Buch lesen: «Visiting Consultant»
“I came to take you home.”
She stood still, looking at him with her beautiful eyes. “How kind,” she said. “But you needn’t have bothered. I was going back on my broomstick.”
He laughed at that and caught her arm and hurried out to where the Bentley was waiting. It was cold and damp. Sophy shivered.
“Hungry?” he asked.
Sophy realized that she was—very. “Famished,” she replied, and started making futile attempts to tidy her regrettable hair.
Max took a comb from a pocket and said, “Here, let me.”
She sat quietly while he tucked and pinned the ends away under her cap. When he had finished, he put a finger under her chin and looked at her, his head on one side. Sophy looked back at Max shyly, hearing her heartbeats pounding in her ears, and making an effort to take regular breaths. The effort wasn’t very successful, and when he bent his head and kissed her gently on the mouth, she stopped breathing altogether, savoring bliss, but only for a moment.
About the Author
Romance readers around the world were sad to note the passing of BETTY NEELS in June 2001. Her career spanned thirty years, and she continued to write into her ninetieth year. To her millions of fans, Betty epitomized the romance writer, and yet she began writing almost by accident. She had retired from nursing, but her inquiring mind still sought stimulation. Her new career was born when she heard a lady in her local library bemoaning the lack of good romance novels. Betty’s first book, Sister Peters in Amsterdam, was published in 1969, and she eventually completed 134 books. Her novels offer a reassuring warmth that was very much a part of her own personality. She was a wonderful writer, and she will be greatly missed. Her spirit and genuine talent will live on in all her stories.
Visiting Consultant
Betty Neels
MILLS & BOON
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CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER ONE
SISTER SOPHIA Greenslade wrinkled her straight little nose under her muslin mask and thought longingly of her tea. The theatre list should have been finished an hour ago, but an emergency splenectomy had had to be fitted in during the afternoon. Now the last case, a simple appendicectomy, was on the table. The RSO, Tom Carruthers, put out a gloved hand to take the purse string she had ready. She fitted a curved, threaded needle into its holder, and glanced at the clock. Five minutes, she calculated, and she’d be free. Staff had been back on duty for more than half an hour; she could hand over to her. She passed the stitch scissors at exactly the right moment; nodded to the junior nurse to check swabs, and started to put the soiled instruments into the bowl of saline nearby, pausing only to put a threaded skin needle into the mute demanding hand of the RSO. Raising a pair of nicely-shaped eyebrows at a watching nurse, who had been long enough in theatre to know what the gesture signified—to whisk the bowl away—Sister Greenslade got down from the small square stool behind her white-draped trolleys and stationed herself by the houseman opposite Tom Carruthers, ready to clap on the small piece of strapping over the neatly stitched wound. This done to her satisfaction, she said ‘Porters, please’ in her nice, unhurried voice, and followed the RSO over to the sink, stooping to pick up his gown and cap which he had shed as he went. Inured to the ways of surgeons, she said nothing, but put them wordlessly into the bin and stood quietly while a nurse untied the tapes of her own gown, then took off her theatre cap and mask, revealing a pleasant face, redeemed from plainness by a pair of magnificent eyes with very dark lashes. Her nose was nondescript, and her mouth too large; her complexion was good, and her hair, drawn severely back into a coil on top of her head, was a delicate shade of mouse. She was barely middle height, but her figure, which was charming, more than compensated for her lack of inches.
She joined the two men at the sinks in the scrubbing room, and they stood in a row, relaxed and friendly, all of them anxious to be gone.
‘What’s the time?’ asked Tom.
Sophia went on scrubbing. ‘Almost six,’ she said. ‘If you hurry and your wife’s waiting and ready, you’ll just about get there as the curtain goes up.’
She smiled up at him, and he thought for the hundredth time that her smile transformed her whole face. He was a happily married man himself, he couldn’t understand why Sister Greenslade hadn’t been snapped up before now. He started to dry his hands.
‘What about you? Got a date tonight?’
She turned off the taps and said with a twinkle, ‘They’re falling over themselves to get at me—it’s my fatal beauty.’ She chuckled at her own remark, and went away to hand over.
