The Detection Collection Page 16

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen seven-a-side,’ Melanie said, having watched very little rugby of any description.

  ‘You haven’t missed much. It’s great to play but not much fun to watch.’

  ‘Oh, but it sounds very exciting. Very.’

  While she searched for something else to say she looked down at his trolley and noticed it was fully laden, a whole week’s load by the look of it. She wondered why he should be doing the shopping when he must surely have someone to look after him. But even as she thought this, it occurred to her with a small beat of excitement that he might be on his own like her, that they got on so well because he too knew what it was like to be lonely.

  The next moment, she rejected this as a foolish hope. Men like him were never single. Men like him always had a beautiful wife with shining hair and perfect skin. A wife who was too lazy to shop maybe, or a career woman who was never around to do the chores, or a mother of young children who was too tired at the end of the week. But beautiful nonetheless, because the failings of beautiful women never counted against them.

  She heard herself ask, ‘Do you like cooking?’

  He had been frowning impatiently in the direction of the checkout where, two customers up the line, the assistant was laboriously entering a credit-card number on to the keypad by hand. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Are you a cook?’

  ‘Not really, no. Just breakfasts. Bacon and eggs, that sort of thing. Otherwise I’m completely useless. The microwave’s about my limit.’

  ‘I always think food never tastes quite so good out of the microwave.’

  ‘You’re probably right, but – well – they’re handy things, aren’t they? When needs must.’

  He gave a smile, but she spotted the strain at the corner of his mouth, and the rueful glint in his eye, both so faint that no one else would have noticed, and realised she had stumbled on to a painful subject. He was probably forced to cook when he came home at night, to throw a scrappy meal together because his wife was still at work or having a migraine or lounging in the bath. Picturing him standing helplessly in the middle of the kitchen, exhausted after a long day, Melanie’s heart went out to him in a wave of tenderness.

  She said, ‘I don’t suppose you have the time, either.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘To cook.’

  ‘Ha! No.’ As if to emphasise the point he looked at his watch, then at the queue, and made a face of patience wearing thin.

  ‘I cook an omelette when I’m in a hurry.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘A sort of Spanish omelette with potatoes and vegetables.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘It’s very easy, particularly if you have leftover vegetables …’

  But he had been distracted by a woman who was squeezing past his back with the clear intention of barging into the queue ahead of him.

  Melanie was about to glare at her when the woman dropped something into the doctor’s trolley and said in a terse voice, ‘They’ve run out. This is all they have.’

  Dr Davies picked up the item, a jar containing some sort of red sauce, and said, ‘Well, it’ll do, won’t it?’

  The woman didn’t reply but stared coldly into the distance. She was tall and blonde and elegant in a bony sort of way, with a sharp nose and lips that were all the thinner for being pressed tightly together.

  The doctor turned to the woman and began to speak to her in a low voice. The way he turned his back on Melanie was apologetic, embarrassed, but Melanie longed to reassure him that he wasn’t to worry, that she completely understood why he had to do it. Indeed – and it came to her quite suddenly – she felt she would always understand everything about him.

  As the woman listened to the doctor, her gaze flicked restlessly around the store, briefly alighting on Melanie, looking straight through her as if she was of no importance, moving rapidly on again.

  Melanie craned her head so she could see the woman’s left hand. There was no ring on the third finger. Just a girlfriend, then? Or a wife who chose not to wear a ring? Whatever the relationship, it was clearly far from happy. The woman made no attempt to hide her anger with the doctor, first pursing her thin lips, then flexing her nostrils until the skin went white, then crossing her arms and holding them tight against her stomach. When the queue moved forward, she made no effort to help the doctor unload the trolley but stood sullenly beside the till.

  The doctor’s profile was very grim as he bundled the shopping onto the belt. Melanie longed to reach out and offer words of comfort, but she knew the value of silence at such a time, and kept the message of support to her eyes, so that when he looked at her, as she knew he would, he would be able to read it there. It was simply a matter of waiting, of keeping the understanding in her eyes until he turned and saw it. But then a jar he’d thrown carelessly onto a pile of vegetables began to topple, and, seeing her opportunity, she leapt forward to retrieve it.

