Prince Charming of Harley Street
Auteur·e
Anne Fraser
Lectures
15,2K
Chapitres
12
CHAPTER ONE
ROSE whistled under her breath as she glanced around the reception area in the doctor’s surgery. It was nothing like anything she had seen before. Instead of the usual hard plastic chairs, dog-eared magazines and dusty flower arrangements, there were deep leather armchairs, piles of glossy magazines and elaborate—she would even go as far to say ostentatious—flower arrangements. She sneezed as the pollen from the heavily scented lilies drifted up her nostrils. They were going to have to go. Otherwise she would spend her days behind the burled oak desk that was her station with a streaming nose.
Grabbing a tissue from the heavily disguised box on her table, she blew her nose loudly and pulled the list Mrs Smythe Jones, the receptionist—no, sorry, make that personal assistant—had left for her.
The writing was neat but cramped and Rose had to peer at the closely written words to decipher them.
It was Dr Cavendish’s schedule for the week, and it didn’t look very onerous. Apart from seeing patients three mornings a week, there were two afternoons blocked off for home visits. That was it. Nothing else, unless he had a hospital commitment that wasn’t noted on the schedule. It seemed that Dr Cavendish must be winding down, possibly getting close to retirement. A vision of an elderly man with silver hair, an aristocratic nose and possibly a pince-nez popped into Rose’s head.
Apart from the schedule Mrs Smythe Jones had also helpfully detailed Dr Cavendish’s likes and dislikes. Apparently these included a cup of coffee from the cafetière—not instant—black, no sugar, served in a china cup and saucer which Rose would find in the cupboard above the sink in the kitchen in the back, and a biscuit, plain digestive, in the cupboard to the left of the one holding the cups. Patients were also to be offered tea—loose tea only, served in a teapot—on a tray, bottom-right cupboard, coffee, or bottled water, sparkling or still, from the fridge.
Looking at the schedule, it seemed that the first patient, an L. S. Hilton, wasn’t due to arrive until 9.30. Plenty of time for Rose to have a good look around in advance. The cleaner, who had let Rose in a few minutes earlier, had disappeared, although she could hear the sound of a vacuum cleaner coming from somewhere further back.
There appeared to be two consulting rooms. Each of them bigger than most sitting rooms Rose had ever been in and almost identical to each other. There was the usual examination couch and screen, a sink, a desk and two armchairs, as well as a two-seater sofa in the corner by the window. There were landscapes on the wall, traditional in one of the rooms but modern brightly painted ones in the other, slightly out of sync with the antique furnishings of the room.
Rose stepped across to study the pictures more closely. Whoever had painted them had a sure eye and a love of colour. Like the pictures in the other room, these were also landscapes, but that’s where the similarity stopped. Unlike the sedate country images next door, these were painted in sure, bold brushstrokes and depicted wild, stormy scenes which spoke to Rose of passion and loss. Whoever had picked them for the wall was someone with unconventional taste.
A polite cough behind her made her whirl around. Standing by the door was a man in his late twenties dressed formally in a suit and tie with black shoes polished to within an inch of their lives. He had light brown hair that was worn slightly too long and fell across his forehead. His face was narrow, his nose straight, and startling green eyes were framed by dark brows. But it was his mouth that caught Rose’s attention. It was wide and turned up at the corners as if this was a mouth that was used to laughing.
‘I’m sorry,’ she apologised. ‘You must be here to see the doctor. I didn’t hear you come in.’ For the life of her she couldn’t remember the name of the first patient, only that it reminded her of a famous hotel chain.
‘And you are?’ The words were softly spoken with just the merest hint of bemusement.
‘I’m Rose Taylor, the temporary receptionist.’ She stepped back towards the door but the man stayed where he was, blocking her path.
‘Where’s Tiggy?’ he asked. ‘I mean Mrs Smythe Jones.’
‘Mrs Smythe Jones is on leave. Now, if you wouldn’t mind taking a seat in the waiting room, I’ll just get your notes out.’
‘Take a seat? In the waiting room? My notes.’ The smile widened. ‘I see. I don’t suppose there’s any chance of a cup of coffee while I’m waiting?’
‘Of course,’ Rose replied smoothly. ‘I’ll just pop the kettle on.’
When she came back from the kitchen, carrying a tray and trying not to feel too much like a waitress, he was sitting in her chair, leaning back with his arms behind his neck and his long legs propped on her desk.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ she said as politely as she could manage through gritted teeth. ‘I think we agreed you’d take a seat in the waiting room.’ He was beginning to annoy her. The way he was behaving as if he owned the place. However, on her first day she didn’t want to cause a fuss. She needed this job. It paid well, extremely well paid, in fact, and the hours were flexible enough to give her time to help look after Dad. Perhaps this was the way all Harley Street patients behaved. How was she to know? Nevertheless, it was unacceptably rude of him to put her in this position. What if Dr Cavendish walked in to find she had allowed a patient to take over her desk? She couldn’t imagine him being best pleased.
