Vets in Love (12 page)

‘Matt Warren here.’ He pauses. ‘Ah, it’s you, Nicci. Is this about the horse or is it a social call?’

‘Social,’ I say. ‘I wonder if you’d like to come round to my place for dinner one night?’ I purposely don’t include the dog in the invitation because it gives a reason for him not to stay over, which means I won’t have to go through the awkward conversation where, if he asks to stay, I have to tell him I’m not ready to sleep with him. It’s far too soon for me.

‘I’d love to,’ he says.

It takes a couple of minutes for us to synchronise our diaries and set the date.

‘I’ll see you then,’ I say, aware that I’m grinning from ear to ear. ‘Goodbye, boyfriend.’

Chapter Seven

If Wishes Were Horses

‘
DID I MENTION
I’ve invited Matt round for a romantic meal tomorrow night?’ I say to Claire as she removes the paper towel from the exam couch in the consulting room after the last patient.

‘Nicci, you know that’s the first I’ve heard of it,’ she says with irony. ‘I don’t understand why you haven’t raised the subject before.’ She gazes at me as I type up a letter of referral. ‘Have you decided what you’re going to give him?’

‘I was hoping you might be able to help me out. I need something really easy that I can do in the slow cooker, perhaps.’

‘Oh no, it’s impossible to make a stew look sexy,’ Claire says. ‘What about a meaty meal, steak and thick-cut chips?’

‘I wouldn’t feel as if I’d put enough effort in to that.’ Inside, my inner goddess suggests that there isn’t much point in putting in lots of effort when I won’t be
able to eat a thing. Matt makes me feel sick to the pit of my stomach in the nicest possible way.

‘How about oysters?’

‘I don’t think we’re in need of any aphrodisiacs,’ I say, smiling.

‘How about a chilli? Don’t give him fish – I gave my last boyfriend prawns and it turned out he was allergic to them.’ Claire chuckles ruefully. ‘It turned out he had a bad reaction to me as well.’

‘Prawns aren’t classed as fish,’ I point out.

‘I can’t believe you’re so wound up about this. It must be very serious, Nicci. You don’t offer to cook for a man if it’s just a date.’

‘For goodness sake, I thought I’d cook for him, in a friendly kind of way.’

‘Since when have you cooked for your friends? The only time you’ve invited me over was for scrambled eggs on toast.’ She pauses. ‘Dress in something hot, give Matt a glass of wine and he won’t care what he’s eating. Don’t give him garlic though. Avoid it at all costs. You don’t want garlic breath in the morning.’

‘Who says he’s staying over?’

‘He will be, won’t he?’ she says, sounding surprised.

‘I’m not ready for all that yet,’ I say. ‘It’s early days.’ I rushed in with Henry and look where it left me. ‘I want to take it slowly. I want to enjoy going out on dates and being treated like a princess.’

‘That doesn’t have to stop when you go to bed with someone,’ Claire says, appalled.

‘Well, it kind of did with Henry. Once I slept with him, he seemed to think he didn’t have to bother any more.’

‘I think you’re frightened of emotional commitment, Nicci. If I were you, I wouldn’t be worrying about dinner at all. I’d be concentrating on breakfast.’ Claire giggles. Her humour is infectious and I find myself giggling along with her. ‘Steve’s here,’ she says eventually. ‘Do you want me to send him in?’

‘I need five minutes to finish this letter – I want to do it while it’s fresh in my mind. You go and get on with whatever you’re doing. I’ll call him in when I’m ready.’ It doesn’t take long.

‘Am I glad to see you again, Doc,’ Steve says when I fetch him from reception. He walks along the corridor to the consulting room, dressed in a baggy Hawaiian-style shirt, blue cargo shorts that stop below the knee, white socks and brown sandals. ‘I really thought I was a goner.’ He takes both my hands and gives them a powerful squeeze. ‘You saved my life.’

‘Steve’s brought us chocolates,’ Claire calls from where she’s helping Mr Brown manoeuvre his wife’s wheelchair out of a tight corner between the door to the nurses’ room and a trolley-load of paper towels and various containers of surgical scrub and hand gel.

‘I didn’t manage the turn, did I?’ I overhear Mr Brown say while his wife is haranguing him about his steering.

‘It’s a jolly good job you aren’t driving. In my opinion, you should be banned,’ she says, and I smile to myself. Mr Brown is her long-suffering carer, and although she sounds terribly ungrateful they seem to love each other in an odd sort of way.

