Once More, With Feeling. Caroline Anderson

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СКАЧАТЬ lifted his glass, condensation beaded on the outside, fogging the pale beer. ‘Here’s to a long and happy partnership,’ he murmured.

      His eyes were in shadow, but she sensed the intensity of his gaze. Was he talking about the practice? Or them? She didn’t dare ask.

      She lifted her glass, dropping her eyes to the contents. Silently she drank, the chilled wine soothing her tight throat.

      ‘So,’ she said eventually, ‘tell me about Ann Blake and this affair.’

      ‘Ah.’ He set his glass down precisely in the centre of a beermat and squared it up with the edge of the table. The task seemed to require an inordinate amount of attention.

      ‘Richard Wellcome is a local farmer. He and his wife are patients of mine. His wife, Jenny, has MS and is in a pretty sorry way. She hasn’t had much in the way of remission, and I don’t think she will. She’s getting increasingly spastic—she’s on Baclofen to combat it, but it’s a bit of a juggling act because it makes her very sleepy, and she keeps dropping things. Last week it was a cup of tea. Luckily it wasn’t too hot or she could have had a nasty scald.’

      ‘Poor woman.’

      ‘Mmm. And Richard, of course, is having a hard time. The farm’s not doing too well, and he’s hiding the real situation from Jenny because he doesn’t want to worry her. What with one thing and another, I’m not surprised he’s having an affair.’

      ‘Do you condone it?’ Emily asked sharply.

      He sighed. ‘Don’t be judgemental, Emily. Life’s hard. We take what ease we can. If Ann helps him to cope, then so be it.’

      ‘But her own marriage is in ruins as a result.’

      ‘Her marriage has been in ruins for years. Women don’t have affairs with other women’s husbands if everything’s rosy at home. She was ripe for the picking.’

      ‘And that justifies it?’

      He shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

      She felt anger stir her, an old, familiar anger remembered from their earlier fights. It shocked her, but she couldn’t help responding to it.

      ‘David, you can’t just accept it like that. You should encourage her to seek help, to go to Relate and find a solution—’

      ‘Why? I’m their doctor, not their priest.’

      ‘But you should treat the whole person.’

      ‘You’re assuming that infidelity is an illness. You can’t interfere in people’s lives, Emily. That’s not what you’re there for.’

      ‘But what about the child?’ she argued.

      ‘What about her? They’ll sort themselves out, one way or another.’

      She let out her breath on a whoosh. ‘I can’t believe you’re that callous.’

      ‘I’m not callous,’ he reasoned. ‘I just know my limitations. Medically speaking, Richard Wellcome is the one with the need. He’s a depressive—and if Ann Blake acts as an antidepressant that helps him through his life, then who am I to take her away from him? Besides, if he can cope, then Jenny can stay at home, which is what she wants. She was born there; technically it’s her farm. Richard was employed by her father to work the farm once he became too ill to manage it any more. I think he feels that quite keenly.’

      ‘And if it’s going badly, that’s quite a responsibility.’

      ‘Exactly. It’s a hell of a coil, Emily. You’re better off having as little to do with it as possible.’ He tipped back his head and drained his glass, his throat bobbing as he swallowed.

      Emily watched, transfixed. He set the glass down. ‘Another one?’

      She shook her head. ‘No, I don’t think so. I ought to be getting back; I’m quite tired.’

      ‘You’ve had a busy day,’ he said softly, and, helping her into her coat again, he ushered her out of the door.

      They were silent on the journey back, and when he pulled up outside her cottage she reached immediately for the handle.

      Her mouth, however, was on his side.

      ‘Coffee?’ she found herself asking.

      ‘In a minute.’

      His hand on her shoulder turned her back towards him, and in the light from the porch she could see need glittering in his eyes.

      She knew he was going to kiss her before he reached for her—before the warmth of his arms enfolded her against his chest, before the softness of his lips brushed against hers once, twice, before settling firmly against her mouth. One of them sighed, a ragged, broken sigh of remembrance, and then thoughts fled, lost in the heat that flared between them as their mouths met and melded, locked in a passion as old as time.

      After an age he lifted his head and stared down at her, his eyes dark. ‘You taste the same,’ he whispered wonderingly.

      ‘So do you.’

      Her voice was fractured, scrapy. She eased away from him, needed room to order her thoughts.

      ‘Coffee, I think,’ he said, and his voice was ragged too.

      She had forgotten her offer of coffee, but it was too late now to take it back.

      They got out of the car and went in.

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