Sold to the Surgeon (13 page)

Greg looked across at her. “Why the sigh, Abigail?” he asked. “Don't you like Italy?”

“I like it very much, at least what I've seen of it so far,” answered Abigail, glad to be able to speak the truth about something. But she couldn't possibly tell him why she had sighed, couldn't tell him what a muddle her thoughts were in, because he was inextricably mixed up in it all. Although thank goodness he didn't have an inkling of the effect he had on her, even if he did have his own suspicions about Rupert and Penelope.

“It's nothing,” she muttered at last, and turned to look out of the window.

“Why don't you just sit back and relax and enjoy the holiday? Take advantage of whatever comes your way, and leave it at that,” he suggested. “You're much too intense, you know, much too serious.”

“I can't help the way I am,” said Abigail, knowing that he spoke sense, but not wanting to listen. “It's my nature, I can't change.”

“You could always try,” he said with a smile. “Come on, Abigail, the ENT ward is far behind you. Enjoy yourself, instead of looking as if you're personally shouldering all the troubles of the world!”

Suddenly he pulled the car to a halt at the side of the road, beneath the overhanging boughs of a huge white oleander. The branches quivered, cascading the fragrant petals like confetti down on to the windscreen. Reaching across, he caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger.

“Smile,” he commanded decisively.

His dark eyes had laughing glints in their depths, as he gazed down into her troubled grey ones, and against her will Abigail found herself smiling back. “That's better,” was his verdict. Then he gently brushed her lips with his, in a strangely passionless way. “Now stop worrying. Surely you can be happy here, in this lovely place.” He ran a finger down her cheek.

Abigail felt strangely comforted by his gentle gesture. “Yes, I should be,” she admitted, “but Rupert and I…”

“I'm not going to pry into your affairs,” Greg said quietly, but very firmly. He started up the car engine again. “You and Rupert have your own lives to lead, only you two can do that.”

After that, the tension between them eased, and Greg proved to be an interesting and knowledgeable companion; pointing out the many places of interest as they drove along. Finally he pointed to the outline of Assisi itself, sprawled on the slopes of Mount Subasio, basking in the clear sunlight of Umbria.

As they drew nearer, Abigail exclaimed in delight. The shape became clearly defined into a mass of houses, towers, streets and belfries, the great Basilica of St Francis dominating everything. The rocks and stones of the building were a delicate warm, pinky grey, the colour of the ancient crustaceans that once lived there, millions of years before.

Greg smiled at Abigail's cries of delight. “Better than shopping?” he asked softly.

“Much better,” Abigail agreed happily.

Chapter Nine

The treasures inside the Basilica of St Francis were absorbing, and by the time Abigail allowed herself to be persuaded to leave, albeit reluctantly, the warm pink dusk of evening had suffused the hilltop town, the buildings glowing in the last remaining rays of the dying sun.

“Oh, goodness,” Abigail exclaimed guiltily, “I didn't realise I'd taken so long!”

Greg smiled. “It seemed a pity to dampen your enthusiasm,” he said, “but don't worry, we're not late. I daresay Rupert and Penelope are a drink ahead of us. I can't see Penelope waiting.”

It seemed a crime to hurry. So they dawdled in the velvety evening air, meandering through the cobbled streets. The house-martins and swallows dived and screamed overhead, snatching at small insects rash enough to fly before the shafts of sunlight. The wrought iron street lamps cast their yellow glow on the uneven cobbles, and beneath every lamp sat a group of women knitting; always surrounded by a crowd of noisy children and a motley assortment of dogs.

“This is an enchanted place,” whispered Abigail, almost afraid to speak too loudly in case she broke the spell.

“You think so?” said Greg. Then he smiled gently, and taking her hand in his held it loosely. “I think Italy has already begun to weave its magic spell over you,” he observed. “Already you seem much more relaxed.”

Abigail laughed, her grey eyes sparkling. She didn't remove her hand, it felt comfortable in his, and for the moment she felt ridiculously happy. But it was only a moment, a few seconds later that moment was shattered as Greg pointed towards a little bar in the main piazza.

“There, what did I tell you? They
are
one drink ahead of us.” Abigail looked in the direction of his pointing finger. Then she saw them, sitting very close together, a single candle in a glass holder illuminating their faces, which even though she was some distance away, she could see were animated and very intimate. She hung back, not wanting to break into the circle of intimacy that surrounded them; but Greg continued to walk and there was no alternative but to accompany him.

As they drew nearer, she could hear their low voices laughing and talking, and it was only a long time afterwards, almost towards the end of the evening, that she realised Greg had discreetly let go of her hand the moment they had seen Rupert and Penelope. Not that she had attached any importance to that, there was nothing romantic about the way he had held her hand, it was just a friendly gesture, like that of a brother. And anyway, at the time she had only been conscious of the rapt expression on Rupert's face as he listened to his companion.

