eliot heard the computer booting up. He finished his sandwich and then cleared up in the kitchen. Bathtime was the highlight of his day—playing submarines with his son, though the routine never varied and Ryan always sank Eliot’s ships in the exact same order.

Milk, teeth and story. Ryan read his book fluently, and Eliot gave him a gold star, sticking it like a medal on his pyjamas. ‘Well done. That’s for reading expressive dialogue.’ Ryan had clearly been working hard on expression with his support assistant at school.

‘Thanks, Dad.’

‘Sleep well.’ Eliot hugged him. ‘I love you.’

As always, Ryan’s face had a slightly worried look and his eyes slid away, not meeting his father’s. Eliot squashed his inward sigh. He knew that Ryan loved him; the little boy just wasn’t comfortable saying so. Facts, fine—emotions, not.

‘See you in the morning. Light off in half an hour, OK?’

‘All right. ’Night, Dad.’