Must Be Love (15 page)

‘Well, I’m so glad you dropped by,’ Fifi says, as if she’s reluctant to leave us. ‘I suppose I’d better leave you in peace.’

‘Please,’ Alex says firmly, reaching out over the plastic tablecloth for my hand, at which Fifi finally takes the hint and moves away. ‘Phew,’ Alex says. ‘I wanted to take you to the Barnscote, but the service there is decidedly slow.’

‘I wish we weren’t always in such a hurry,’ I say, stroking his fingers. His skin is rough and stained blue with antibiotic spray.

‘We’ll try and get away in the summer,’ Alex says, kissing the back of my hand, at which there’s a collective sigh from the table across from us. Aware someone is watching, I turn to find many pairs of eyes on us. The OAPs are smiling and nodding encouragingly.

‘Young love. How wonderful,’ one says. ‘I remember when …’

They start chattering and giggling, sharing memories of their love lives. Smiling, Alex pretends to block his ears, while I think wistfully of me and Alex on a beach, a beach in the sun with blue skies, sparkling seas and coconut trees.

‘I don’t suppose you can remember what a holiday is,’ I say lightly.

‘Yeah, I think the last time I got away was with Seb and Lucie – we had a day in Talymouth. It’s hard to take time off when you’re running your own business – you can’t shut up shop, so to speak.’

‘It’s all right. You’re preaching to the converted.’ I haven’t had a proper holiday since I took on the partnership at Otter House.

We eat lunch, chatting together, making fun of the display of gnomes on the wall and the tiny scraping of butter provided with the soup and rolls.

‘I brought Seb and Lucie up to see Santa in his grotto at Christmas,’ Alex says. ‘It was a bit of a rip-off. Santa sat in the corner of this draughty shed, asked them what they wanted for Christmas, and gave Seb a plastic car and Lucie a doll that looked as if she’d been modelled on the one in
The Exorcist
. Lucie noticed he was wearing a false beard and told everybody outside that he wasn’t the real thing, and Seb cried.’

‘I think I’d cry too if I had to sit on a stranger’s knee.’

‘Oh, they aren’t allowed to do that nowadays. It’s strictly hands-off.’ Alex rests his knife and fork across his empty plate. ‘What did you think of the food?’

‘It’s surprisingly good.’ I finish my apple juice. ‘My place or yours?’ I ask, not wanting to waste any of our precious afternoon together.

‘Mine, I think, but I want to do a bit of shopping first.’

‘Here?’

‘I’ll buy you a plant for the flat.’

‘That isn’t a good idea, Alex,’ I say, feeling a little hard done by that he’s making it so abundantly clear it’s for the flat. He hasn’t given me the merest hint yet that he might one day ask me to move in with him, and, afraid of being turned down, I haven’t raised the subject myself. I’m not sure how I’d feel if he did ask me. Happy? Excited? Scared? ‘I forget to look after them.’

‘I’ll choose something suited to desert conditions, a flowering cactus perhaps.’ Alex stands up, pulls me up and holds my jacket for me to put it on, before giving me a brief hug. Then we move on, wandering among the plants, hand in hand, and I think how I could get used to doing all the ordinary, everyday things with Alex. I only hope I always make him as happy as he makes me.

Chapter Eight

A Positive Diagnosis

Two weeks have passed since Shannon found Ginge’s stash, and he’s calmed down and started to put on weight. I’m starting to dare to hope that he’ll be with me for a few months more yet. Every day I sit in the staffroom with him on my lap, tickling his chin until I’m absolutely sure he’s swallowed his tablet, and thinking this must be a bit like having a baby, and how I haven’t got the patience, not like Emma.

Shannon, all glossy lips and sheep’s eyes, has continued her pursuit of Drew. She’s like a dancing dog doing heelwork with its owner. She’s usually to be found glued to Drew’s side, turning, stopping and speaking whenever Drew does, her attention entirely focused on him, and hanging on to every word.

‘It’ll end in tears,’ says Frances when I join her in Reception, having checked that Ginge isn’t spitting his tablets out behind the sofa. Shannon passes through in a flippy skirt, low-cut top and ballerina pumps, her long naked limbs textured with goosebumps, her hair still damp from the shower. ‘He could be married for all we know.’

‘What you mean is, for all he tells us.’ I can’t help smiling. Frances would disapprove of Drew far less if he’d just get on and give her his life story so she could pass it on to everyone else. ‘Hurry up and get changed,’ I tell Shannon.

‘All right, Maz. Keep your hair on.’