Ten minutes later, she was on her way home. The early October evening was already chilly, but after the warmth of the theatre she welcomed its freshness. The hospital was in a pleasant part of London; the houses around it were for the most part elderly and terraced and well cared-for. There were lighted windows in most of them as she hurried towards her own home. She had been a very small girl when her father, a consultant at the hospital, had bought it. When he and her mother had been killed in a road accident, she had been just twenty-one, newly registered, and staffing in theatre. Her parents’ death had been a sorrow she had been forced to bury deep under the responsibilities she had shouldered. The three younger children had still been at school then, and somehow she had been able to keep the home together, dividing her busy life between the exacting roles of mother, housekeeper and nurse with a success which had been earned at the expense of a much curtailed social life. In this she had been greatly helped by Grandmother Greenslade, who lived with them, and Sinclair, who had been her father’s batman in the army during the war, and had somehow attached himself to his household when they had been demobbed. Indeed, he was the staunch friend of the whole family, and stood high in their affections.
She turned the last corner into the street where she lived. The house was half way down; she could see it quite clearly, even in the dusk. She could also see a small boy standing on the pavement—her younger brother, Benjamin. She frowned, and walked faster. Ben had a habit of getting into scrapes, which was probably why the tall gentleman with him was holding him so firmly by one shoulder. As she reached them, her mouth was open to utter some soothing phrase. She was forestalled, however.
‘Ah, Sister Sophy, I fancy.’ The voice sounded impatient and faintly mocking. She took a look at the speaker; he was not only tall, but big, with an air of self-confidence, almost arrogance, which made his good-looking face seem older than it probably was. He returned her look with the coldest blue eyes she had seen for a very long time.
Sophy listened to the sudden thump of her heart. She was, she told herself, very angry.
‘Yes, my name is Sophy,’ she said coolly. ‘Though I can’t imagine why you should be so ill-mannered and—and familiar.’
He put his handsome head a little on one side—the street lamp’s thin light turned his grey hair to silver—and said silkily, to madden her,
‘My dear good madam, why should I wish to be familiar with you? I used your name merely as a means of identification.’
Sophy choked, drew a long calming breath, and turned to her brother.
‘What have you done, Ben?’ she asked resignedly. Then, as she saw his white face, ‘Are you hurt? What happened?’
Ben looked at her with relief mingled with a twelve-year-old boy’s revulsion of making a scene.
‘I bumped into this gentleman’s car…’
The gentleman interrupted crisply,
‘You should teach your brother that it’s unwise to run across a street before looking to see if it’s empty.’
It was at this moment that Sophy became aware of the gleaming Bentley drawn up at the kerb. She thought it unlikely that it had been damaged, it appeared to be perfection itself.
‘I expect you were driving too fast,’ she said outrageously.
He laughed with real amusement.
‘I think not,’ he said, the laugh echoing in his voice. ‘I’m not in the habit of driving recklessly; and may I remind you that it’s I who have the right to be annoyed, not you? I dislike being forced to avoid small boys and large dogs—’
Sophy stared at him, and repeated ‘Large dogs?’ in a rather thin voice, and then—’ The Blot!’ in a tone of consternation. She whipped off a glove, put two fingers into her mouth and whistled piercingly, causing her two companions to wince, then turned to her brother.
‘Ben, I told you not to let the Blot cross the road without his lead!’
‘I didn’t, truly, Sophy. But Titus went with us and sat down in the park and wouldn’t come back; so of course the moment I took the Blot’s lead off, he went back for him.’ He paused. ‘I had to go after him, didn’t I?’
Sophy considered the point gravely, her eyes on the stranger’s well-cut tweed jacket. ‘Yes,’ she conceded, ‘I suppose you did.’
She stopped talking to watch a large black dog, who from his appearance had been richly endowed by a large variety of unknown ancestors. The dog crossed the road with all the care of a child who has recently learned his kerb drill; his liquid black eye fixed on the man, as if to challenge him to think otherwise. The dog was closely followed by a nondescript cat, whose obvious low breeding was offset by a tremendous dignity.
Sophy heaved a sigh of relief. ‘There they are,’ she cried unnecessarily. ‘They’re devoted to each other,’ she added, as an afterthought and in a tone of finality, as though that fact could explain away the whole episode. She heaved a sigh of relief which turned to a gasp. ‘They didn’t damage your car, did they?’