‘Come on in, Steve,’ I say, extricating myself from his grasp. ‘Take a seat. How are you?’

‘I’m well enough. I’m here for my MOT.’

‘Well enough?’ I ask, wondering what he means by that.

He shrugs. ‘I’m a bit down, but they say that’s normal for someone who’s gone through what I have.’

‘Don’t be too hard on yourself. Give it time.’ I glance through Steve’s notes on the computer and read the latest letter from the consultant. ‘Have you managed to make any changes yet? Have you started an exercise regime?’

‘What are you trying to do? Make me feel guilty?’ Steve smiles. ‘It’s all right, Doc. I know you’re trying to help. To be honest, this attack has shocked me to my senses. My daughter’s just announced her engagement and I want to be here to walk her down the aisle.’ A tear springs to his eye. ‘I want to be around to see my grandchildren. I have so much to live for, but I’m finding it really hard. I’ve fooled myself into believing I’m an active kind of man because I’m out and about every day but I’ve never done enough exercise. I’ve always been aerobically challenged.’ He forces a grin – he isn’t acting as if he’s on the stage today. ‘I’m challenged by the thought of doing anything aerobic, anything that involves wearing a leotard and breaking into a sweat, basically. I’ve tried dieting. I start every New Year’s day, without fail, but my efforts never last much after midnight on the second of January.’

‘You’ve been to see Dr Mackie before for cholesterol tests and lifestyle advice.’

‘I know, but I haven’t taken any notice. I’m afraid to say that I’m a bit of an ostrich when it comes to my health,’ he says. ‘It’s too late to say I wish I’d done things differently, isn’t it?’

‘It’s never too late to make changes,’ I counter. ‘How is the drinking?’

‘I don’t drink that much—’ he pauses ‘—I expect all your patients are in denial about the amount they drink.’

‘Do you drink alcohol once, twice or three times a week, or every day?’

‘I have my five a day.’ When I frown at him, he smiles. ‘Not really. I do get confuzzled between my drink and my fruit and veg. No, it depends. I only drink on high days and holidays, and for me, because I’m a lucky man, every day is a high day. I’d like to think that I have at least two alcohol-free days each week, and I do tend to take a couple of weeks off before Christmas to allow for the seasonal excess.’ He hesitates. ‘Do you think garlic would help?’

‘It might keep the vampires away, but it won’t do much for your arteries unless you address your weight, diet and alcohol consumption,’ I say. ‘This is serious.’

‘I know.’ He rests his pudgy hands in his lap. ‘I want to be serious, but I’m not all that good at it. When will I be able to return to the stage? Will I be fit in time for the panto season?’

‘I’d hope so. You can do whatever you like, as long as you don’t overdo it.’ I pause. ‘Steve, make sure you take advantage of all the support that’s on offer. Don’t
try to muddle through.’ I feel keenly for him – I’d like his life to end up like the traditional pantomime, happily ever after.

It’s far too soon for me to be entertaining thoughts of the happily ever after for me and Matt Warren, but I’d be lying if I claimed it hasn’t crossed my mind. I suppress the idea, blaming my overactive imagination.

I ride Willow before work on Friday morning, having made sure the house is tidy and the food is ready in the fridge. I had a brainwave and ordered fish pie, along with pre-prepared vegetables from the WI in return for a donation to one of the local charities. Mindful of Claire’s comment about unwanted reactions to eating fish, I did check with Matt and he has no allergies. All I have to do is pop it into the oven and, as Gordon Ramsay would say, ‘Done.’

Everything is going to plan, the second to last patient of the day is booking another appointment at reception and I’ve signed the last repeat prescription from the request box. I’ve arranged to visit one of my housebound patients on Monday and asked Claire to order in some vaccines for someone travelling to South Africa in the near future. I smile to myself as I pull up the waiting list on the computer. There is only one more to see, Matt is coming over for dinner and I couldn’t be happier.

You might well accuse me of paranoia, but I pick up my mobile and check for messages, just in case there’s a problem.

‘Can’t wait xMatt’

I smile to myself for being such a fool as to doubt him. Nothing is going to get in the way and ruin our first real date tonight. I glance at the clock. There are less than two hours to go.

I head out to reception to call in my last patient, but Fifi accosts me on the way.

‘I’m sorry,’ Claire says. ‘I tried to stop her, but she wouldn’t listen.’

‘This can’t wait,’ Fifi says. ‘This is an emergency. Oh, Dr Chieveley, there’s been a break-in at your home. I’ve reported it to the police, but I thought you’d want to come straight down to have a look.’