‘You’re helping me this morning,’ I say quickly, in case she has designs on spending all day with Drew.

‘I’ll be with you in a minute,’ she says, apparently thinking better of arguing this particular point.

‘It’s nice to see Shannon’s coming out of her shell, though,’ Frances observes, ‘even if she is getting a bit cheeky with it.’

‘Is Drew in yet?’ I ask.

‘I don’t know how you missed him – he’s under the stairs with Izzy. He admitted a cat with flu to Isolation last night – Izzy’s hand-feeding it.’

I thought I could smell fish; despite having been vegetarian for years, my mouth starts watering.

‘I don’t know about that poor cat, but Drew’s got both those nurses eating out of his hand,’ Frances goes on. ‘I’m quite surprised at Izzy.’

‘She says she likes having a man about the practice. She says everything feels more relaxed, and he’s useful for lifting big dogs,’ I say, wishing I felt as relaxed about having Drew working here as she does.

‘Oh, Maz, I’ve got something for you,’ Frances says, gazing at me.

I find myself gazing back, awaiting clarification. What is it? Lab results? Another jar of home-made chutney? (I already have four jars stashed in the flat, unopened. It’s delicious, but you can have too much of a good thing.) The date for the next WI meeting? (She’s still trying to persuade me to join.)

‘I can see you’re intrigued,’ Frances goes on, a smile playing on her lips. ‘Come on, you must have some idea. An inkling?’

‘Frances, I can safely say I have no idea at all,’ I say as she slides a package across the desk towards me.

‘Oh?’ At least it isn’t chutney … I pick it up, a white paper bag with a pharmacy symbol on the front. ‘What is it?’

‘Don’t you come over all vague with me, Maz Harwood. You’re the vet,’ Frances says sternly. ‘You’re always telling me not to make a diagnosis –’

‘Not so often recently,’ I cut in, remembering the times I’ve had to stop her diving in and prescribing treatments of her own. I thought we were past that.

‘But I don’t know what else I can do in this case. You’re in the family way,’ she whispers, as I open the bag and peer inside. ‘You’re pregnant.’

It takes me a moment to take in what she’s saying. Me? Pregnant?

‘I’m not’ – it’s as if there’s a small bird trapped in my chest, fluttering its wings in panic – ‘I can’t be.’

‘Maz, I’m rarely wrong about these things.’

‘It’s impossible,’ I say, a little riled by her conviction and the coy tilt of her head.

‘Young Mr Fox-Gifford might be a gentleman, but he’s also a red-blooded –’

‘Frances, that’s enough. The whole idea is ridiculous.’ I cover my ears. My body is pounding, my head, my eardrums, my heart, yet I can still hear Frances going on at me. ‘Please. This isn’t funny.’

‘I’ve had my suspicions for a while.’

‘How long?’

‘Four, five weeks.’

‘You can’t know someone’s pregnant that early,’ I say, thinking that if there’s the tiniest chance I am pregnant, then it happened on New Year’s Day. On the morning Alex and I watched Astra leave for London with Lucie and Sebastian. I drank too much the night before, forgot to take my contraceptive Pill because I’d left the packet in my bag back at Otter House …

‘So you do admit there is a possibility,’ Frances says.

‘No,’ I say. I feel sick with worry – or is it morning sickness? ‘No, I don’t.’

‘I knew my daughter-in-law was pregnant almost straight away. Three weeks gone, she was. She was exhausted, nauseous and, like you, she had a certain translucence about her.’

‘Frances, sometimes you talk a load of nonsense,’ I say, at which she reaches out and pats me on the back of the hand, saying, ‘You get on and do that test. Prove me wrong, if nothing else.’

I’m not doing it just to humour you, I think, as I take the bag and hide it in one of the drawers in the consulting room, pushing it right back behind the muzzles and leather gauntlets. I’m not pregnant, but now Frances has suggested it, the idea is taking root in my brain, like an embryo embedding itself into the lining of a womb.

The sick feeling I have in the pit of my stomach is fading and I’m beginning to think I could do with a snack. (I skipped breakfast.) So I can’t possibly be pregnant, can I? Except I can’t face a cereal bar or a chocolate biscuit. What I really fancy is a big soft white roll stuffed with grated cheese and green tomato chutney … I suppress the thought that it might be a craving and give myself a mental dressing-down. It’s nothing. Yes, I am exceptionally tired, and with Frances’s outrageous suggestion that I’m pregnant, my mind’s playing tricks on me. I force myself to focus on my work instead.

‘I thought we might practise methods of restraint today,’ I say, when Shannon turns up to help me out with the morning’s consults.