She looked up at the silent man beside her, and tried not to see how very handsome he was. The Blot had reared himself on to his hind legs, intent on making friends. The man patted him absent-mindedly, and looked down with resignation at Titus, who had wreathed himself around one elegant trousered leg. He shifted his gaze to Sophy, and said, ‘Bentleys don’t—er—dent very easily.’
‘I say, is she really yours, sir?’ Ben’s enthusiasm had overcome his fright.
The black eyebrows rose. ‘Most certainly.’
The boy looked at the graceful sweep of the car’s bonnet.
‘Well, I’d rather be run down by a Bentley than anything else,’ he stated. ‘Excepting a Rolls-Royce, of course.’
‘If I only I’d known,’ murmured the tall man, ‘I would have done my best to oblige you.’
Sophy, deprived of her tea, and anxious to be gone from this strangely disturbing man, said sharply, ‘What a great pity it is that you aren’t driving your Rolls today.’ And then stood abashed at his grave agreement and casual explanation that he seldom brought it to England. ‘The Bentley is usually sufficient for my needs,’ he concluded gently.
Sophy felt the colour surge into her face, and was thankful for the gathering darkness. She said in a stiff voice, ‘I beg your pardon. If you’re sure that Ben has done no harm, we’ll go… Ben, will you apologise for upsetting this gentleman?’
‘Do I look upset?’ He was smiling openly at her, and her cheeks caught fire anew. He listened to Ben’s apology and then put out a hand and tweaked the boy’s ear gently. ‘Goodbye,’ he said, and turned away to his car, then, his hand on the door, looked over his shoulder.
‘Blot,’ he said. ‘Escutcheon or Landscape?’
‘Landscape,’ said Sophy. ‘We haven’t got an escutcheon.’
‘And Titus? One feels that it should have some Latin significance…but I’m at a loss.’
‘He likes porridge.’
His shoulders shook. ‘How slow-witted I’ve become; or perhaps my knowledge of your history is becoming a little rusty.’ He got into the car. Above the restrained purr of the engine they heard his voice wishing them a goodnight.
Sophy closed the door behind her small party, took off her coat in the hall, warned Ben to wash his hands, and went straight to the kitchen. Sinclair glanced up as she went in, and then went on pouring water into a comfortably sized tea pot.
‘You’re very late, Miss Sophy. Thought I heard you talking outside in the street,’ he went on innocently. The kitchen was at the back of the house, a point Sophy knew was not worth the mentioning.
‘Ben ran in front of a car—we stopped to apologise to the driver.’
‘Annoyed, was he? Ought to know better, these fast drivers; running innocent children down…’
Sophy perched on the edge of the kitchen table.
‘Oh, Sinclair, it wasn’t like that at all. It was Ben’s fault, and this man was…very nice,’ she ended tamely. Nice wasn’t at all the right word… She thought of a great many adjectives which would describe him. He had annoyed her, and mocked her, and made her feel silly, as though she had been a brash teenager; but she knew, without having to think about it, that if Ben had been knocked down he was the man she would have wished to be first on the scene.
She asked on a sigh, ‘What’s for supper, Sinclair? I missed tea.’
‘Your grandma said a nice cauliflower cheese, miss. You go and have a cuppa, and I’ll get it on the go for you.’
The three occupants of the sitting room all looked up as Sophy entered. And they all spoke simultaneously.
‘Sophy, what is all this about a man and a car?
‘He wasn’t English, was he, Sophy? Even though he did understand about Titus… He said he had a Rolls, didn’t he? Penny says I’m fibbing.’
‘He looked gorgeous!’ This from her sister, Penelope, in the tones of a love-sick tragedy queen.
Sophy put down the tea tray, poured herself a cup, and answered the questions without hurry or visible excitement. She smiled across the room at her grandmother, sitting comfortably by the fire, solving the Telegraph crossword in a leisurely fashion.
‘Ben was almost knocked down by a car—it was his fault. We stopped to apologise to the driver. He was very nice about it.’
Her grandmother looked up, her pretty, absurdly youthful face full of interest. ‘Well, well. A man? Very good-looking, Penny says.’
Sophy replied composedly, ‘Yes, very. And I think Benjamin’s right in supposing him to be a foreigner.’
Penelope sighed gustily. At fifteen, she was full of romantic notions which at times made her very difficult to live with.
‘He was a smasher. I couldn’t see him quite clearly from the window. You might have asked him in, Sophy. Why didn’t you?’