It was Penelope who saw them first. She waved gaily, and broke into her tinkly laugh, breaking the peaceful serenity of the piazza. At least, so it seemed to Abigail's sensitive ears.

“We've had an absolutely fantastic time,” she said, as Greg pulled out a chair for Abigail and they joined the two of them at the table. “Have you?”

“Yes,” Greg answered for them both, then turned to Rupert. “Hope you didn't suffer too much. Being dragged around shops by a woman is my idea of hell on earth!”

“He
loved
it,” said Penelope firmly, laying a well manicured hand possessively on Rupert's arm. “And I dare you to say you didn't.”

“I did love every minute of it,” replied Rupert, grinning, then suddenly, as if he'd just remembered Abigail's presence, he smiled at her too, adding hastily, “I thought you'd enjoy sightseeing better. I hope you didn't mind.”

“As it happens you were right, but I would have preferred to have been asked!” Abigail replied, a touch of acerbity tinged her voice, and she noticed a guilty expression flicker across Rupert's face.

“Shall we order a drink?” interrupted Greg, as Rupert opened his mouth to reply. Not waiting for an answer from the others, he called a waiter over to their table. “Campari and soda for me,” he said. “What about you, Abigail?”

“I'll have the same,” she answered, noticing how grateful Rupert looked for the interruption. She wondered whether Greg had done it on purpose, or whether it was just fortuitous that he happened to speak at that moment.

“I'll have a small beer,” said Rupert quickly, keeping his gaze averted from Abigail's clear grey eyes.

“And I'll have an
enormous
gin and a little tonic,” said Penelope. She slid her arm around Greg's neck, and kissed him on the cheek. “You will buy me an enormous gin, won't you?” she purred provocatively.

“I'll buy you anything you want,” said Greg with a laugh, appearing to enjoy her attention, “and I'm sure that goes for Rupert too.”

Penelope giggled delightedly. “I'm lucky to have two such attentive men, but I mustn't be selfish. You must spoil Abigail too.”

Oh, heavens, thought Abigail with a sinking feeling, this is going to be an awful evening. She hated girls who deliberately turned on the “little girl” charm and flirted with men, it was something she could never do.

“I don't feel the need to be spoiled,” she said coldly. “You're welcome to them both, Penelope, if that's what you want.” It was a bitchy remark, and out of character, but at that particular moment she could have quite cheerfully spat blood!

The awkward silence at the table was broken by Greg giving the order to the waiter, who had been hovering attentively near by. Abigail bent her head to hide her furious expression, and fondled the ears of a black and white dog who was sitting, looking expectant, by their table.

“I wouldn't touch the dogs around here,” said Penelope in her supercilious tone, the one she reserved for elderly patients and foreigners. “For a start they're not well bred, and you never know what you might catch.”

“Penelope's right,” chimed in Rupert. “You never know…”

“No, you don't, do you?” said Abigail quietly.

Rupert flushed uneasily, and she knew the innuendo had gone home. “I worry about you,” he said defensively. “You don't want to be ill while you're away.”

“I daresay the dogs here are as healthy as anywhere,” said Greg, and picking up a pretzel from the dish on the table, he tossed it to the dog, who snapped it up eagerly.

He had broken a potentially awkward situation again, and this time Abigail knew he had done so on purpose, and was grateful. She was feeling confused and angry, and the last thing she wanted to do was quarrel with Rupert. When we're on our own, we'll be able to talk reasonably, and sensibly, and everything will be all right, she told herself; controlling the upsurge of jealousy that threatened to swamp her, with an effort.

So she smiled at Rupert, and was glad to see him smile back, relief written all over his face. He had never been faced with an acid-tongued Abigail before, and she couldn't help thinking, just a little bit smugly, that he didn't know how to handle her in that mood! Almost simultaneously, though, the uncomfortable thought flashed across her mind that Greg would have known exactly how to handle it—he would have lashed back and they would have had a flaming row! In a strangely contradictory way, she wished she and Rupert had rowed there and then, and to hell with the embarrassment!

But for the rest of the hour they spent at the bar, Abigail made a point of being sweetness and light itself; so much so that Greg leaned over at one point and whispered in her ear, “Be careful, or you'll go over the top!”

Abigail rewarded him with a shrivelling glance as Penelope asked, “What did you say, Greg?”

“Give the dog another biscuit,” he replied, with a deadpan face.

Abigail couldn't help it, she giggled. He looked so serious, and picking up a handful of pretzels, she started feeding them to the dog one by one.

“Pongo!” shouted the waiter, and the dog pricked up its ears, then slunk sheepishly away along the edge of the square.

“Tell him it's my fault,” pleaded Abigail, clutching hold of Greg's arm anxiously. “He didn't beg for food, I offered it.”

Greg laughed, and said something in rapid Italian to the waiter, who beamed from ear to ear and whistled the dog back, giving it a friendly cuff around the ears as it came bounding back up to the table. As he made out their bill, he continued chatting to Greg.