The man jumped to his feet and took the tray from her hands. ‘Please let me,’ he said, laying the tray down on the desk. He looked at the single cup and saucer and raised an enquiring eyebrow. ‘What about you? Aren’t you joining me?’
Rose forced a polite smile. ‘No, thanks.’ She slid behind her desk before he could reclaim her chair. ‘Now, what did you say your name was?’
‘Jonathan.’ He stretched out a hand. ‘Jonathan Cavendish.’
‘You’re related to Dr Cavendish?’
The smile grew wider. ‘I am Dr Cavendish.’
Rose was aware her mouth had fallen open. She quickly closed it.
‘But you’re young,’ she protested, feeling her cheeks grow warm. What an imbecilic thing to say.
He looked puzzled. ‘Twenty-seven, since you ask. How old are you?’ He leaned towards her and lazy eyes swept over her. ‘No, don’t tell me. Twenty-five?’
‘Twenty-six, actually,’ Rose conceded reluctantly. He was laughing at her, making her flustered. And she didn’t do flustered. ‘My name’s Rose Taylor. The agency sent me over. To fill in until your usual receptionist returns.’
‘Where did you say Mrs Smythe Jones was? I’m sure she didn’t say anything about going on holiday.’
‘I don’t think it was a holiday.’ Didn’t this man know anything about the woman who worked for him? ‘She had an emergency to do with her sister apparently. She called the agency on Friday, to ask for a temp.’
Jonathan frowned. ‘I knew her sister hadn’t been well. I was away this weekend, skiing. Couldn’t get a signal on my phone—you know how it is.’ He pulled his mobile out of his pocket. ‘Still no message. I’ll phone her later, after I’ve seen my patients.’ He snapped the phone shut.
‘Okay, so now we’ve that sorted, let’s move on. Who’s the first patient?’
Rose was still reeling from the discovery that this man was the doctor. Where was the elderly silver-haired man of her imagination? She was rapidly trying to process this new information. But it wasn’t making any kind of sense.
As if he’d read her mind, Jonathan said, ‘There is another Dr Cavendish, my uncle. But he retired last year. I took over the practice from him.’
Still confused, Rose studied the list in front of her. ‘You have three patients this morning.’ Only three! And each of them had been given half-hour slots. Half-hour slots! In the practice where she normally worked, the patients were lucky to get ten minutes with the overworked and harassed medical team. Either Dr Cavendish wasn’t very good and no one wanted to come and see him, or he didn’t like to work too hard. But it was none of her business how he ran his practice. ‘And then you have a couple of home visits this afternoon. That’s all Mrs Smythe Jones has marked down for you, unless there’s another list somewhere?’ Come to think of it, perhaps that was the answer?
She glanced around the desk. No, apart from this ornate leather-bound appointment book there was nothing else with information on it. Her eyes came to rest on the computer. That was it. There must be a computerised patient list. She stopped herself from smacking her head at her stupidity. Of course there would be a full list on the computer! The patients Mrs Smythe Jones had marked down in her neat hand must be additions.
Rose smiled apologetically at Jonathan, who was waiting patiently for a response, and booted up the hard drive. There had to be a password here somewhere.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she apologised as the computer hummed into life. ‘That must be the add-on list. As soon as I can get into the clinic on the computer, I’ll be able to tell you who else is down for your clinic.’
The half-smile was back. ‘You won’t find anything on there. Mrs Smythe Jones doesn’t believe in computers, I’m afraid. She uses it for letters, but that’s it. The list you have in front of you is it.’ He stood and straightened his already immaculately tied tie. ‘Three patients sounds about right.’ He held out his hand for the book. ‘When the first patient arrives, just press this buzzer here.’ He leaned back over the desk and Rose caught the scent of expensive aftershave. He straightened and pointed to a set of oak filing cabinets. ‘Notes are in there. Now, if you’ll excuse me. Vicki, my nurse, should be in shortly—she’ll keep you right.’ Without waiting for a reply, he retreated into the consulting room and closed the door behind him.
The first patient wasn’t due to arrive for another half an hour. The cleaner came in and picked up the tray from the desk.
‘His Lordship in, then? I’m Gladys by the way,’ she said.
It was getting more confusing by the minute. His Lordship? Who the hell was she referring to? Did she mean Jonathan? In which case, it wasn’t a very respectable way to speak about her boss.
Gladys chuckled. ‘You haven’t a clue what I’m talking about, dearie. Do you? His Lordship? Jonathan? The Honourable Jonathan Cavendish?’
Oh, my word. She was working for aristocracy.
Speechless, Rose could only indicate the closed door of the consulting room with a tip of her head.
‘That’s me, then, luvvie,’ Gladys was shrugging into her coat. ‘I’ll get myself away home. Nurse will be in in a minute. I’ll see you tomorrow. Ta-ra.’