Sophy looked surprised. ‘I didn’t think about it,’ she replied honestly, and then took pity on the pretty downcast face of her young sister. ‘He wasn’t very young,’ she ventured.
‘I’m old for my years,’ Penny insisted. ‘Age doesn’t matter where true love exists.’
This profound remark drew forth general laughter in which Penny quite cheerfully joined, and then she said, ‘Well, perhaps he was a bit old for me, but he would have done nicely for you, Sophy. You always said that you wished a tall handsome man would load you with jewels and furs and carry you off to his castle.’
Sophy looked astonished. ‘Did I really say that?’ Half-for-gotten dreams, smothered by the prosaic daily round of her busy life, made her heart stir. She shook her head and said briskly. ‘That must have been years ago.’
She was almost asleep in a sleeping house, when she remembered that he had said goodnight and not goodbye. She told herself sleepily that it meant nothing at all; but it was comforting all the same.
The tide of early morning chores washed away all but the most commonplace of her thoughts. Even on her short walk to the hospital her thoughts were taken up with her elder brother, Luke, who was in his last year of medical school at Edinburgh Royal. He was twenty-two, almost four years younger than she; and clever. What money there was she used ungrudgingly to get him through his studies. Another year, and he would qualify, and the money could be used for Penny, and later, for Benjamin. The darkling thought that by then she would be in her forties dimmed her plans momentarily, but she wasn’t a girl to give way to self-pity, and she was cheerful enough as she went along to the scrubbing room, and then into the theatre. Staff Nurse had already laid up—the theatre was ready.
Sophy began to thread her needles. She could hear the murmur of men’s voices in the scrubbing room. The first case was to be a tricky one—a duodenopancreatectomy—and Mr Giles Radcliffe, the senior consultant surgeon, would be doing it. Probably the RSO would assist, for Mr Radcliffe’s houseman was fresh from his training school, and though painfully anxious to please, still leaned heavily on Sophy’s unobtrusive help, given wordlessly by means of frowns and nods and seeing that the correct instrument was always ready to his hand. She looked up as they came in, and her ‘Good morning’ froze on her lips. There were three men, not two. The third one was the man with the Bentley. Even gowned and masked, it was impossible not to recognise those pale blue eyes. They were staring at her now, with an expression which she was unable to read.
CHAPTER TWO
THE THREE SURGEONS strolled across the theatre with an air of not having much to do. Mr Radcliffe glanced at the patient before he spoke.
‘Sophy, this is Professor Jonkheer Maximillan van Oosterwelde—he will be operating this morning.’
He turned to the tall man with him. ‘Max, this is Miss Sophia Greenslade, Sister in charge of Main Theatre.’
They looked at each other over their masks—Sophy’s lovely hazel eyes, wide with surprise, encountered his cool blue ones. She said something—she had no idea what—in a murmur. Jonkheer van Oosterwelde said ‘How do you do?’ in a voice which really didn’t want to know, and turned to his patient.
Sophy had no time to wonder why her heart was racing and her cheeks were burning. Training and discipline clamped down on her muddled thoughts; she passed Bill Evans the sponges for the final prep, and handed Mr Radcliffe a large sterile sheet, which the surgeons arranged with all the meticulous care of housewives draping the best tablecloth. It shrouded the quiet figure between them in decent obscurity; leaving a surprisingly small area of skin exposed. She followed it with a variety of small towels and towel clips, and waited composedly until the anaesthetist said ‘Ready when you are.’ And when a quiet voice said, ‘Right, Sister,’ she was ready with the knife, and then in quick succession, the tissue and artery forceps and swabs. Mr Radcliffe put out a hand for gut, and she handed the retractors to Bill, then looked quickly round the theatre. She had a good team of nurses; they were all doing their allotted tasks. She nodded at each in turn and raised her eyebrows at Staff, who slid up behind her, whispered ‘Sucker?’ and switched it on. Sophy passed its sterile nozzle to Bill, who was looking worried because he hadn’t got anything to do. He took it gratefully, feeling he was in the picture again. She checked the clamps and the intestinal needles, rinsed the discarded forceps and put them ready to hand again, and watched Jonkheer van Oosterwelde. He was looking ahead of him, probing with gentle fingers; intent on his delicate task. At length he focused his gaze on Mr Radcliffe.
‘It’s worth trying, I think—what would you say?’
