Questions Of Trust: A Medical Romance (12 page)

He was typing up some notes one-handed while sipping his coffee when he heard the buzzing from his jacket where it hung behind the door. He hurried over and fished out his phone, looked at the caller ID.

Rebecca.

His heart sinking, he considered ignoring it. He was, after all, at work. But it would prey on his mind all morning and put him off his stride. Reluctantly he thumbed the button.

‘Hello, Rebecca.’

At first he thought there was nobody there, that the indistinct sound he heard was static. Then he realised it was breathing, high and laboured.

‘Tom?’ a woman’s voice whispered. He barely recognised it as his former wife’s.

‘Rebecca? What’s –’

‘Tom, I need your help.’ It came out as a whispered sob. ‘I’ve done something silly.’

He felt coldness claw at his stomach, his throat. ‘Rebecca, where are you?’

‘At –’ Her voice choked off, then resumed. ‘At the Jubilee Inn. Somerset Road.’

Tom knew it, one of the town’s small collection of hotels. ‘What have you done, Rebecca?’

‘I’m… sick. I need help.’

‘I’m calling an ambulance.’

‘
No.’
It came out forcefully, despite the weakness of her voice. ‘I don’t need that. But I need you to come round, Tom. Right away.’

‘Tell me what you’ve done, Rebecca.’ He tried to keep the desperation from his voice.

‘Just come, Tom. Please. I need your help.’

She rang off.

Tom stood, gripped by indecision. His instinct was to call an ambulance anyway. But what would he tell the dispatcher?
Hello, it’s Dr Tom Carlyle. I need you to send an ambulance to my former wife, who’s in some sort of trouble, though I don’t know what it is.
They’d probably send an ambulance anyway, because they knew and trusted Tom. But how humiliating would it be if Rebecca turned out to be unharmed, to have wasted everyone’s time.

On the other hand, she had sounded genuinely distressed. Tom pulled on his jacket and his mind raced through the possibilities. Had she taken an overdose, cut her wrists, or something even worse? She’d always been an emotional, impulsive person, but he’d never known her to harm herself before.

Or – and panic seized him at the thought – had she taken Kelly form the nursery, genuinely done so this time? He fumbled for his phone once more, hitting the wrong button and having to try again. The deputy manager answered this time, not Megan.

‘Yes, Kelly’s fine, Dr Carlyle,’ the girl said chirpily. ‘Is anything wrong?’

‘No – no, just being an overanxious parent,’ he breathed. ‘Thanks, Charlene.’

‘Charmaine.’

‘Charmaine. Sorry.’

Tom met Ben at the reception desk and, without giving any details, asked if Ben could cover him for an hour as he had a family emergency. The older doctor nodded, his brow furrowed in concern.

‘Of course. I owe you big time, anyway, for yesterday. What’s up?’

‘Tell you later. Thanks.’ Tom waved to Tracey, indicating that Ben would explain, and walked out as calmly as he could, only starting to run as he got nearer to his car. On the way he thumbed Rebecca’s number in. Six rings, and her voicemail kicked in, her tone cool and brisk, and not at all like the distraught, choking quaver he’d heard a few minutes earlier.

Oh, Rebecca
, he thought as he started the engine.
What have you done now?

***

Chloe too had spent the morning immersed in work, as much to prevent her weary brain and body from succumbing to sleep as to fend off further brooding thoughts about the encounter between Tom and her the night before.

Her day began with an early call from the town council offices. Yes, the deputy leader of the council was willing to meet her to discuss the problems on the Stratwell estate – could she make Friday, the day after tomorrow? Chloe said she could. After the call ended she sat for a few moments, a small fist of elation clenched in her chest. She’d done it; she’d secured an interview with the notoriously uncommunicative and press-shy council. And with a senior representative, too.

The first thing Chloe did was telephone Mike Sellers, her editor. He erupted with delight, embarrassing but pleasing her.

‘Chloe,’ he said, ‘how up to date are you on libel law?’