Rose sat at the desk, completely stupefied. When a harassed staff member from the agency had rung her late on Friday afternoon, she’d been only too glad to get a job for the next few weeks. She hadn’t stopped to ask about the practice, and even if she had wanted to, the voice on the other end of the line had made it clear she was in a rush.
‘It’s a minimum of four weeks, more likely five. Harley Street. Please say you can do it. They’re new clients and we really want to keep them on our books. It involves the usual medical secretary work, plus manning the reception with possibly a bit of chaperoning thrown in. It’ll be a piece of cake for someone with your experience.’
It had sounded right up Rose’s street. Ever since Dad had had a stroke she’d known she would have to put her job in Edinburgh on hold and go and help her mother. Her parents hadn’t wanted her to come home to London, but to Rose there had been no choice. Happily the practice she worked for as a practice nurse had been sympathetic and agreed to give her five weeks’ leave, more if she needed it. The next few weeks would give her time to assess the situation at home and decide whether she should return to London permanently.
Harley Street was a couple of tube journeys away from her parents’ house and meant an hour’s commute at either end of the day, but it was a job and Rose had snatched the opportunity with both hands. Now she was wondering if she’d done the right thing. Then again, she hadn’t much choice. There weren’t that many temping jobs and she needed the money. Whatever reservations she might have about her new boss, the job was perfect.
She sighed and helped herself to another chocolate in the bowl on the desk. She let the rich flavours roll around her mouth. Delicious.
The door opened and an older woman with neatly coiffed hair and a small dog tucked under her arm swept into the room. Rose glanced at her sheet. Could this be L. S. Hilton?
‘Such a naughty boy,’ Mrs Hilton clucked. ‘Snapping at that poor man’s ankles. If you do that again, Mummy will get really angry with you.’ Before Rose could react, she thrust the dog into Rose’s arms. He was wearing a little coat that covered his legs and a scarlet ribbon in the hair on his head. ‘Could you find him some chocolates? He always gets grumpy when his blood sugar gets low.’ Then she peered at Rose over her spectacles. ‘Oh, I don’t think we’ve met, dear. Where is Tiggy?’ She glanced around the room as if she might find her hiding somewhere.
‘She’s had to go away for a bit,’ Rose said. The dog looked up at her with a distinctly unimpressed air. Rose was worried that he’d take a snap at her and she looked him firmly in the eye. She was used to dogs. Her parents had always had one when she had been growing up. You had to show them who was boss straight away. The dog whimpered and relaxed in her arms. She looked over to the desk for the chocolates. Her cheeks burned as she realised that she’d scoffed the lot. She should have known better than to leave the bowl in a place where her fingers could wander of their own accord. To her huge relief, Mrs Hilton didn’t seem to notice the now empty bowl.
‘Mr Chips likes you,’ Mrs Hilton said approvingly. ‘He doesn’t usually take to strangers. And certainly not when he’s grumpy.’
‘If you could just take a seat, Mrs Hilton, I’ll let the doctor know you’re here. Then I’ll see what I can find for Mr Chips. Can I get you something? A cup of tea, coffee?’
Mrs Hilton sat down on one of the chairs and picked up a magazine. ‘No, thank you. Too much caffeine isn’t good for my arthritis and…’ she eyed Rose severely ‘…don’t you know it’s terribly bad for the skin? Like chocolates.’ Her eyes flickered to the empty bowl and Rose felt her cheeks grow warmer. ‘Although it seems you have good skin. Good girl. Most girls don’t think about their skin until they reach my age and by then it’s far too late to do anything about it. At least—’ her eyes twinkled ‘—without the expertise of a good surgeon.’
Rose couldn’t work out whether she was annoyed or flattered by Mrs Hilton’s personal comments. But the gleam in older woman’s eye made her go with the latter. She meant no harm.
Rose buzzed through to Jonathan to let him know Mrs Hilton had arrived.
‘It’s Lady Hilton,’ he corrected mildly. ‘I’ll come out.’
The door opened almost before Rose had time to replace the handset. Jonathan paused in the door way and his mouth twitched as he noticed Rose trying to juggle Mr Chips with one arm while she searched for Mrs Hilton’s notes with the other.
‘Sophia,’ he said, striding towards the older woman. ‘How lovely to see you.’
Lady Hilton raised her face to his and Jonathan kissed her on both cheeks.
‘You know I would have come to the house to see you? It would have saved you a journey into town,’ he said.
‘I had to come in anyway. I needed to do some shopping. And I wanted to talk to you about Giles—away from the house. He doesn’t know I’ve been feeling poorly. And…’ she looked at Jonathan sternly ‘…he’s not to know.’
‘Sophia, everything that you tell me is always in complete confidence,’ Jonathan said firmly. He placed an arm under her elbow and without appearing to add any pressure, eased her to her feet. Despite the look of resolve on the older woman’s face, Rose could tell the movement caused her some discomfort. Probably arthritis. Or something like it.
‘Do you mind awfully keeping Mr Chips while I’m in with the doctor? He gets so restless if I don’t pay him my full attention,’ Lady Hilton asked Rose.