“What did he say?” asked Abigail when he'd gone.

“He said the dog always picks on the pretty English girls, because he knows they're soft-hearted,” answered Greg, smiling widely.

“
I'm
not soft-hearted,” said Penelope.

You can say that again, thought Abigail, biting back the words with difficulty. It seemed that neither Greg nor Rupert heard Penelope's remark, as they made no comment.

Rupert merely remarked mildly to Abigail. “You'll be partly to blame for that animal's premature middle-aged spread!”

Abigail laughed and linked her arm through his. “Dogs don't worry about their figures,” she said.

Rupert smiled down at her, and she felt some of her old happiness return. She had an over-active imagination, that was her problem, she decided. But when they reached the parked car, she wasn't certain whether or not it was her imagination that Rupert hesitated just a second before opening the door of his car for her. For a moment she had almost thought he was going to usher Penelope into the car, but then, as she told herself later, it was a natural mistake. He had arrived with Penelope, and she with Greg, but she drove back to the villa with Rupert. On the way he seemed to be his old self, explaining what he had been doing while waiting for her to arrive, and Abigail's worries evaporated—she definitely had an over-active imagination, something she would have to curb in the future.

The days passed quickly one after the other, there was so much to do, sailing, windsurfing, sightseeing, and always they ended the day sitting late into the evening on the patio, eating and drinking under a star-spangled sky.

Abigail was pleased that Rupert had finished his work for Sir Jason, and so had plenty of time to spend relaxing, although she did sometimes wish they could have more time together, just the two of them. She had hoped, after the departure of Sir Jason and Lady Orchard, that Penelope would spend more time with Greg, but it seemed that everything had always been arranged, and it was always a foursome. Rupert didn't appear to mind at all, and on the few occasions Abigail had mentioned it to him, he had said they couldn't very well be rude as they were staying in Greg's villa.

One particular morning, however, when Abigail went down to breakfast, she found herself alone on the patio. From the debris of crumbs and half-empty glasses of orange littering the table, it was obvious that everyone else had already breakfasted.

Pouring herself a glass of fresh orange juice, she wandered slowly to the edge of the patio, leaning on the balustrade overlooking the lake. Suddenly, a movement far down below caught her eye; it was Penelope and Rupert running down the slope towards the boathouse on the shore of the lake. They had their arms linked, and their laughter floated up clearly through the still morning air. Abigail bit her lip. They had obviously decided to take an early morning sail, although judging from the mirror-smoothness of the lake there wouldn't be much wind for sailing.

Turning away, she tried to ignore the feeling of emptiness in the pit of her stomach, trying to blot out the disturbing scene of Rupert and Penelope together. But it was impossible, and all the vague doubts that had been troubling her the past week returned in force, numbing her heart with unhappiness.

Suddenly she looked at the ring on her finger. The diamonds seemed to sparkle coldly in the morning sunlight. Impulsively snatching it from her finger, she held it in the palm of her hand, where it winked back at her with a mocking glitter. Unhappily she wondered what she should do, what could she do? She just didn't understand Rupert, he had wanted their marriage date brought forward, and if he had changed his mind he certainly hadn't mentioned it, although talking to him about anything had been difficult. They never seemed to be alone together.

“You'd better put that back on, you might lose it,” said a quiet voice beside her.

Startled, Abigail looked up. She'd been so engrossed in her thoughts that she hadn't heard Greg cross the patio towards her.

“I…” she began.

“Put it on,” he commanded, then added with a wry twist to his lips, “if you were thinking of throwing it over the edge in a fit of pique, I would advise against it.”

“I am
not
,” said Abigail, “given to fits of pique!” She put the ring back on her finger.

“You're thinking that Rupert is neglecting you,” began Greg.

“Certainly not,” cut in Abigail quickly—much too quickly, she realised as Greg raised an ironical eyebrow. “I didn't know he intended to go sailing this morning. I was just a little surprised.”

Maria appeared in the doorway leading from the villa to the patio, bringing out a tray of fresh bread rolls, which she placed on the breakfast table.

“Come on,” said Greg, taking Abigail's arm, and leading her away from the balustrade. “This is one advantage of taking a late breakfast, we can have fresh bread, straight from the ovens.”

Abigail walked with him, noticing for the first time how immaculate he looked in cream-coloured slacks and a pale lemon shirt which accentuated his deepening tan. “You're looking very smart this morning,” she couldn't resist saying. It was true, he usually wore jeans and a T-shirt, the most practical clothes for sailing or sightseeing.

He threw her a thoughtful glance as he said, “there is a reason, but you've obviously forgotten.”

Abigail frowned. What on earth was he talking about? “Forgotten what?” she asked.

“The visit to the hospital,” he replied. “I'm operating at Siena later today, and you're helping me, remember?”

Her hand flew guiltily to her mouth; she had completely forgotten. “I'd better get ready,” she gasped, hastily pushing back her chair.