A Medical Liaison

She sat very still, relishing her last few moments of anonymity—soon some of these people would be known to her—their foibles and their loyalties. She would be working alongside them, learning how this particular hospital did things. A new life, in a new hospital—far away from the tatters of her old one.

She was about to open her door when she noticed a movement in her rear mirror and she looked up and frowned, for a particularly expensive-looking car was flicking its headlights on and off, almost blinding her with its over-impressive array of illuminations.

She got out of her car slowly and turned towards the other vehicle, raising a rather resigned eyebrow. She couldn’t help it—she knew it was blind prejudice, but she despised such ostentatious displays of wealth.

The driver was getting out—an impossibly tall man who she was surprised could fit into such a cramped little machine. And, on further examination, he didn’t look in the least like the usual sports car owner. His cords were unpressed and his thick sweater had clearly seen better days. He looked as though he would be more at home behind the wheel of a Land Rover, she thought, noticing that he was now staring at her impatiently.

Returning his stare, she felt the jarring jolt of recognition—for she knew that craggy face, with its high cheekbones and narrow eyes. Yet she was positive that she had never met the man before in her life. Her memory was faultless—she would never have forgotten meeting someone like him, if not because of his looks then for his glowering expression alone!

She shook her head a little—the long drive had affected her and now she was imagining things! The tall man in front of her was a complete stranger—of that she was certain.

‘That’s my space you’re parking in,’ he began, a frown creasing his forehead above dark brows.

She sighed. Men were always so predictably proprietorial about parking. If they left their wretched cars in the same spot for two days running it mysteriously became ‘theirs’, and the more expensive the car, the more arrogant the owner. She gazed up at him sweetly.

‘Then I must either be blind or unobservant,’ she answered calmly. ‘Because I’m afraid I didn’t notice a sign next to it marked “Reserved”.’

Now it was his turn to raise his eyebrows, the composure of her reply making him look at her properly, as if for the first time.

She could see him taking in the pencil-slim grey skirt which just skimmed her knees, with its matching, rather severe jacket. The sombre colour of the suit provided a fitting backdrop for the living colour of her thick dark hair with its chestnut highlights which swirled in glorious waves around her shoulders. She couldn’t miss the brief flash of appreciation in his eyes, or the imperceptible change in his manner.

‘It isn’t actually reserved for me,’ he said grudgingly. ‘It’s just that I’ve kind of earmarked it for myself. You must be new here, or you probably would have noticed me using it before?’

The implication being that anyone who knew him wouldn’t dare park in his spot, she thought with amusement. Well, he had picked the wrong person to challenge in her. If the last few years had taught her anything, it was that never again would she allow herself to be intimidated.

‘Yes, I’m new here,’ she agreed politely, pulling open the boot and removing her only suitcase.

He appeared to be waiting for something.

‘Well? Aren’t you going to move it?’ he demanded.

She opened her eyes very wide. ‘Don’t be so absurd! There are dozens of other places you can park in, and anyway—I can’t guarantee that my car will start again. It’s a very old car!’

That was supposed to be a joke, she thought, as she met his unsmiling eyes. She wondered whose bed he’d got out the wrong side of that morning!

He gave her a final glare before turning away, but at least she might as well get some directions out of him.

‘Excuse me,’ she called after him. ‘I’m looking for——’

‘The tall building directly to your left,’ he interrupted rudely.

‘Pardon?’

‘The Nurses’ Home.’ He pointed as he walked away. ‘It’s over there.’

She almost laughed aloud as she locked the door, popping the key into a slim black leather clutchbag. She had long stopped being offended when people mistook her for a nurse, even if they did think that she was an unqualified one! It was a common enough mistake in an institution where seventy-five per cent of the females were indeed nurses. And perhaps it had something to do with her smallness, or the kittenish appeal of her looks, which made it hard for people to believe that she was not a nineteen-year-old nurse, but in fact a qualified doctor of almost twenty-five!

She guessed that he was a doctor, too. He had the same kind of careless arrogance which she had encountered often enough among the male members of the profession. She had been reluctant to disclose that she was a member of the same profession, and see the speculative look change to one of wariness as he acknowledged an equal, rather than a subordinate.

As she watched him disappear into the distance she decided to seek directions from someone else—someone with less of an axe to grind!

She soon found a porter who insisted on carrying her suitcase to the Doctors’ Residence for her.

Inside the building she took the lift to the fifth floor and peered at the numbers on the doors in the dimly lit corridor until she found flat fourteen. She had been told that she would be sharing with another doctor, but there was no sign of life as she let herself in and thankfully dumped her case in the hall.