It wasn’t really a question. Dog-sitting hadn’t been in the job description. But, hey, it wasn’t as if she was overrun with work, and he seemed to have gone to sleep in her arms.
Rose smiled. ‘Don’t worry. He’ll be fine with me. If he wakes up and starts looking for you, I’ll bring him in.’
While Rose waited for the next patient to arrive, she looked around for something to do. She liked to keep busy. Not that she could do much with a dog asleep in her arms. Spotting her discarded cardigan hanging on the back of the chair, she used one hand to form it into a little bed on the floor under her desk. She placed the sleeping dog on top. He looked at her with one eye, then gave a contented sigh and settled back down to sleep. Okay, what next? Perhaps she should ask Jonathan whether he would mind if she brought in some textbooks and did some revision in between patients? She couldn’t see why he’d object. Unless she had more to occupy her, she’d go mad with boredom.
Her glance fell on the pile of magazines Lady Hilton had picked up in the short time she’d been in the waiting room. They were a mix of high-fashion glossies and society-gossip magazines, the type Rose never ever looked through—or at least never bought. She had to admit taking a sneaky look once or twice when she was at the hairdressers, but that wasn’t the same as buying them. Other people’s lives didn’t really interest her, not unless they were doing something remarkable, like climbing Everest or walking unaccompanied to the South Pole. Now, those were people with intriguing lives, not folk who were famous, well, because they were married to a footballer or had a rich father.
Casually she flicked through the first magazine she picked up, curious despite herself. She came to a few pages near the middle, which had photographs of celebrities out on the town. Suddenly she stopped. Staring out at her, his arm around the waist of a woman with long wavy red hair, a figure to die for and a dress that would have cost Rose a year’s salary, was Jonathan. He was dressed in a dinner jacket and a white shirt and appeared relaxed and at ease. Rose peered closer. Although he was smiling, there was something in his eyes that suggested he wasn’t best pleased to be photographed. The caption underneath read ‘The Honourable Jonathan Cavendish and his girlfriend, actress Jessamine Goldsmith, at the premiere of her film One Night In Heaven.’
Rose was having a hard time getting her head around it. He was an honourable, the son of a lord, his girlfriend was a movie star. And he was her boss. A GP. She felt her lips curl in disapproval. That wasn’t the kind of doctor she approved of. People should go into medicine to help others, not to finance some gad-about lifestyle. However, it was nothing to do with her. She was here to do a job and as long as her new boss didn’t actually go around killing his patients with his incompetence, who was she to judge?
The door swished open and she dropped the magazine as if it were a hot potato.
A woman with short curly hair and a look of panic rushed into the room. She ran past Rose without saying anything, heading straight for the staff bathroom. Once again, Rose was bemused. It was beginning to feel as if she had walked in to a madhouse. Who on earth was that? She hadn’t rung the doorbell so she must have a key. And she knew exactly where the staff bathroom was. Could this be the missing Nurse Vicki?
A few minutes later, the woman reappeared. Although she still looked pale, some colour had returned to her cheeks.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said collapsing into a chair. ‘You must be the temp covering for Tiggy. She phoned me on Saturday to let me know she was going to be away and there would be a temp filling in.’ She took a shuddering breath. ‘You must think me incredibly rude, rushing in like that without so much as a good morning.’
Rose crossed to the woman’s side. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Not really.’ She grimaced before holding out a hand to Rose. ‘I’m Victoria, my friends call me Vicki. I’ve just been terribly sick. Thank God I made it here in time. It would have been too embarrassing throwing up in public.’
‘Should you be at work?’ Rose said. ‘Couldn’t you have taken the day off?’
‘I would have. If I hadn’t known Tiggy was off. Or if I’d known I was going to feel this bad. I felt okay until I got off the tube, then I just started to feel worse and worse.’
‘Dr Cavendish is in with a patient. Should I call him?’ Vicki did look awful. There was no way she should stay at work. Rose watched in alarm as the colour drained from the nurse’s cheeks again.
‘Oh, no, sorry.’ Vicki clamped a hand across her mouth and bolted for the bathroom.
While she waited for Vicki to re-emerge, Rose switched the kettle on again and finding some peppermint tea set about making a pot. She hoped the drink would help settle Vicki’s stomach. There was no way she could be allowed to return home until she stopped feeling ill.
‘You must wonder what kind of place you’ve walked into.’ Vicki’s voice came from behind her. ‘The nurse more ill than the patients. And I see Lady Hilton has brought Mr Chips in again. I do hope he won’t relieve himself in the plant pot again. Oh, is that tea? Could I have some?’
‘I think you should try a couple of sips. Why don’t you sit down? You look as if you could collapse at any minute.’
Vicki sat on one of the chairs at the kitchen table. ‘Jonathan is not going to be happy about this,’ she confided. ‘The last time I was off the full eight months. He had to find someone to replace me, and she didn’t turn out to be great.’
Realisation was beginning to dawn on Rose.