Sophy watched while Mr Radcliffe did exactly the same thing in his turn, then nodded. She caught a nurse’s eye and looked silently at the bowls. The nurse changed the saline in them and went away for a fresh supply; the operation would be a long one. The vacoliter would need changing fairly soon; she lifted a gloved finger and the junior nurse slid away to fetch a fresh supply. The men were talking quietly, working in unison. The Dutchman was dissecting with slow delicacy; Sophy put up a warning finger again, and a nurse edged up to the table with a receiver, to receive the result of his painstaking work. He stretched his long back, and bent to his work again, and Mr Radcliffe said,
‘You’re too tall, Max, by at least six inches—a pity you can’t give some of them to Sophy. She has to stand on a box—when you see her on the ground, you’ll see what I mean.’
‘I know perfectly what you mean; I have already seen her on the ground.’ He took an atraumatic needle from Sophy without looking at her.
‘You’ve met already? Where?’
‘In the street, yesterday evening, but we—ah—didn’t introduce ourselves.’
Sophy thought he was laughing behind his mask. She said tartly, ‘Which number gut will you use, sir?’
He had started the long-drawn out business of implanting, and didn’t look up from his work, but answered her in quite a different voice in which she could not detect the smallest thread of a laugh; and though the two men, and even Bill, talked among themselves during the remainder of the operation she was not included in their conversation. It wasn’t until the patient had been borne carefully away and Mr Radcliffe had rather tiredly suggested that they have coffee before the next case, that the other man spoke.
‘Thank you for your help, Sister—you are, if I may say so, very good at your job.’
Mr Radcliffe looked over his shoulder as he went through the door.
‘Yes, of course she is. Sophy, come and have your coffee with us—I want to talk to you.’
There was nothing for it but to do as she was asked. The theatre was already cleared and with whispered instructions to Staff to scrub and lay up as soon as she had had her coffee, Sophy followed the three men into her office. They stood politely while she took the chair behind her desk and then settled themselves: Mr Radcliffe on to the only other chair the room contained, Bill Evans on the edge of the desk, the Dutchman on the low window ledge. They were still wearing their caps and rubber boots and thick, enveloping aprons; the rubber smelled pungently in the small room. Tieless shirts and rolled-up sleeves did nothing to add to the general aspect of their appearance, but Sophy was used to it and indeed hardly noticed it as she poured coffee into the gaily painted mugs the nurses had given her for Christmas. She ladled in generous spoonfuls of sugar, and handed round the heartening beverage, and offered digestive biscuits with an unselfconscious, almost motherly air. The talk was pure shop, and she joined in easily; accepted as someone who knew what was being talked about and could be depended upon to listen with intelligence and give the right answers. Mr Radcliffe barely gave Bill time to drink his coffee before sending him off to the ward on an errand. As the door closed he passed his mug for a second cup and said,
‘I’m going on holiday, Sophy—for about six weeks.’
Sophy blinked her amazingly long eyelashes and said nothing.
‘I’ve been advised to rest for a bit, Max has kindly agreed to take over while I’m away, for the first few weeks at least. His own theatre in Utrecht is being rebuilt—it couldn’t be more fortuitous.’
Sophy filled the Dutch surgeon’s mug, and said quietly, ‘You’re ill, Uncle Giles, aren’t you?’
She handed Professor Jonkheer van Oosterwelde his coffee, ignoring his raised eyebrows. He had hardly spoken a dozen words to her, and for all she cared, she thought defiantly, he need not bother to address her again. She turned back to the older man.
Mr Radcliffe was no fool. He had seen the raised brows and the heightened colour in Sophy’s cheeks. He didn’t answer her question, but said smoothly, ‘Your fathers were my two greatest friends, although they never met. I stood godfather to each of you in turn, you know.’ He coughed, ‘Strange that you should meet like this.’
Max van Oosterwelde got up, apparently unaware of Sophy’s interested stare. ‘Very strange,’ he agreed dryly. ‘I imagine there was a decade or so between your good offices, however.’
‘But that doesn’t matter,’ cried Sophy, ‘It makes us into readymade…’ She paused. She had been about to say friends, but they weren’t friends, and the look she had just encountered held very little warmth in it, merely a faint, derisive amusement. She blushed, then frowned heavily, and was thankful when Uncle Giles got up too and remarked that it was time they got on with the job again.
