The Real Christmas Message. Sharon KendrickЧитать онлайн книгу.
a touch bitterly, as she pushed the wire trolley round the brightly lit supermarket. And poor Dr Cunningham had been rushed off his feet—it wasn’t good at his age. So what alternative did she have but to offer to do the shopping for him?
She put a packet of figs into the already loaded trolley and added one of dates for good measure. Dr Cunningham had invited her to join them for Christmas lunch—and then promptly asked if she’d mind cooking it!
‘Would you mind, my dear?’ he had asked tentatively. ‘He’s worked for so many Christmases, and so have I. I’d like to make this one to remember.’
Lara would have found the request difficult to resist anyway, but, coupled with the fact that she still had a ridiculously strong schoolgirlish crush on the man in question. . . Her smile was huge as she nodded her agreement.
Days began to be ticked off on the calendar.
On the twentieth of December, a baby almost died from the whooping cough and had to be admitted to the hospital as an emergency.
‘Baby Rawlins is touch and go,’ said Dr Cunningham, his face grave.
Mrs Rawlins’ husband was being flown home from his RAF base the following morning.
‘I’ll go and sit with his wife at the hospital,’ promised Lara.
Dr Cunningham’s eyes shone. ‘You’re a good girl, Lara,’ he said.
‘Nonsense,’ she said briskly, and began to button up her gabardine.
On the twenty-first, young Alicia le Saux was rushed to hospital with appendicitis and Mrs Donaldson discovered that she was pregnant. Lara was in surgery with Dr Cunningham when he announced the result of the urine test.
‘It’s positive,’ he said gruffly. ‘You’re going to have a baby.’
Lara had to provide wads of tissues for the woman to dry her eyes and blow her nose. At the end of surgery Dr Cunningham found a bottle of port waiting for him on the reception desk. The Donaldsons had been trying for a baby for over ten years.
On the twenty-second, a woman of twenty-four was recalled because her cervical smear showed that there had been pre-cancerous changes.
On the twenty-third there was a succession of sore throats, and so many parents who were anxious about the whooping cough brought their children in with non-existent ‘sniffles’ that Lara thought she would scream.
On the twenty-fourth, old Mr Parker finally died, after a long and debilitating illness. And Nick Cunningham arrived.
He had not been expected so early. Surgery had finished at midday, and Lara had offered to help make the house presentable. Dr Cunningham had a cleaner, but it was the little touches which made a house home, especially at Christmas, and Lara bustled around hanging holly, buying a tree to decorate with all the baubles which they’d fished out of the attic. She could see that Dr Cunningham was getting quite unusually excited.
She was standing on a chair, positioning the voileclad fairy on the top of the tree, when she heard the distant peal of a doorbell. She imagined it to be a patient, or a neighbour, but then she heard exclamations of obvious joy, and she knew that it was Nick.
It was not how she had planned it to be, their reunion. She had spent the afternoon in the kitchen, preparing a beef Wellington and making batch after batch of mince pies. Consequently, the heavy golden hair was drawn back in a severe ponytail, her un-made-up face was pink and shiny, and there was a smear of pastry on one cheek. Her jeans were faded and old, and a button of the old shirt she wore had come undone near the waist, showing a glimpse of summer-brown midriff.
She turned round just as he walked into the room, a few large flakes of snow glittering on the coalblack wavy hair, just as they had all those years ago. He was less tall than she remembered, but still a head above his father, and the hair now had the odd streak of silver-grey at the temples. The face too, was older, but even more handsome, if that were possible—the lines around the blue-grey eyes showed a new maturity.
He stood, framed in the oak doorway, staring at her, an unsure expression flitting across the craggy features.
And then he smiled, and it was like the sun coming out. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘You must be. . .’
Her welcoming expression froze for a split second. ‘I’m Lara King,’ she replied calmly. ‘Your father’s nurse. We spoke on the phone.’
The smile widened. ‘Yes, of course. Pleased to meet you, Lara.’
She climbed down from the chair, moving a piece of tinsel away from the back of it, hoping that he wouldn’t notice her high colour.
Of course he wouldn’t remember her—why the hell should he? They hadn’t even been introduced, had they? And everyone said she didn’t look like the same girl any more. A three-minute dance with a fat and blushing schoolgirl nearly seven years ago hardly merited the description of something he would never forget, now did it?
Her smile had about a quarter of its usual radiance, but she managed a pretty fair imitation of it, and was about to speak when there was some commotion just behind him.
In came Dr Cunningham, and behind him a woman.
The woman moved elegantly into the room, taking in the scene of the young girl by the Christmas tree standing gazing wide-eyed at the dark doctor on whose arm she now laid an authoritative beige kid glove.
To Lara, she seemed the palest woman she had ever seen. Pale blonde hair and pale pink lips and nails. Pale grey eyes. Even her clothes were pale. A beige coat of the softest leather, with cuffs and collar in some pale fur. Lara chewed on her lip just a little—fancy having the nerve to wear fur in this day and age!
The woman was speaking now; she had a low, American drawl. ‘Cat got your tongue, Nick? Aren’t you going to introduce me?’
For the briefest moment he actually looked uncertain, something which somehow surprised Lara, then came that smile again.
‘This is Lara King, my father’s nurse. Lara, this is Annabel Hummerstone—my fiancée.’
THIS wasn’t how it was supposed to happen at all, thought Lara, as she moved forward automatically to shake the immaculately manicured hand, from which the glove had now been removed to reveal a huge, sparkling diamond solitaire ring.
She made polite small talk, but as soon as she could she excused herself and left, heading off home on her rusty old bicycle, refusing all offers of a lift from both Cunningham doctors, and sure she saw a smile of relief on the face of the stunningly beautiful Annabel.
She spent Christmas Eve in the pub, with some Mends she’d known since schooldays, and they piled out at midnight, singing and laughing and jostling as the bells from the church in the square began to chime. Lara slipped in quietly at the back for midnight mass and offered up a prayer that she wouldn’t be so selfish as to spend the festive season wishing above all else that Nick Cunningham hadn’t come home with a fiancée.
On the twenty-fifth, she arrived at Dr Cunningham’s house to find herself greeted by Nick, and her cheeks went pink.
‘Where is everyone?’ she asked.
‘Annabel’s still in bed.’ Lara tried very hard not to wince. ‘And my father’s taken the dogs out. You’re nice and early.’
‘I’m cooking lunch,’ she said defensively.
He grinned. ‘Not yet, you’re not! Come and have a glass of champagne.’
‘Isn’t it too early?’ she protested, not sure if she wanted to spend any more time alone with him than was absolutely necessary.
‘Nonsense! It’s Christmas. And, what’s more, you’re not cooking the lunch like some Dickensian character—you’re going to get some help!’