‘You’re pregnant?’
Vicki nodded. ‘Oh, I’d better not do that again,’ she moaned. ‘Any movement just makes it worse.’
‘And you had hyperemesis with the last pregnancy.’
‘Hey, you’re pretty switched on. Have you had it? Is that how you know?’ She was too polite to say so, but Rose guessed she was wondering how a medical secretary would know about the condition an unfortunate few women suffered in pregnancy.
‘I’m a trained nurse. Poor you. How badly did you have it last time?’
‘Bad enough to put me in hospital, I’m afraid. And to keep me off work for most of my pregnancy.’ She took a tentative sip of her tea. ‘I’m dreading having to tell Jonathan.’
‘He doesn’t know you’re pregnant?’
‘I wasn’t going to tell him just yet. I’m only eight weeks. And I hoped that I would be better this time around.’
‘I’m sure he’ll understand.’
‘He’s a real softy. Of course he’ll understand. I just hate letting him down. The patients like to see me. They’re used to me. Most of the older ones hate change. My obstetrician tells me it might get better by around twelve weeks, but I’m not holding my breath.’
The sound of a door opening alerted Rose to the fact that Jonathan’s consultation with Lady Hilton had ended.
‘I’ll be back in a moment,’ she reassured Vicki. ‘Just you stay there until I get back.’
She scooped up Mr Chips from his nest in her cardigan and carried him over to Lady Hilton. The movement roused the dog from his nap and he reached up, attempting to lick Rose’s face. She just managed to avert the doggy kiss by passing Mr Chips over to his owner.
‘Has my baby been a good boy, then?’ Lady Hilton cuddled her dog as if it had been days rather than minutes since they’d been together. But as she buried her face in her pet’s fur, Rose noticed tears in the corner of her eyes.
‘I’ll come to the house to see you and Giles later this week,’ Jonathan said. ‘In the meantime, we’ll try this new prescription. See if that makes a difference.’ He patted her arm. ‘The next few weeks are going to be rough,’ he said. ‘Call me any time. I mean it.’
He looked around. ‘Rose, have you seen Vicki? She’s usually in by now.’
‘In the kitchen, having a cup of tea. I’m afraid she’s not feeling very well.’
A look of concern swept across Jonathan’s face. ‘I’ll go and check up on her. I’ll see you soon, Sophia. Take care.’ He kissed the woman on the cheek again and Rose showed her out.
Rose retreated behind her desk, giving Vicki the chance to tell Jonathan her news. She ran through the condition in her mind. Although hyperemesis was hugely debilitating, it was rarely life threatening. However, being constantly sick would prevent Vicki from working and might well require another stay in hospital.
Jonathan appeared with his arm around Vicki’s shoulder. ‘I’m going to take Vicki home,’ he said. ‘Do you think you could hold the fort until I come back? I’ll be about an hour.’
‘Your next patient is due in about ten minutes,’ Rose reminded him. ‘Lord Bletchley?’
‘I can manage, Jonathan,’ Vicki said weakly. ‘I’ll take a taxi. You stay and see your patient. You know what Lord Wretchley—I mean, Lord Bletchley’s like. He’ll go through the roof if he’s kept waiting.’
‘He’ll just have to,’ Jonathan replied, looking determined. ‘I don’t want you to go in a taxi. Not when you might throw up again. You know what some of these drivers are like. They might well kick you out.’
‘Couldn’t I take your car and drive Vicki home?’ Rose offered. ‘My insurance allows me to drive any car. That way you could see Lord Bletchley on time. It does mean there wouldn’t be anyone to cover reception, but seeing as it’s only the one patient we’re expecting, that shouldn’t be too much of a problem. You can man the desk, whereas I’m not too sure he’d like to be seen by me.’
Jonathan smiled and Rose’s heart gave a little blip. No man should have a smile like that, she thought. It just wasn’t fair on women.
‘Despite what anyone may have told you, I’m perfectly capable of answering the door.’ He dug in his pocket. ‘If you’re sure you don’t mind? My car’s parked outside. Vicki knows which one it is.’ He tossed a set of keys to Rose. ‘It has satellite navigation so you should be able to find your way to Vicki’s house and back okay.’
Ignoring Vicki’s protests that really she could manage by herself, Rose retrieved a sick bowl from the treatment room and ushered her out the door.
‘Okay, which one is his?’
Vicki pointed at a low-slung sports car. Rose felt the colour drain from her face. Although she knew relatively little about cars, she knew enough to know that the car must have cost at least as much as her parents’ house. For a second, she was tempted to go back inside and tell Jonathan she had changed her mind. But one look at Vicki told her that she needed to be at home and in bed as soon as possible. If she put a scratch on the car, Little Lord Fauntleroy would just have to live with it.
Thankfully, Vicki knew how to work the sat nav and soon Rose was threading her way through the London traffic.
‘You don’t have to hold the steering-wheel as if it’s a wild animal about to attack you,’ Vicki said with a smile.