I wish I’d practised restraint back on New Year’s Day. Then there wouldn’t be any doubt. I clutch the edge of the table, clinging to normality by the tips of my fingers. As with Ginge, the drugs don’t work if you don’t take them.

‘Aurora’s here with Saba,’ Shannon says. ‘Maz, did you hear me?’

‘Yes, thank you.’ I collect myself and my stethoscope, as Aurora strolls in with Saba bouncing about on the end of her lead.

I notice immediately that Saba’s put on weight since I last saw her, and I become aware of the waistband of my trousers pressing into my stomach.

‘She keeps begging for food,’ Aurora says, helping me lift Saba onto the table. ‘Is that a good sign?’

It is if a positive diagnosis is what you want, I think, as I feel along Saba’s abdomen, catching the scent of perfume on her coat. There are marbles, two strings of them, equivalent to four or five puppies developing in each of the two horns of the womb. And here I am worrying I might be pregnant with just one offspring.

‘Congratulations.’ I force a smile, determined not to let my personal life interfere with my work. ‘Don’t let her eat for eight, will you?’

‘I’m so excited. I’m going to be a grandmother.’ Aurora kisses Saba and Saba licks her face, while I check that her jabs and worming are up to date. ‘When are the puppies due?’

‘In about six weeks’ time.’

‘Six weeks?’ Aurora says, aghast.

‘It isn’t very long, compared with a person,’ Shannon cuts in.

‘It isn’t,’ I agree. A bitch doesn’t have time to think about being pregnant. Nine weeks. A blink and it’s all over and done with. And then, when the puppies are eight weeks old, that’s the end of the bitch’s commitment and they’re off to their new homes for someone else to bring up!

‘I hope your daddy’s going to be as happy about this as we are.’ Aurora gives Saba another kiss. ‘I’m not sure how I’m going to break the news that we won’t be going to St Tropez until later in the year.’

I glance down at the front of my tunic and suck in my stomach. I wish I could be as excited about the prospect of the pattering of tiny feet. As it is, I’m terrified. I fight back the tears that spring to my eyes, afraid of appearing unprofessional in front of Aurora. I feel like an emotional wreck.

‘Where are you off to?’ Emma catches me on my way up to the flat for lunch.

‘Oh, I thought I’d do a bit of reading, look up a couple of courses, that kind of thing,’ I say, subdued.

‘It’s difficult to find time to keep up to date when you’ve got your own practice,’ Emma says lightly. ‘Have you looked at last week’s
Vet Practice
? There are some interesting developments in topical treatments for allergic skin disease.’

‘Will do,’ I say, although my mind is on other possible interesting developments of my own. ‘You didn’t want me for anything else?’

‘Not unless you want to write the next letter to Mr Victor – I think this will be the last one. We’ve agreed on a suitable sum for compensation for his and the Captain’s pain and distress because of the wing-clipping incident at last.’

‘That seems a bit unfair – the Captain was loving it.’

‘It isn’t much. It’ll buy a few bottles of wine and a couple of kilos of lychees. As Mr Victor keeps saying, it isn’t the money, it’s the principle.’ Emma pauses. ‘Maz, would you mind terribly starting on Drew’s appointments at two-thirty? I’ve got a load of admin and Drew’s still operating. He’s got the two dentals to go.’

‘Of course I don’t mind, but what’s he been doing all morning? He didn’t have all that much on.’

Emma gives me a rueful smile. ‘He didn’t until you admitted the suture pad and the blocked bladder.’

I smile back, musing on how odd it is that we describe our patients by their medical conditions.

‘Are we overloading him?’ I ask. ‘Can Drew cope?’

‘Pretty well, I should say. He’s been here over two weeks and no great disasters so far – apart from the Captain. The clients love him – they’re really won over with his bedside manner, the women anyway.’ Emma stares at me. ‘Are you okay? You’re looking pale. You aren’t worrying about the weekend already, are you?’

‘If you mean the riding lesson, I’ve hardly thought about it.’ My fingers touch the paper bag in my pocket, my way of sneaking it upstairs.

‘Have you got a hat?’

‘Hat?’

‘For riding, you idiot.’ Emma grins.

‘Alex is supposed to be taking me shopping.’

‘Ah well, he knows how to show a girl a good time.’

‘I hope you aren’t being sarcastic,’ I say curtly.

‘Frances said you were a bit touchy today.’

‘I’m fine. It was busy last night.’ And then I think, Why did I say that? I wasn’t on call last night. Drew was, but Emma doesn’t appear to have twigged that I’m fibbing.