‘It’s been a while since I went over it,’ she admitted. This was the first investigative journalism she’d done in a long time, and she needed to refresh her knowledge of what could be committed safely to print and what couldn’t. the residents of the Stratwell estate had told her they were considering legal action against the council for negligence and breach of contract, and every word the
Pemberham Gazette
published about the case would be subject to the most painstaking scrutiny by both parties. Chloe couldn’t afford to mess it up.

‘In that case,’ said Mike, ‘I’d better set up a meeting for you with our solicitor. Just to brief you on the dos and don’ts.’ He went off the line for a moment, then came back. ‘He’s coming round to the office this morning, as it happens. Is there any chance you could meet him here?’

Mrs McFarland was only too willing to help with looking after Jake, and so, a little under ninety minutes later, Chloe found herself at the
Gazette
’s offices, in conversation with the paper’s lawyer, an amiable, owlish man wearing a dapper bow tie.

He took her through the finer points of the law, and of current custom, and Chloe made notes, learning a few new things along the way. At the end the solicitor smiled and spread his hands.

‘Anything else I can help you with, Ms Edwards?’

‘No thanks. You’ve been very helpful.’ As he was rising, a thought struck her. ‘Actually, there is something.’

He sat back down again, waited expectantly.

Chloe said, ‘It’s probably not your specialist field, but can you tell me a bit about child custody law?’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘You’re right, it’s not my area. But I do know a little about it. What would you like to know?’

Chloe hadn’t prepared a list of questions, something she now regretted. She thought for a moment, and said: ‘How common is it for custody agreements to be changed, or challenged, more than a year after the parents have separated?’

‘Fairly common for a challenge to occur. Time changes people’s perspectives.’

‘And how often are such challenges successful?’

‘That depends on the individual circumstances.’ The solicitor shrugged. ‘For a court to agree to the other parent taking over custody, there has to be substantial evidence that the new environment will be a stable, supportive one. Especially if the current one is considered solid.’

Chloe nodded.

‘Or,’ the solicitor went on, ‘the courts may support a change of custody if new information comes to light that indicates the current custody holder is of unsuitable character in some way. For example, if a previously undiscovered criminal record is made known.’

‘I see.’ Chloe was lost in thought for a moment. The lawyer coughed discreetly, and Chloe stood up, offering her hand.

‘Forgive me. You probably need to get going. Thank you so much.’

‘Ms Edwards,’ he said delicately, ‘is there, ah, something that you need help with? I can recommend a top-notch colleague of mine.’

‘Oh, no. It’s not about me.’ She smiled. ‘A friend, that’s all.’

As she headed back to her own car, Chloe mused on what the solicitor had told her.
Substantial evidence that the new environment will be a stable and supportive one…
By the sound of it, although Rebecca and her partner were financially well off, their jetsetting lifestyle wasn’t conducive to bringing up a small child. And Chloe didn’t get the impression Rebecca was the most emotionally stable person, though of course Tom might be biased.

On the other hand, the lawyer had said evidence of the current custody holder’s character might count against him. Chloe couldn’t believe Tom had a criminal past, and from what she’d seen he was an excellent, caring father and one in whom it would be difficult if not impossible to find evidence of unfitness to raise a child.

Both of these factors suggested to Chloe that if Rebecca did decide to apply to the courts to gain custody of Kelly, she’d be on shaky ground. Tom probably had nothing to worry about in the end, however painful and unpleasant legal proceedings might be while they were going on.

Only when she was halfway home did it occur to Chloe that she hadn’t considered just why she was thinking about the subject in the first place. Hadn’t she decided last night that the best course of action for both her and Tom was for her to stay out of his life as far as possible? Didn’t that mean not involving herself in his legal battles any more than in his emotional life?

Perhaps it was merely the presence of the lawyer in front of her that had prompted her to ask the questions she had. But Chloe didn’t think so. She knew that part of her, a powerful, unignorable part, still wanted to help Tom, regardless of what her head told her was the sensible thing to do.

