and the choice for Polly had been simple—go with him, as his mistress, or stay. He had never asked her to be his wife, and Polly felt he probably never would unless he was pushed—but she didn’t want to push him. Somewhere inside the practical, cheerful and warmhearted woman everybody loved to know was a passionate, romantic girl who wanted to be swept off her feet.
No matter that it was unrealistic. Polly knew that in the end she would settle for a kind man and set up a loving home based on mutual affection and respect. She didn’t ask for fireworks. She had learned long ago that they were a figment of romantic fiction. All she asked was that some time, before she was too old, she should find a good man to settle down with and raise a brood of chicks. And the young and attractive Mrs Goddard, with her mother-earth good looks and the smooth mound of her burgeoning pregnancy, was a reminder that time was ticking by.
Squashing the thing she now recognised as jealousy, she helped the woman off the couch and back into her dress, before excusing herself and returning to her room where she set about rearranging her shelves.
A few minutes later Matt limped in with two cups of tea, and propped himself on the edge of her desk.
‘Are you OK?’ he asked, a slight frown creasing his brow.
Polly nodded. ’Of course. Why shouldn’t I be?’
‘Just wondered. You looked a bit strained while you were fiddling with the trolley, rearranging things over and over again. I just wondered if I’d upset you that much this morning.’
With a sigh, Polly picked up her tea and sank down on to the chair, propping her feet on the desk.
‘No. I just felt the pressure of years, that’s all. I was jealous of her—isn’t that silly? I think it’s all these pregnant bumps around the place this afternoon. You’re good with them, aren’t you? I get the feeling you really care about those mums and their babies.’
‘I do. They’re very important to me.’
‘You were good with Mrs Major this morning, too. She is pregnant, by the way.’
‘I thought she was. She had the look.’
Polly smiled. ‘I’m glad you agree that there’s a look. Most men dismiss it.’
He gave a curiously bleak smile. ‘Oh, no, I believe in the look. My wife had it when she was pregnant.’
Polly felt a strange little lurch of pain. Of course he was married—he had ‘HUSBAND MATERIAL’ written all over him in letters ten inches high. She should have guessed.
Misinterpreting her sigh, Matt smiled. ‘There’s plenty of time for you, Polly. How old are you?’
‘Twenty-six.’
‘Are you? You don’t look it.’
Her smile was wry. ‘Is that supposed to be a compliment?’
‘Just a comment, neither one way or the other. Thinking about it, you must be that old to have enough experience to do this job. But going back to pregnant bumps, you’ve got years before you need to worry.’
Polly dropped her feet to the floor. ‘I wasn’t worried, Matt. I just had a surge of maternal feeling—it caught me by surprise, that’s all.’
‘I know the feeling,’ he said quietly. ‘Every time I do an ante-natal clinic, I long to have a child of my own. One day, maybe—but I doubt it.’
‘But I thought you said—what happened?’
‘She had a water-skiing accident. The baby died.’
‘Oh, Matt!’ Polly’s warm heart ached for him, and she covered his hand with hers. ‘I’m sorry. But there’ll be other chances——’
‘No.’
His bitterness showed briefly in his eyes before he straightened and moved away from Polly.
‘Evening surgery,’ he said abruptly, and left, limping awkwardly down the corridor towards his room. His tea on her desk was still untouched, and Polly went via the kitchen and took him in a fresh one before his first patient.
He flashed her a distracted smile and busied himself on the computer. He had evidently said much more than he had intended, and now he regretted it. Her dismissal was obvious—and painful.
He found her in the morning, after surgery, when she was clearing up her room and remaking the couch with a clean sheet.
‘Morning,’ she said, sparing him a quick smile as she bustled round.
‘Have you got a minute? There’s a patient I’d like to discuss with you, Polly.’
‘Sure.’ She stopped bustling, and pulled up a chair. Go ahead.’
‘Her name’s Helen Robinson, and I’ve suggested she comes to see you at the well-person clinic. She’s got nothing wrong with her, but she’s a real problem.’
Polly’s heart sank.
‘I’ve got a letter from her old GP. He describes her as one of his “heartsink” patients.’
Polly suppressed a smile. That had been her immediate reaction, too. She could imagine why. There were patients like that in every walk of medicine—physically apparently fit, but with a morbid fear of their own health or an unrealistic expectation of their bodies. Every last palpitation, twinge or hiccup would send them flying to the surgery in a panic. Perhaps Mrs Robinson was just a good old-fashioned hypochondriac?
‘She’s in her late forties, not yet in the menopause. She’s an attractive woman, slim and apparently healthy. They moved here six months ago, and she’s been to see me four times—each time with something unrelated and insignificant. But there’s something wrong—some pain inside that shows in her eyes. I don’t think she’s so much a heartsink as heartsick, and I think she just doesn’t know how to start to explain.’
Polly frowned. She trusted Matt’s instincts, and if he felt there was something wrong, then there probably was. Not a hypochondriac, then, but was her problem medical or social?
‘What makes you think she doesn’t need to talk to a social worker or priest, Matt? Why does she need us?’
Matt sighed and ran his hand through his hair, then pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes wearily. ‘She had a lumpectomy seven years ago for breast cancer, and she was cleared by the oncologist a year ago. I asked her if she had any worries about it returning, and she said no, but she was cagey. Polly, I think something about it is troubling her. She hasn’t had a smear done for eight years, and when I asked her she said she didn’t think it was necessary. That’s when I suggested she should come to see you. I think a well-person clinic is sufficiently routine and unthreatening that you could check all sorts of things without planting any seeds of doubt in her mind. Will you look at her for me?’
‘Of course. When’s she coming?’
‘This evening. I’d like to talk to you after you see her—can you come round to my house? We can have something to eat while we chat.’
Polly’s heart hiccuped,