  ‘Oh, thank you, Miss – er – Briggs.’

  ‘Melanie.’

  ‘Melanie.’ He flung her a smile, so warm, so startling, that her heart seized high in her chest and she could only stare at him, her message of understanding quite lost.

  She thought of him constantly after that. She thought of him in the evenings when she sat in her sitting room at Albany Road. She thought of him when she lay in bed at night, and first thing in the morning when she woke. She practised breathing his name. Geraint. She was fairly certain it was pronounced with a hard G, but she phoned the Welsh Office just to make sure. She tried to memorise every detail of his face, the way his mouth turned down slightly at the corners, the way his nose skewed to the left at the site of the break, the colour of his eyes, a clear dark brown, and the way they twinkled when he was amused. She played his voice over and over again in her mind, hearing the slight Welsh lilt, remembering with a small thrill of fear the coldness of his tone when they’d first met, and with a shiver of joy the warmth and playfulness of his voice once they’d got to know each other.

  The more she thought about the smile he’d given her in the supermarket the more she realised it had been a signal, a message that he’d read her thoughts and appreciated – no, welcomed – them. The question was, how long should she wait before seeing him again?

  In the end she left it four days. To enable them to meet naturally, without strain or difficulty, she made an appointment to see him at the surgery on the pretext of not being able to sleep. The delay was an exquisite agony. By the time she reached the surgery her pulse was racing and she felt so hot she had to go and splash her face with cold water. In the waiting room she rehearsed her words, her expression, her tone, but the moment her name was called, her mind went blank. Her hand trembled as she opened the consulting-room door. She worried that he might not live up to her images of him. But she needn’t have worried: he was everything she’d remembered, and more. Her pulse was beating high in her head, she felt oddly weightless, it was all she could do to walk calmly to the chair and sit down.

  He glanced up from his computer and said, ‘Oh, hello, Melanie. Won’t be a moment.’ As he tapped away at his notes she reminded herself that he couldn’t afford to show her any special attention, that for her sake as much as his own he had to pretend that their relationship was strictly that of doctor and patient. He must be seen to keep his professional distance. But in a strange way it made the whole thing more wonderful. It added the thrill of the forbidden, the excitement of the unspoken.

  ‘So what can I do for you, Melanie?’

  As she told him about her sleeping problems she used her eyes to send a different, far more personal message. Though he nodded gravely and looked down at the floor a couple of times, she felt certain he had read her message and understood.

  ‘Living on your nerves a bit, are you?’ he asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You seem rather nervous today.’

  ‘Do I?’ She felt the heat come into her face and said shyly, ‘Perhaps I am a bit.’

&n
bsp; He began to scribble on his prescription pad. ‘Well, try these sleeping pills. Three nights should be enough to settle you back into your sleeping pattern. In the meantime, do your best to relax.’

  He raised his eyebrows at her, and she suddenly noticed how tired and careworn he looked. The girlfriend was obviously giving him a terrible time. That was the trouble with women who were used to having things their own way – they made so little effort. They didn’t give men what they needed: love and tenderness and understanding. Melanie felt a rush of protectiveness. She longed to ask him what the trouble was so that he could pour his heart out to her, as she had poured her heart out to him. But she knew this was forbidden, and for the moment at least she must follow the rules.

  She went home in a state of restless determination. It wasn’t hard to find out where he lived. She simply went back to the surgery at the end of the day and followed him home. He drove quite fast and she almost lost him when he went over an amber light which, heart in mouth, she was forced to take at red.

  He pulled into the driveway of a modern house on an executive estate and let himself in through the front door. The garden was unkempt and one of the curtains in the front room was only half drawn. Later, when some lights went on, she saw him pass in front of a flickering television. Eventually the girlfriend arrived. It was just as Melanie had thought – they were not getting on together. No sooner had they gone into the kitchen than a furious row broke out. Geraint strode back and forth like a caged animal, gesticulating helplessly, clutching a hand to his head, while the girl spat out a stream of invective. Even from where Melanie was standing in the shadow of the hedge, she could hear the shrillness in her voice.

