How’s it been?’
Anna grimaced. ‘Up and down, like my blood pressure. I had the sniffles last week and at my age it seems to put everything out of whack. I find it utterly frustrating,’ she said imperiously, as if the virus was very rude indeed to be causing her problems.
The glucometer beeped. ‘Eleven point two. That’s high.’
‘Oh, that’s just because of the tiny glass of champagne I drank.’
‘Champagne?’ Lauren tried not to sigh and unwrapped the blood-pressure cuff.
Anna leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘There are special occasions in life when celebrations are more far important than a spike in blood sugar.’
‘Like what?’ Lauren asked as she pumped up the sphygmomanometer, deciding it was best to find out exactly what the circumstances were before reading the Riot Act.
‘Like my grandson arriving unexpectedly.’
In her stunned surprise, Lauren only just caught the diastolic blood pressure reading as her heart did an odd skip in her chest. She immediately told herself not be ridiculous. Anna Ainsworth probably had many grandsons and even if this one was Charlie, he probably now came with a wife and two point five kids.
‘I haven’t seen him in over two years,’ Anna continued, ‘so I’m sure you’ll agree that’s very worthy of a few sips of champagne.’
‘Lauren agrees, but Dr Fuller is a little torn,’ she said with a tight smile. ‘Now, let’s look at this leg.’ She slid a bluey under Anna’s calf to protect the couch’s beautiful Australian wildflower print, before slipping on some gloves and carefully removing the dressing. The skin around the small ulcer was angry and two tiny black dots worried her. She carefully debrided them and reapplied the occlusive dressing. ‘That’s to stay in place for a week, Mrs Ainsworth, and I need you to promise me two things.’
‘Oh, dear,’ the woman said, her eyes twinkling again. ‘I’m not very good at keeping promises if they’re dull and boring.’
‘Oh, these are totally exciting, I promise,’ Lauren said. ‘The first is, when you’re sitting down, put your leg up every time. The second is, call me if your blood sugar is higher than eight.’
‘Lauren, dear, I think we have definition disparity about what constitutes exciting.’
‘Not really. If you don’t do those two things, you risk requiring a skin graft and spending a couple of weeks in hospital...’ While she’d been talking, she’d gathered up the dressing waste, rolled it up in the bluey and shoved the contents into a bag. Now she tied it with a flourish. ‘Now, that would be boring.’
‘You doctors,’ Anna grumbled good-naturedly. ‘You do like to win. And I should know, I’m surrounded by them.’
Lauren was about to give in to overwhelming temptation and ask how many Ainsworths were doctors when a tall, gaunt man with a mop of sandy hair and a slightly darker beard appeared in the doorway. Her stomach knotted half in disappointment and half in relief—this grandson wasn’t Charlie.
His entire demeanour—from the tilt of his head, past the slight sag of broad shoulders and all the way down to his wide, bare feet—emanated ingrained and longstanding fatigue. His blue eyes—so like Anna’s and yet disturbingly less vibrant—were glassy and bloodshot. Lauren couldn’t tell if he’d just woken up, was depressed, or if he’d consumed the bulk of the champagne and was, in fact, very drunk.
‘Gran, where do you keep the—? Oh, sorry. I didn’t realise you had a visitor.’
Lauren tensed as the rumbling voice with a raspy edge raised her skin in goosebumps. Stop letting your imagination run wild. You know it’s not Charlie. You’d recognise him instantly if it was. Yet she’d swear there was something about his deep voice that held the vestiges of velvet that had stroked her all those years ago.
He was staring intently at her now—probably because she was staring just as intensely at him. His gaze narrowed as if he was closing out all distractions and zeroing in on her and her alone. Suddenly, the sapphire blue of his eyes, which a moment ago had been pale and insipid, lit up like refracted sunshine on water.
It’s him. Flashes of fire and ice raced through her—hot, cold, hot, cold—until she tingled all over. She didn’t know if she was shivering or sweating, only that her body was alive in a way it hadn’t been in twelve long years. That alone scared her rigid. No, damn it. Just no. Despite not wanting to, her gaze automatically sought his left hand. No wedding ring. So what? I really don’t care.
Anna, seemingly immune to the locked and loaded glance crackling with electricity that currently ran between her GP and her grandson, said, ‘Charles, darling, this is my doctor, Lauren Fuller. Lauren, I’d like you to meet another doctor who is also my grandson, Charles Ainsworth.’
‘Lauren.’ His voice rolled over her name, the tone as warm and as addictive as hot caramel sauce. Then his deeply lined face creased in a smile—an older and wearier version of the smile she’d never been able to completely forget. With a quickness that belied his previous lethargy, he pushed off the architrave and strode across the room, his long legs eating up the distance in four fast strides.
Lauren barely had enough time to stick her hand out in greeting, but he ignored the gesture and was instead dipping his head down towards her as if he was about to kiss her. The bolt on the box she’d labelled ‘Charlie’ and buried deep all those years ago blew wide open. All the hurt and betrayal rose in a spurt of bile, scalding the back of her throat. How dare he think he could just swoop in and kiss her after all this time after what he’d done to her heart?
She instinctively—protectively—took a step back and ducked her head. All the while she kept her hand outstretched as much as a stop sign as in greeting. ‘Pleased to meet you, Dr Ainsworth,’ she said crisply and professionally, as if she was meeting him for the first time at a conference. She mentally dubbed him Charles as extra insurance.
Her brusque manner was a solid entity and it filled the space between them. He rocked back on his bare feet, his smile fading until his lips settled in a firm, flat line. A deep V was carved between his dark eyebrows—their ebony so at odds with the rest of his fair colouring—and then the light in his eyes dimmed and vanished completely. The previous stranger with the almost blank affect was back. ‘Actually, it’s Mr Ainsworth.’
Of course it was. Their time together had been on the cusp of his medical career and Charlie—Charles—had mentioned a vague plan of one day working with his father in cardiology. Unexpectedly seething with an anger she’d assumed had faded and aged into acceptance a decade ago, she jerkily zipped up her medical bag. ‘It’s probably a long time since you’ve dealt with the less exciting aspects of medicine, Mr Ainsworth.’ She hit his title with emphasis. ‘But your grandmother’s blood glucose readings are currently all over the shop. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t offer her any more champagne or cake to celebrate your return.’
‘You’re planning on killing the fatted calf, aren’t you, Gran?’ Charles deadpanned. ‘It’s totally diabetic friendly, Dr Fuller, so we’re all good.’
Unbidden laughter bubbled up inside her, just like it always had when she’d been in his company. The memories of how easily he’d made her laugh and smile—how quickly he could talk her out of a bad mood—circled her, tempting her to follow a well-worn path. It’s