It takes a few seconds for Fifi’s news to sink in.

‘Broken into? Oh no, that’s the last thing I need.’ I feel sick. ‘There must be some mistake. It’s probably Frances,’ I go on, hoping that my neighbour has finally succumbed to temptation and had a good snoop around.

‘Frances wouldn’t do a thing like that,’ Fifi says in her defence.

‘All right, I’m sorry.’ I feel violated at the thought of a stranger entering my house and going through my possessions.

‘What can I do to help?’ Claire looks at me, her eyes wide with concern.

‘Could you let Ben know I’ve had to pop out? I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

‘Don’t worry about getting back. I can cancel your last appointment or transfer them to Ben. He won’t mind.’

‘What won’t Ben mind?’ Ben says, interrupting as he walks out of his room, a urine sample half hidden
under a piece of paper towel in his hand. ‘Claire, can you deal with this, please?’

‘Nicci’s been burgled. I said she should go.’

‘You must go, Nicci.’ Ben turns to me. ‘I’ll hold the fort.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, but one of us should come with you,’ Claire says, relieving Ben of the sample pot.

‘There’s no need. I’m here,’ Fifi interrupts. ‘The police are on their way, and they can walk from the police station in the time it takes to start a car.’

‘Well, don’t go inside until they get there. No heroics,’ Ben says.

I go back and grab my bag, my heart pounding with apprehension at what I’m going to find. I’ve been burgled once before, when I was a student in London, and it was a nightmare, but I had less to lose back then, just my bank cards, some cash and a couple of pieces of jewellery.

‘I can’t believe this is happening.’

‘Nor can I,’ says Fifi, taking the lead in her heels and flowing skirt. ‘This is the first criminal offence to be committed in Talyton St George since those boys from the new estate were caught scrumping apples from the orchard over at Uphill Farm. Never in all my time as Lady Mayoress can I remember there being a domestic burglary.’

I’m not too happy about the idea that I’m making history.

‘There was the curious case of the missing gnomes a few years ago,’ Fifi goes on. ‘They disappeared en
masse from residents’ gardens, and a few weeks later those people received postcards from all over the world, purporting to be from their gnomes, who were allegedly taking a gap year together.’

‘Did they return from their travels?’ I say rather abruptly. I’m more worried about the fate of my home than that of a few garden ornaments, but Fifi is already onto the next topic of conversation.

‘So much for the Neighbourhood Watch scheme!’ she exclaims. ‘Why was no one watching?’

I trot along, trying to keep up with her, crossing the road to find a small crowd gathered on the pavement outside the churchyard opposite my house. There’s also a police car slewed across the middle of the road with its blue light flashing and one of Talyton’s police constables, or Kevin as he’s better known, is standing behind the driver’s door, looking up at the front of the house, as if he’s ready to make a rapid getaway.

Meanwhile, Fifi holds my arm and guides me towards the house, handbag at the ready – for attack or defence, I’m not sure which. There are no signs of forced entry. In fact, the front door is wide open. My heart sinks.

‘I’ve started leaving it unlocked. What an idiot.’

‘Everyone leaves their doors unlocked,’ Fifi says. ‘It’s part of the charm of the place.’

‘Fifi,’ Kevin calls. ‘You can’t cross the cordon.’

‘What cordon?’ she says sharply. ‘I can’t see any cordon.’

‘I’m waiting for someone to fetch some tape from the
station.’ He moves around the car and joins us. ‘We believe they’re still inside.’

‘Why don’t you get in there and arrest them then?’ Fifi totters forwards, at which the policeman intercepts her.

‘Because we don’t know who they are. They might be dangerous.’

‘Oh dear. What is the world coming to?’ I assume Fifi is talking about the prospect of there being dangerous criminals in this sleepy Devon country town, but she continues, ‘What are you, Kevin? Man or mouse?’

‘It’s the rules, Fifi,’ he says, colour rising to his cheeks. ‘I’m awaiting reinforcements.’

‘Well, where are they?’ she says hotly.

‘On their way from a traffic incident. They’re just rounding up a loose horse in Talyford and putting it back in the field. They won’t be long.’

‘It’s a farce, if you ask me,’ Fifi says, brandishing her handbag. ‘Nicci, you get round to the back door. I’ll take the front. You, Kevin, follow me.’

It’s daytime, but there’s a light on in the front bedroom and the sound of pop music coming from the depths of the house.