Anyway, if he had as cut and dried a legal case as it appeared, he really didn’t need Chloe’s help any more, assuming he ever had needed it in the first place. She wouldn’t mention to him, whenever it was they next spoke, that she’d made enquiries about the legal aspects. He might think it was none of her business, that she’d overstepped the mark. Only if he approached her asking for help would she offer it, and gladly.

Feeling she’d reached some sort of compromise between her feelings and what the logical part of her brain told her was the advisable course of action, Chloe focused her attention on the task before her, which was to prepare for her interview with the deputy leader of the town council the day after tomorrow. After picking up Jake from Margaret McFarland, Chloe returned to work at her computer with a renewed sense of purpose, the events of the night before having faded if not to a distant memory than to background in her mind.

***

Tom’s imagination ran amuck on his way to the hotel, and by the time he got there he half expected to see a scene from one of those forensic crime dramas playing itself out, with ambulances and police technicians crawling all over the hotel in protective plastic suits. But the building sat there peacefully, quaintly built in Cotswold stone to enhance the local tourist experience.

He pulled the Ford into the small parking lot and noticed Rebecca’s red Mercedes in one of the bays. Trying not to hurry too obviously, Tom strode to the front doors and negotiated the lobby, crowded with display stands advertising local tourist attractions.

At the front desk he said to the woman, ‘I’m here to visit Rebecca Carlyle, please.’ He suddenly wondered if she still went by that surname or had reverted to her maiden name. She and her man, Andrew, hadn’t married yet.

The receptionist checked the register, an old-fashioned book rather than a computer file. ‘Yes, I’ll ring up. Who shall I say is asking?’

‘Tom Carlyle. Her husband.’ He realised only afterwards what he’d said.
A Freudian slip.
 

The woman picked up the phone and after a moment said, ‘Room 21. Second floor.’

Tom took the stairs two at a time, his heart hammering. She was alive, that much he knew. Outside her door he paused, listening. Then he chided himself for his behaviour, raised a fist and knocked.

‘Come in, it’s open.’

Her voice was muffled through the door and he couldn’t read its tone. Tom stepped inside, preparing himself for the worst. At the very least he expected to smell booze.

The room was dim, the curtains drawn. Rebecca was sitting on the edge of the bed, fully dressed, gazing at him. Her face wasn’t puffy from crying, as he’d anticipated. In fact she looked radiant. As she stood up he noticed her perfectly applied makeup, her artfully groomed blonde tresses of hair.

Tom waited just inside the door. ‘Rebecca, what’s going on?’

‘I wanted to see you in person, Tom.’ Her voice was different from how it had been on the phone. It was low, husky, without the choking quality of earlier. She took a step towards him.

‘You said you’d done something,’ he said. ‘Something… silly.’

‘I didn’t think you’d agree to see me otherwise, Tom. I had to say something to get your attention.’ Her voice was so low it was almost a whisper. Somehow she’d glided until she was an arm’s reach from Tom. She was wreathed in a subtle perfume he didn’t recognise, a musky aroma that seemed to seep from her pores. Tom couldn’t help staring at her. She was wearing a white silk dress, simple yet expensive looking, that clung to her figure, accentuating the curves of her hips and her slender thighs beneath. The neckline was low cut, her cleavage a deep shadow in the scoop. As she stepped close, he could see that her golden tan extended down the smooth slopes of her breasts, suggesting exposure to the sun unimpeded by a bikini top.

As if reading his mind, Rebecca breathed, ‘It’s everywhere, Tom. This tan.
All
over.’

Her scent, her mesmerising voice, caused the breath to cloy in his throat. He felt a tightening in his groin. She’d always been able to do this to him, to captivate him utterly as though he were a hapless sixteen-year-old in thrall to his hormones. Their lovemaking, before their wedding and in the early years afterwards, had been torrid, leaving Tom simultaneously drained and hungry for more, day after day.