I know. Pity about that. Given another couple of years’ experience, we might even have considered you, but it’s a big practice, and very widespread. We’d even suggested that Harry should take a partner, but young Davenport seems to be managing admirably on his own. He’s set up links with Hastings three miles away to cover each other’s on call, so they’ve got their free time sorted out. Maybe if the population increases we could justify another post, but I don’t think there’s any likelihood of his leaving in the foreseeable future. However, Harry’s patients all seem to be delighted with his successor, and I must say, from this end, he seems much more efficient than Harry ever was!’
Lydia sighed. More praise! Was there no end to the virtue of this paragon?
‘I think Gramps found the paperwork of the new contract all a bit daunting——’
Sir James laughed. ‘Don’t we all, my dear? Still, if it helps to make a more efficient health service—let me know what you decide about that other job, won’t you? It’s a big group—they could afford to take someone without too much experience. In the meantime, we could always use another locum in the area.’
‘Yes, I’ll consider it. Thank you, Sir James.’
She hung up, her last hopes dashed.
Sam Davenport was obviously a well-liked and respected member of the professsion already, and it wouldn’t help her case at all to go making waves.
She wandered slowly through the house, touching familiar things, hearing the past echo in her mind, until she found herself in the conservatory again.
Tucking her feet up under her bottom, she curled up in the old wicker rocking-chair and stared sadly down the neglected garden.
She had come home before she had really got over the shock of Graham’s defection, to take up the reins of her future with Gramps because she had had an uneasy suspicion about him—only to have her world snatched out from under her feet at a stroke.
Her unease had been too little, too late, and now he was gone; her dreams lay in the dust, trampled underfoot by a man whom everyone else seemed to hold in almost reverent awe—and who clearly despised her as a gold-digger.
If he only knew! She didn’t want the terrible responsibility for the crumbling old house—God knew how she would maintain it. She supposed it was worth quite a bit, but it was entirely academic because she would never sell it unless driven to it in absolute desperation.
As if to press home the point, the skies opened again and she noticed that the guttering was leaking near the corner—well away from the practice end, otherwise no doubt the highly efficient Dr Davenport would have dealt with it!
Suppressing a shiver, she turned back to the house and walked round it again, this time looking with the candid eyes of an estate agent instead of through the rose-tinted lenses of nostalgia. Everywhere there were signs of neglect. It was clean enough, but the paintwork was old and chipped, the wallpaper faded, and some of the upstairs ceilings showed signs of damp, unlike the surgery and flat, all of which had been recently decorated and recarpeted throughout. She cast another despairing glance around the sitting-room.
Well, looking at it wasn’t going to improve things, she decided, straightening her spine, and she needed something to take her mind off Gramps.
She found his car keys on the pegboard by the back door, and let herself out. Mercifully the old Rover started first time, and she drove into Ipswich and found a DIY store. There she bought paint, brushes, wallpaper paste, a job-lot of sale wallpaper, a hot-air stripper and a wallpaper steam stripper.
Three hours later she was standing at the kitchen sink cleaning up the steam stripper and wondering what she’d started. The sitting-room was now reduced to chaos, and as for Lydia, she was covered in peeling paint and strips of soggy wallpaper, her jeans were caked with paste, lumps of gooey paper were stuck to her knees and she looked a fright.
She was not, therefore, terribly pleased to see Sam darken the kitchen doorway.
‘What do you want?’ she snapped, shoving an escaping tendril of hair out of the way with the back of her paste-covered hands, and jutting her little chin out in an unconsciously endearing gesture.
‘I just wanted to apologise——’
‘Good. Fine. Accepted. Now please go, I’m busy.”
‘I brought you some food. I don’t suppose you have any.’
Her stomach growled in response, but she would rather have starved than admit it.
‘I’m going out later, thank you,’ she said stiffly.
‘Really?’ He dumped the heavy box down on the worktop and dusted off his hands. ‘Well, now you won’t need to.’
‘Since you’ve already bought the things, I suppose you may as well leave them. You must tell me what I owe you,’ she muttered ungraciously, and he gave a small, humourless smile.
‘The receipt’s in the top of the box. Don’t lose it—I can appreciate that you would hate to be beholden to me!’
‘Oh!’ She glared crossly at him, and he turned on his heel and left, his mouth twitching.
She tried to remind herself that her grandfather had been a good judge of character and that Sam must, really, be a decent person, but she failed miserably.
‘Everyone’s entitled to one mistake,’ she said aloud. ‘Sam Davenport was obviously yours, Gramps.’
She screwed the tap off with unnecessary vigour, and screamed as the fitting came away in her hand and a fountain of water shot up and splattered all over the ceiling.
‘Dear God, Lydia, what the hell are you up to now?’
Sam barged her out of the way, dived under the sink and rummaged among the pots and pans for the stopcock. Seconds later the fountain slowed to a steady well, and then stopped altogether.
He emerged, dripping, from under the sink. ‘Pretending it was my neck?’ he asked with a wry grin, and her sense of humour, never far away, bubbled up and over. Giggling weakly, she sagged back against the worktop and gave in to her mirth. Sam joined in with a low chuckle, propping his lean hip against the front of the fridge and thrusting his wet hair out of his eyes.
‘You’re drenched,’ she said weakly when she could speak, and he looked down at himself, and then at her.
‘So are you,’ he said softly. Then their eyes met, and the laughter died away as he moved closer and brushed a drop of water from her cheek with the tip of his finger. He traced its path down her cheek, and then with his finger he tipped up her chin and looked down into her eyes.
‘Thank you for rescuing me,’ Lydia murmured breathlessly, and watched in fascination as his head lowered towards hers.
‘You’re welcome,’ he breathed against her mouth, and then his lips touched hers, shifting slightly against them before settling gently but firmly in place. His hands came up to cup the back of her head, and with a sigh she relaxed against him, giving in to the waves of warmth that lapped around her.
But the sigh was her undoing, because he deepened the kiss, and the warmth turned to a raging heat that swept