She was right. A child on a three-wheeler would move faster. Rose forced herself to relax her grip. Now if only she could unclench her teeth, perhaps she could talk as well as drive.
But it seemed as if Vicki was no more capable of chatting than she was. The nurse leaned back against her seat and closed her eyes. Rose followed the instructions of the disembodied voice from the computer and by some miracle managed to find her way to Vicki’s house without any disasters. Now all she had to do was make it back in one piece.
‘Is there anyone at home to look after you?’ she asked Vicki as they drew up in front of a small Victorian terrace.
‘My husband,’ Vicki replied. ‘He’s a police officer. He’s on night duty so he’ll be sleeping like the dead, but I’m sure he won’t mind me waking him if I need anything. Our daughter is in nursery school.’
‘I’ll just see you safely in,’ Rose said, and before Vicki could protest, she was out of the car and around the other side, helping her out.
Vicki smiled at her. ‘Are you always this capable?’ she said.
Rose smiled back. ‘I can’t help it. I was always the Guide who finished her badges long before anyone else did. The one who got the campfire going even when it was raining. It’s social occasions that get to me. Doing is better than talking, if you know what I mean? Although I’m getting better at that. Needs must. In my other life I’m a nurse.’
Vicki frowned. ‘Why are you covering for Tiggy as the receptionist? Oops, I mean personal assistant. That’s how Tiggy prefers to be referred to. She’s a sweetheart, but she thinks it’s important everyone knows their place. Titles are important to her. And not just work ones either.’
‘The job I was offered was as receptionist. I used to work as a medical secretary before I did my nurse training. I was happy to do either since I just wanted something short term.’
Vicki pulled a bunch of keys from her bag and opened her front door. ‘I can manage from here,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry that you’ve had all this dumped on you on your first day. I hope we haven’t scared you off. Johnny will need help. Would you be a sweetheart and phone the nursing agency and find out about a replacement for me?’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll sort it out. You get to bed and I’ll see you whenever you come back to work.’
Vicki grimaced. ‘God knows when that’ll be. Jonathan made me promise not to come back until I’ve stopped being sick. If it follows the same pattern as last time, it could be months.’
‘I’ll speak to him about finding someone to cover for you as soon as I get back to the office.’ Rose made her voice stern. ‘Now, inside and off you go to bed.’
By the time Rose, with an enormous sigh of relief, returned to the surgery, it seemed as if Lord Bletchley had been and gone. Jonathan was back at her desk with his feet up, flicking through the magazine Rose had skimmed through earlier. He was scowling.
‘Bloody paparazzi,’ he muttered. ‘Can never get their facts right.’ He flung the magazine aside and got to his feet. ‘How is Vicki?’
‘She was going to go straight to bed. Her husband’s on night duty, so he’ll keep an eye on her.’
Jonathan pulled his hand through his thick dark hair. ‘I can’t see her being back for at least a month. If then. Would you mind getting onto the nursing agencies? You’ll find the number of the one we use regularly in the diary. Ask if there’s anyone who could cover on a day-to-day basis for the next four weeks at a minimum.’
An idea was beginning to form in Rose’s head, but she liked to think things through before she spoke. Jonathan looked at his watch. ‘I’ll be in my room if you need me. I’ve a couple of phone calls to make.’
Could she? Should she? Rose rolled the idea around in her head. It would be the perfect solution. She was a trained nurse and there really wasn’t that much to keep her busy at the desk. Mrs Smythe Jones had told her that she hoped to be back in a week or two. Rose could combine both roles for a short time. She’d much prefer to be kept busy. And if they needed someone to man the desk while she was in with a patient, she thought she had a solution to that too.
The ringing of the door interrupted her musings. She pressed the door release and watched bemused as a teenage boy with a resentful expression was almost dragged inside by an irate-looking woman.
‘Come on, Richard,’ the woman was saying. ‘We might as well see the doctor now we’re here.’
The boy looked at Rose through long hair that almost covered his face and Rose bit down the stab of sympathy that swept over her. He had the worst case of acne she had seen outside a textbook. His face was covered with angry raised bumps and he looked utterly miserable. Underneath the bad skin, Rose could see that he could be a good-looking boy, if it weren’t for the surly expression and terrible acne. It brought back memories of her own teenage years, when she had felt as self-conscious with her height as this boy clearly did with his skin.
She smiled at the boy, knowing how embarrassed he would be feeling.
‘You must be Richard Pearson,’ she said. ‘If you want to take a seat with your mother, I’ll let the doctor know you’re here.’
All Rose got in reply was a grunt. Nevertheless he sat down, dipping his head so his hair covered his face.
His mother looked at him with a mixture of frustration and love. ‘I apologise for my son’s rudeness,’ she said. ‘He didn’t want to come.’ She turned her back to her son, leaned across the desk and continued, her voice lowered to a whisper, ‘I’m at my wits’ end. He’s refusing to go to school now. He just sits in his room, playing on his computer. I’ve tried other doctors. Dr Cavendish is my last hope. I heard from a friend that he helped her daughter.’ She glanced behind her again. Richard was engrossed with his mobile; either playing a game or texting.