Her own room was immediately to the left of the front door and marked ‘Dr L. Grey’ and she sighed as she noted that they had spelt her name incorrectly. She pulled the card out, intending to change it later, and took the suitcase into her new abode.

The room was small, but perfectly adequate for her needs with a single bed and locker, a bookcase and a narrow desk with an Anglepoise lamp on it, which she would be using a great deal. She intended to be successful in her chosen profession, and to be successful meant lots of hard work.

She quickly unpacked her clothes, her shoes and toiletries, and lined the few textbooks she possessed neatly in the bookcase. When she had finished and closed the wardrobe door, the room looked scarcely different than it had when she had first set foot inside it. The photo of her Aunt Beatrice in its silver frame added the one personal touch. She had once cared passionately about her surroundings, but no more. Mentally and physically she liked to travel light.

The other occupant of the flat seemed to share few of the same characteristics—the sitting-room was a conglomeration of messy disarray, with bright cushions spilling from the sofa on to the floor, and magazines and newspapers jostling for space on the coffee-table. The kitchen looked as though someone had attempted to start World War III in there—two empty wine glasses and an almost empty bottle of Chianti were lined up on a cluttered draining-board, where a pan lightly covered with hardening strands of spaghetti stood next to a saucepan of congealed bolognese sauce.

The general air of chaos reminded Louisa of Megan, her scatty ex-flatmate—the two girls had shared a flat for several years, and Louisa was going to miss her.

She automatically squirted some washing-up liquid into the bowl, filled it with hot water, and began washing the glasses and plates methodically. Glasses first, cups second, plates and crockery next, then pans. Strange how so many of her peers despised housework, she reflected as she rinsed the suds off one of the glasses and placed it carefully on the draining-board. She wouldn’t go so far as to say that she actually loved washing-up and cleaning, but she found the repetition and the mindlessness of it curiously relaxing. And it was in such contrast to the taxing mental nature of her job.

Not that she would ever have dared admit it to anyone, she thought delightedly as she pulled the plug out and dreamily watched the water begin to drain away. The image of career girl and hausfrau did not exactly marry very well together!

She heard the front door slam and footsteps stop as their owner must have paused to notice the light on in the kitchen. She turned around with a welcoming expression as she heard a sound behind her, the smile quickly changing to a gape of astonishment as she found herself staring at a very tall, newly familiar man. It was the driver of the Porsche!

He stood, hands on his hips, his eyes glancing over to the just washed plates and then back again, his height seeming to fill the small kitchen. She had never felt so unwelcome in her entire life.

‘What the hell are you doing in here?’ he demanded in disbelief, looking at her as though she had broken into the place.

‘You’ve got eyes in your head, haven’t you?’ she snapped back at him. ‘What do you think I’m doing? It’s called washing-up!’

There was something about him which was making all her hackles rise. It wasn’t just his earlier rudeness or the way he was regarding her, although that was irritating enough. It went much deeper than that. It was something about being at such close quarters to a man again—and a man who seemed to exude such a raw masculine sensuality from every pore—which made her want to run away from him. As if his very proximity could do her harm.

‘And anyway——’ she stuck her small chin out belligerently ‘—I’d like to know what you’re doing here, if it comes to that.’

A look of intense irritation flashed across his face. ‘I’ll give you three guesses,’ he said silkily.

That was easy enough.

‘I assume,’ she replied tartly, her words measured, trying hard to keep the bitterness out of them, ‘I assume that you are the boyfriend of the occupant of this flat, a contributor to the messy plates I’ve just cleared away, and that you have your own key to come and go as you please.’ Something which will have to stop now that I’m here, she wanted to add—but didn’t quite have the courage to do so.

They stood facing one another and she noticed for the first time what an unusual colour his eyes were—an extraordinary shade of icy turquoise—the colour of a swimming pool on a sunny day. Film star eyes. Again came the niggling thought that she was sure she knew his face.

His words, too, were measured, sounding like those of someone who was holding on to his temper with extreme difficulty. ‘Then your assumption is incorrect.’ His voice was dangerously soft. ‘I am not the occupant’s “boyfriend”, to use your rather schoolgirlish vernacular—this happens to be my flat. Yes, indeed.’ He had noticed her start. ‘And now that we’ve established that my credentials are perfectly bona fide—I’ll repeat my question and ask again what you’re doing here?’

‘I live here, too. Or rather I did from about one hour ago,’ she replied evenly, her mind racing to try to grasp the situation.

Now it was his turn to look surprised.

‘Don’t be ridiculous! What are you talking about? You’ve obviously been given the wrong keys—you’re a nurse, for goodness’ sake!’

She gave him a superior smile. ‘It seems that I’m not the only one to make assumptions, doesn’t it? I am not a nurse, and I never have been.’