They worked steadily for the next couple of hours. The nurses went in turn to their dinners, and when Sophy eventually went to her own, it was past two o’clock. She ate it, as she had so often done, in the complete silence of the empty dining room, thinking about the morning. She had exchanged barely a dozen words with the new surgeon after the coffee break. He was pleasant—and easy—to work for, she admitted to herself, but he obviously had no intention of being friendly. It was at this point that she realised that she knew nothing about him—perhaps he was married? or engaged? She felt unaccountably depressed at the thought; the not very appetising meal became uneatable, and she went back to the theatre.
The men came back from their own lunch in excellent spirits, and Jonkheer van Oosterwelde removed a gall bladder, repaired two tricky hernias, and whisked out a couple of appendices with a neatness and dispatch which could only earn Sophy’s admiration; maintaining an easy flow of conversation while he did so, while rather markedly excluding her from it. Not that he was anything but polite and correct towards her; indeed, when she inadvertently dropped the stitch scissors she was made very aware of his patient tolerance towards her clumsiness.
The last case was wheeled out of the theatre just before five o’clock, and the three men, shedding gowns and caps as they went, followed it. Sophy and her nurses plunged into the business of clearing the theatre, and made such good work of it that after ten minutes Sophy felt justified in leaving Staff Nurse to do the knives and needles, and go off duty. She went down the passage to her office and went in. The little room was wreathed in tobacco smoke; she swallowed a sigh, as Uncle Giles caught her eye and asked, ‘Tea, Sophy?’
She said quietly, ‘Of course, it won’t take a minute.’
She went back into the tiny kitchen where a kettle was kept perpetually on the boil and a tray stood ready, made the tea and carried it back and poured it out before turning to go. In this she was frustrated, however. The Dutchman was standing by the window, his broad shoulders blocking what light there was, his great height dwarfing everything else around him.
‘You will have a cup, too, Sister?’ There was no warmth in his voice. Sophy said baldly, ‘No,’ and then, because it had sounded rude, ‘Thank you. I’m going off duty.’
He didn’t answer, but bent forward and poured another cup of tea and handed it to her, so that she was forced to take it and sit in the chair he pulled out from behind her desk. He said gently, as though she hadn’t spoken, ‘It will only take a minute; it would be a pity to miss your tea.’
She looked at her cup, angry with herself for going red, and Mr Radcliffe, noticing her hot cheeks, put down his own cup and asked,
‘How did you two meet?’
Sophy remained stubbornly silent, and after a minute Jonkheer van Oosterwelde gave him a brief account of their encounter. She sat listening to his deep voice making light of the whole affair and cheerfully taking the blame upon himself. She felt faintly ashamed of herself, then remembered how he had addressed her as his dear madam. Her cheeks grew fiery again at the recollection, their redness fanned by the amused stare she encountered when she ventured to glance at him.
Her godfather thought it was all rather amusing, and said so before launching into an anecdote of his own. Under cover of this, Bill bent forward.
‘Sister Greenslade, you haven’t forgotten I’m coming to supper on Saturday evening?’ he asked eagerly. ‘I mean, if it’s still all right…’
Sophy smiled warmly at him. ‘Of course it’s all right. Come early, then we can play Monopoly or Canasta after supper.’
She got up to go, and Mr Radcliffe paused in his low-voiced talk.
‘Your aunt expects you all on Sunday, Sophy—she told me to remind you.’
She stood in the doorway, very neat in her blue dress. She had put her cap on when she had gone to make the tea; it perched, like an ultra-clean butterfly, on top of her tidy head. All three men were watching her, but she was looking at her godfather.
‘Thank you, Uncle Giles. We love coming; you know that. We shall miss it while you’re away.’ She smiled, murmured a pleasant ‘Goodnight’ and shut the door quietly behind her.
The theatre was clear; she sent the nurses off duty, had a word with Staff, and went to the changing room, from whence she emerged ten minutes later, still looking neat, in a nicely cut tweed suit; its rich greens and browns suited her—the man following her quietly away from the theatre block and down the staircase thought so too. Sophy hadn’t heard him until his voice asked just behind her,
‘Can I give you a lift?’
‘No, thank you.’ The words were spoken before she could regret them. It would be nice to ride in a Bentley. ‘I live quite close.’ And added crossly, ‘You know that,’ she paused, ‘sir.’
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