‘I’m sure Dr Cavendish will do everything he can. I’ll just let him know you’re here.’ Rose certainly hoped he could help. Nothing so far had given her any confidence in his medical ability. Oh, he was certainly charming. The way he had been with Lady Hilton had made that evident, but no amount of charm was going to help this poor unhappy boy. At the very least surely he would refer him to a dermatologist?
She buzzed through. ‘I have Richard Pearson to see you,’ she said.
‘I’ll be right out.’ He really did have a lovely voice. Deep with just a hint of a Scottish accent.
As before, he was out of his room almost before she had a chance to put the phone down. He went over to the boy and held out his hand. ‘I’m Dr Cavendish. But you can call me Jonathan, if you like. Why don’t you come into my room and we can have a chat?’
Richard reluctantly got to his feet, and scowled at his mother.
Something in his expression must have caught Jonathan’s attention. ‘Why don’t you stay here, Mrs Pearson?’ he said, his voice as smooth as silk. ‘And have a cup of tea while I talk to your son on his own for a bit. Then if you have any questions, I’ll be happy to answer them.’
‘I’d like to come in with my son,’ Mrs Pearson said stubbornly.
Richard looked at his feet and shuffled them uncomfortably.
‘Richard? What would you like? I see from your notes that you’re seventeen so I’m happy to see you on your own. However, if you’d prefer your mother to come in with you, that’s perfectly all right too.’
‘On my own,’ Richard mumbled with an apologetic look at his mother. ‘I’ll be okay, Mum. As the doctor says, I’m almost eighteen.’
Mrs Pearson seemed unconvinced. Rose touched her gently on the elbow.
‘Why don’t I get us both a cup of tea?’
Mrs Pearson watched Jonathan lead her son away, but then let Rose guide her over to one of the armchairs and sit her down.
‘I don’t really want any tea,’ she said. ‘I just want to get my son helped. This time last year he was popular and outgoing, and he seemed so happy. But ever since the problem with his skin, he’s become so withdrawn and miserable. I keep telling him that it’ll get better in time, but he says he doesn’t care. It’s now that matters.’ She drew a shaky breath. ‘I’m so scared he’ll do something silly.’
Rose sat down next to the distraught mother. ‘There are medicines that can help. It’s often just a case of finding the right one. As soon as he knows we can improve his skin, he’ll be happier. It’s too cruel that he’s been hit with this just at a time when his hormones are already all over the place.’
‘I hope you’re right.’ The woman sniffed and then looked at Rose, puzzled. ‘I guess you pick up all sorts of information working in a doctor’s practice.’
‘I guess you do.’ Rose smiled. There was no point in telling her that she had spent the last four years studying nursing, and dermatology had been one of the last modules before she’d qualified. And as for understanding teenage angst, it hadn’t been that long since she’d been through it herself. She remembered only too well how awful it felt to be the odd one out. Somehow at that age you could never accept that others had the same feelings of inadequacy and that they were just better at hiding it. Not that she could imagine Dr Jonathan Cavendish going through anything like it. She doubted that he’d had a moment’s uncertainty about his looks in his life.
She chatted with Richard’s mother until almost half an hour had passed. Eventually, Richard emerged with Jonathan. To her relief the teenager seemed much happier. He almost managed a smile for his mother.
‘So take the tablets for a week and come back and see me. If things haven’t improved substantially, we’ll think of what to do next. One way or another, we’ll get on top of this.’
Richard’s mother looked uncomfortable for a moment. Rose guessed instantly that she might be worrying about the cost of the consultation and medication.
‘Oh, and by the way, the follow-up consultations are included in the price of this appointment. I’ve also given Richard a letter to take to his GP, who’ll be happy to give him the prescription on the NHS. I hope that’s okay.’
There was no disguising Mrs Pearson’s relief. Rose warmed to Jonathan. He had done that so gracefully she doubted Mrs Pearson or her son suspected for a moment that he was lying about the cost of the consultations. It was all there in the brochure she had read that morning. Thankfully, Mrs Smythe Jones had said on her detailed list that she’d catch up with the billing on her return. So many of their patients had different arrangements for payment that it would be far too complicated for a temp to work out who was to be billed what and when.
As soon as mother and son had left, Rose turned to Jonathan.
‘What did you prescribe?’
He looked at her baffled. ‘Amoxicillin. Why do you want to know?’
Rose felt her cheeks grow warm. She hadn’t decided whether to tell him she was a nurse, but now it seemed as if she had no choice.
‘I’m a trained nurse,’ she admitted finally. ‘A practice nurse, and I not too long ago completed a course on dermatology, so I kind of wondered what you thought you could do for him. I know topical retinoids can help when antibiotics don’t.’
His frown deepened. ‘A nurse? Why are you working as a…?’ He stopped in mid-sentence.
