More Than Time. Caroline AndersonЧитать онлайн книгу.
for her mission. Oliver, your wife has just admitted a patient for appendicectomy. Whose list is he going on?’
‘Mine. I came up to see him. Where is he?’
She glared at Oliver, her eyes furious. ‘In Bay One. Dr Haig is with him.’
‘Lizzi, I’m sorry——’
‘So you should be!’ She slapped the case file into his hands.
With a shrug, Oliver left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
Ross picked up his jacket and hooked it over his shoulder on one finger, running the other hand through his hair.
‘Lizzi, I’m sorry, it was my fault. I shouldn’t have asked him about you, but I was curious——’
‘How dare you pry into my life? It is private—I won’t be discussed like some tacky pin-up just to satisfy your idle curiosity!’
Lizzi realised that she was flushed, her fists clenched, her chest rising and falling rapidly as her anger got the better of her. Forcing her hands to relax, she struggled for control of her temper and met Ross’s eyes challengingly. His lips firmed, and his eyes flashed angrily for a second, and then another emotion flared, just as strong but somehow more shocking, and Lizzi had to turn away.
She held her breath as his almost silent footsteps took him to the door, then he paused.
Thank you for the toast and coffee. It’s a long time since a beautiful woman’s cooked my breakfast—and, for the record, my curiosity wasn’t idle. I had every intention of acting on it.’
He left her rooted to the spot, speechless.
LIZZI had forgotten about her bump in the car park. By the time she got back to her car at the end of the day, the relentless routine of the busy surgical unit had driven everything else out of her mind. Now, though, she was reminded that there could be a nasty confrontation ahead later that night, and she sighed.
The confrontation wouldn’t be improved, she realised, by the fact that the offending car had also been wheel-clamped by the ground staff. She was surprised that it was still here. She was torn between smug self-satisfaction and pity, but her urge to take the note off the windscreen was snookered by the fact that it was already missing.
Perhaps the owner had been back already and was now trying to find a porter to release the wheel-clamp? Anxious to avoid a physical battle with the seething driver, Lizzi made her escape and drove home.
The bungalow was silent, with the sort of silence that meant emptiness. Her mother was out—Lizzi remembered that it was her watercolour class that afternoon, and she always went back to her friend’s house for the evening afterwards. Lizzi would be alone all evening, and in her present mood it was probably for the best.
She felt restless, disorientated and unaccountably depressed. No, not unaccountably, she thought bitterly. Michael Holden, the irresponsible young drunk driver, was largely to blame. Did Ross really believe she thought he had got his just deserts? Was she really so hard? Or just too vulnerable? It didn’t matter. There was nothing she could do to change things.
Lizzi went along to her bedroom and undressed, pulling on clean jeans and a soft sweater the same colour as her eyes. As she sat at the dressing-table to brush out her hair, her eyes strayed to the photo in the silver frame propped up beside the mirror.
A young man with laughing eyes looked out at her, his carefree smile showing a row of even white teeth. One of the top ones was chipped slightly—Lizzi remembered how he had come back from a rugby match with a swollen lip and she had chided him gently while she put ice on it.
Suddenly her eyes filled and she picked up the photo and held it to her chest as the tears spilt down her cheeks.
‘Why did you leave me? I’m lonely now,’ she whispered. She bit her lip and fought down the sobs. ‘They call me the Ice Maiden, David. But I’m not really, am I? Why can’t they just leave me alone?’
She rested her cheek against the cold glass, and gradually the tears slowed and stopped.
She put the picture back, rubbing the tearstains off the glass with her sleeve as she did so, then she blew her nose, wiped her eyes and went into the kitchen to cook herself something light for supper.
There was nothing on television, and the book she picked up couldn’t hold her attention. She lit the gas fire to ward off the chill, and curled up on the settee with her feet tucked under her bottom. She felt cold inside, filled with a sort of dread that she couldn’t place. Was it because she was waiting for the phone call from the irate driver of the Daimler, or was it because tomorrow she had to go back and face Ross and Oliver after her fit of temper? However justified, her harsh words didn’t make for a happy ward.
With a deep sigh she wriggled further down the settee, propping her chin on her hand and staring into the hissing fire. Her mother wouldn’t be back for hours, and she really couldn’t justify going to bed at six-thirty!
Anyway, when her mother got back she would need help to prepare for bed, so there was no point.
Suddenly Lizzi realised just how blank and empty her life was. The reason she never talked about it at work was that there genuinely was nothing to talk about. By not talking about it, she was hiding that nothingness—from herself as well as her colleagues. True, she had her mother, and she was needed in her way, but all the normal things that people of her age took for granted were missing from her life. Her time was reasonably full, but her heart was empty. No man, no social life, no children—angrily she dashed aside the tears and stood up. No point in sitting moping.
She got out the vacuum cleaner and started attacking the carpets—anything rather than allow the wallowing self-pity that had been creeping up on her.
When she turned off the vacuum cleaner she realised that the phone was ringing, and she snatched it up just as the caller hung up.
Damn. Now the waiting would start all over again.
She put the vacuum cleaner away and dropped disconsolately back on to the settee. Forcing herself to submit to discipline, she picked up her book again and made herself read four pages before she went out to the kitchen and put the kettle on.
The ringing phone held her transfixed for a second or two, and then she lifted the receiver and gave the number automatically.
‘Lizzi? It’s Ross Hamilton.’
‘Ross!’ She was startled, her surprise showing in her voice. What on earth did he want? And another, more pressing question presented itself. ‘How did you get my number?’
He laughed, a low, mirthless chuckle. ‘Easy. You left it on my windscreen.’
She must be mad, she thought for the thousandth time. Surely they could have found a time and a place at the hospital to discuss this? Why had she suggested that he should come here? What if her mother came home early? She would never let Lizzi forget it! Oh, God!
She stomped around, bashing cushions and straightening pictures, tidying the already immaculately tidy bungalow until the doorbell rang, almost savage in the silence.
She practically leapt out of her skin, and then had to pause and steady herself before going to the door.
She wiped her hands on her jeans and smoothed them over her hair. Why was it so unruly? And why was she so thoroughly unsettled and agitated?
When she opened the door, Ross was standing in the porch, his hands thrust into the pockets of his duffle coat, a white sweater in stark contrast to the tanned skin of his throat. He looked disturbingly male, and Lizzi panicked into overdrive.
‘Come in. Ross, I’m sorry, the note was unnecessary, I wanted to take it off the windscreen but it was gone when I came out. Let me take your coat.