  Two weeks later, the girlfriend moved out, and Melanie made an appointment to see Geraint at the surgery.

  ‘How’s the sleeping, Melanie?’

  ‘Much better, thank you.’

  He was putting on a businesslike front, but she could tell that he was heartily relieved at having got rid of the girlfriend. It was obvious from his voice and his eyes, which, though sharp, were more at peace.

  ‘Managing without the sleeping pills?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. I only wake the odd time now.’

  ‘Good. Good. So?’ He was asking if there was anything else she wanted. She met his gaze and in that instant it seemed to her that they exchanged a look of perfect understanding.

  ‘I’ve just finished with my boyfriend,’ she said.

  ‘Ah …’ He nodded a lot, and she could see that he was looking at her in a new way. ‘And, er … is that proving a problem?’

  ‘Oh no, it’s a relief. We weren’t getting on together. I never realised how much of a relief it was until we finally broke up.’

  He nodded again, more slowly this time.

  ‘We had awful arguments. They upset me so much I think that’s why I wasn’t sleeping.’

  He had stopped nodding now, and was simply watching her.

  ‘Rows are so upsetting, aren’t they?’ she said. ‘Far more than you ever realise at the time.’

  He made a noncommittal gesture, but she could see that he was struck by the coincidence in their circumstances and the new bond it had formed between them.

  Melanie gave him her best smile. ‘Now I feel I can move on and start enjoying life again.’

  He looked away and moved a paper an inch across his desk. ‘You’ve had a very hard few months.’

  ‘Yes. But it’s going to be all right now.’

  ‘Really? I’m glad,’ he said in a voice that was suddenly rather hoarse. ‘So, er …’ He cleared his throat. ‘Anything I can help with on the medical side?’

  She felt the heat rise into her cheeks. She was trembling as she said, ‘Not on the medical side, no.’

  The look he gave her then was unlike anything he’d given her before, searching, puzzled, but full of hidden meaning. For a moment he seemed to be plucking up the courage to say more, only to think better of it and scramble to his feet to open the door. He didn’t meet her gaze as she left, but that was all right, she understood why. He had realised that something extraordinary had happened, and he didn’t quite know how to deal with it.

  After that, she went round to his house three times a week to make sure he was all right. She went on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Once, she’d gone on a Saturday and followed him to the rugby field, but she was so far away from the pitch she couldn’t work out what was happening, and afterwards he went straight off to the pub with his friends.

  Debbie guessed immediately that something exciting had happened.

  ‘You dark horse, you!’ she exclaimed, after Melanie had admitted there was someone in her life. ‘What’s he like? Do tell!’

  Melanie didn’t say too much. Her love was too precious for that. But she let Debbie wheedle a few facts out of her, that he was a professional man, handsome and rugged, a sportsman.

  ‘And single?’

  Melanie nodded.

  Debbie whistled. ‘Well, go for it, girl!’ Then she added in her kindest voice, ‘But take it slow at the same time, if you know what I mean. Best to let him set the pace, eh?’

  A month later, Melanie cut her hand quite badly chopping vegetables and went to the surgery for an emergency appointment. Taking one look at the blood, the receptionist tried to persuade her to go to the A&E at the hospital ten miles away, but Melanie said she’d be quite happy to wait.

  Geraint looked startled when he saw her, but she smiled to reassure him that nothing had changed between them, and their secret was safe. He asked the nurse to come in and assist him as he stitched up the wound. Melanie examined his head as he bent over her hand, admiring the way his hair curled slightly at the hairline, spotting a tiny scar she hadn’t seen before, just above one eyebrow. His fingers were very hot where they touched her hand, it was like an electric charge, and to put them both at ease she chatted lightly about the weather and the sports news, because she knew that was the sort of thing he enjoyed.