Rose had to smile at his obvious discomfort. ‘I’m on leave from my job for a few weeks for personal reasons. I was a medical secretary until five years ago, so I’m also qualified to do this job. When I was working as a medical secretary, I realised as I typed up the notes for the doctors that what I was reading really fascinated me and I wanted to know more.’
Oops. What was she doing? There was something in the way he was looking at her with those steady curious green eyes that was making her babble. And she was usually so reticent when it came to talking about herself.
He did look genuinely interested, although Rose had the strong suspicion that was just part of his practised charm. In which case, why on earth was she telling him? But she could hardly stop now. ‘Anyway, my boss encouraged me to study for my A levels in my spare time and then apply to university, and they accepted me.’ Try as she would, she couldn’t quite prevent the note of pride creeping into her voice. She was the first person in her family who had gone to university and her parents had almost burst with pride.
‘So why are you here?’ He sounded puzzled. ‘Why didn’t you take a nursing job? God knows, this city is desperate for trained nurses.’ His eyes were casually moving up and down her body, as if he were a cat and she the cream. She should have been annoyed, but she knew it couldn’t be because he found her attractive. Not this man. Suddenly she regretted wearing her old interview suit and primly buttoned-up blouse. Nevertheless, there was something deliciously unexpected about the way it made her feel. For a second she almost forgot the question.
‘Rose?’ he prompted.
Now see what she had started. This was where she should tell him about her home situation and despite his interested gaze she wasn’t sure he would really want to know.
‘Go on,’ he encouraged. ‘I’d really like to know,’ he said as if reading her mind. He leaned against the filing cabinets and folded his arms, his eyes never straying from her face.
‘Let’s just say family circumstances and leave it at that?’ She kept her voice light, but returned his stare directly. It really was none of his business. He was her boss but that didn’t give him the right to give her the third degree. Okay, so it wasn’t exactly the third degree, but it was more than she wanted to tell him.
He was still studying her intently and she could see the same thought processes going through his head as had gone through hers earlier. She was a nurse. He needed a nurse, and quickly.
‘Did you have any luck with the agency? About a replacement for Vicki?’ he asked.
‘I haven’t called yet,’ she admitted. ‘I was thinking…’ She took a deep breath. What if he hated her suggestion? For all she knew, practices like this wanted their nurses to have the right kind of accent. The right kind of image. Although there was nothing wrong with the way she spoke, her voice didn’t have the plummy ring to it that Vicki’s voice did.
‘That since you’re a nurse, you could fill in for her? Exactly what I was thinking. But what about the office? I’m not sure you could do both jobs.’
Rose hid a smile. She could easily manage both jobs if it were a simple case of workload, but he was right. There did need to be someone at the desk if she was in with a patient.
‘I know just the person for the office,’ she said. ‘She’s young, but keen. She’s at a bit of a loose end while she’s looking for a permanent job. I know she’ll be glad to work any hours needed, but she also won’t mind if you need to let her go at any time.’
‘Cool. Can I leave you to sort it out? Tiggy always manages that side of things. I’m afraid I’m useless at anything except the medical side.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Lunchtime! Where do you fancy eating?’
Rose gaped at him. There was no way she wanted to go to lunch with him. Not today, possibly never. She was having way too odd a reaction to him, and she wanted some time to examine what was happening. It had always worked in the past. Thinking about something logically made it easier to deal with. Besides, she had brought her own snack. She really couldn’t afford to eat out.
‘I brought a packed lunch,’ she said primly. ‘I’m quite happy to have it at my desk.’
His lips twitched, but he didn’t try to persuade her. He was probably relieved she had said no. No doubt it was his impeccable manners that had prompted his offer in the first place and no doubt he would have been mortified had she said yes. Somehow she guessed that the hired help going out with the boss wasn’t the way things were done in this part of London.
Jonathan ran down the stairs of his London consulting rooms and into the frosty spring air. He couldn’t help smiling when he thought of the temp. She was a lot better looking than Mrs Smythe Jones, that was for sure. Although he had a soft spot for the elderly receptionist, who had been there since he’d been in short trousers, he was looking forward to the next few weeks. Rose Taylor intrigued him. The baggy cardigan she was wearing couldn’t quite disguise a figure that would make most of his female acquaintances weep into their champagne. Luckily he was a connoisseur of women though; anyone else would have failed to see that she was a stunner under that shapeless cardigan and old-fashioned glasses. And he’d liked the way she had dealt with his patients. Solicitous but not overbearing. He couldn’t help but notice the way they responded to her. Even Lady Hilton, who usually was as narky as the dog she insisted carrying everywhere, had been like putty in her hands. She was the most intriguing woman he had met since—well, for a long time. The unusual mix of prickly personality, which reminded him of a teacher he’d had at school, and hidden sex appeal. How could a woman be sexy and sexless at the same time? He whistled as he made his way to the restaurant. It was going to be interesting having Rose Taylor around.