  He didn’t speak until he’d tied off the last stitch. Then, as he went to wash his hands he said, ‘What sort of a car do you drive, Miss Briggs?’

  The Miss Briggs was a blind of course, because the nurse was there.

  ‘A Polo.’

  ‘Blue?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He turned to face her as he dried his hands vigorously on a paper towel. ‘Would I have seen it near my house, by any chance?’

  Melanie felt a twinge of unease. ‘Well … I’m not sure I know where you live, Doctor.’

  ‘Oh, but I think you do, Miss Briggs.’

  Melanie gave a laugh that came out oddly, like a gasp. Suddenly she felt rather unwell. ‘I’ve got friends in the same road, of course. They might have mentioned that you live there too. In fact, I remember now … Yes, they said … Yes … that you lived there too.’

  ‘And who would these friends be exactly?’

  ‘Oh, they … Oh, I …’ She clasped a hand to her forehead and sank back in her chair. ‘Sorry, but I’m feeling a bit faint.’

  The nurse put an arm round her shoulders, but Geraint stood in front of her and said in a cold voice, ‘Miss Briggs, you really must stop all this nonsense and get a grip. No more hanging around my house. And I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to find yourself another doctor.’

  She cried most of that evening. He hadn’t meant to hurt her of course, she knew that. In fact he would have been horrified to see how much he’d upset her. But there was no need to belittle her in that way, no need to say such cruel things when all she’d ever wanted was to watch over him and make sure he was all right. She would forgive him, of course, because she loved him and she couldn’t live without him, but it would take a little time.

  She was still a bit tearful when she went to meet Debbie the next day.

  Debbie took one look at her and whispered, ‘Are you all right, love?’

  Melanie shook her head. Without another word, Debbie bought her a large vodka and tonic.

>   ‘Man trouble?’

  Melanie nodded.

  ‘They’re all the same. Drive you crazy, then drive you mad. What’s he done?’

  ‘He wants to break it off.’

  ‘And you still love him?’

  Melanie could only nod.

  ‘Well, it hasn’t been long, has it? So maybe it won’t be so bad as you think.’

  ‘It’s been three months.’

  ‘Three months! But … I had no idea. From what you said I thought …’

  ‘I wasn’t sure I loved him at the beginning. That’s why I never bothered to tell you.’

  Debbie gave a sympathetic sigh. ‘Ahh. And now you are sure, he wants out. Oh, you poor old thing.’ She put an arm round her. ‘You’ve had a real basinful, haven’t you?’

  Melanie cried some more.

  ‘Well, remember – you’ve still got your friends. And your friends are your friends because they never let you down.’

  The restraining order was served on Melanie a month later. She was ordered not to approach Dr Geraint Davies either directly or indirectly at any time, nor go within a hundred metres of his home or place of work.

  It was a horrible piece of paper, and it made her cry again.

  She told Debbie that her lover had written to say he didn’t want her anywhere near his house.

  ‘What?’ Debbie exclaimed. ‘That’s a bit uncalled for, isn’t it? Why would he want to go and do a thing like that, for Christ’s sake?’

  ‘I don’t know. I suppose he’s found someone new, and he doesn’t want any reminders of me.’

  ‘But why would you want to go near his house anyway? That’s ridiculous. No, from what you say you’re well rid of him. Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say.’

  It was Debbie who kept her going over the next few weeks, insisting they meet for drinks, taking her clothes shopping, phoning almost every morning. And then, in that moment of inspiration, suggesting the holiday. ‘It’ll do you good,’ Debbie declared. ‘And God alone knows, us girls need all the fun we can get.’

  Every morning, when Melanie snapped on her bedside light and saw the new dresses, she wished she’d hung them up a good week earlier. They glowed in the dark little bedroom like tropical flowers, and just looking at them was enough to make here feel she was halfway to the Caribbean. It was no longer a struggle to get up, and she often left for work a good ten minutes early.