old Victorian house in a leafy avenue in the fashionable part of Westhampstead. James Beresford had retired some years previously and together with his wife was still living in Ashton House, the family home on the far side of town where Rachel had been brought up. Rachel’s mother was in poor health, having recently been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease, and both she and her husband had been delighted when Rachel had agreed to take up the position at the medical centre.
‘It’s what we’ve always wanted,’ her father had said as he’d hugged her.
‘I know,’ Rachel had replied, ‘but you mustn’t forget this is only a trial run—it may not turn out to be what I want permanently.’
‘Perhaps Jeremy will want to move down here,’ her father had added hopefully.
‘I shouldn’t count on it,’ Rachel had replied.
Now, as she entered the large hallway of the house, which had been turned into a spacious reception area, she made a conscious effort to put Jeremy out of her mind and concentrate on the fact that she would have a full afternoon surgery to face. But as she collected the bundle of patient records that receptionist Danielle Quilter passed to her, she found, somewhat disconcertingly, that it wasn’t Jeremy who dogged her thoughts but Nick.
‘Are you OK, Rachel?’ asked Danielle, peering up into her face.
‘Yes.’ Rachel paused and frowned. ‘Why?’
‘You look pale,’ said the girl, ‘like you’ve just seen a ghost.’
Rachel blinked. ‘Like I’ve just...?’ she said, then she gave a short laugh. ‘Ha! Well, maybe I have.’ Shaking her head, she made her way up the stairs and down a short corridor to the large first-floor room that was Steve O’Malley’s consulting room and which had been allocated to her for her time at the centre.
The room, at the rear of the house, with its huge sash windows, overlooked the garden, which was enclosed by a high, red-brick wall. Now, as September got into its stride, the leaves on the trees were turning gold and the herbaceous borders, which through the summer months had been a blaze of colour, were now looking tired and turning brown. Rachel slipped off her jacket and hung it on a hook behind the door, dumped her case behind the large pine desk then crossed the room to wash her hands in the small handbasin. Danielle had said she looked pale. Curiously she peered at herself in the mirror above the basin, critically surveying her appearance. Brown eyes stared solemnly back from beneath her fringe of honey-blonde hair. She didn’t think she looked particularly pale, although she had most certainly had a shock, seeing Nick again. Would he have found her changed after all this time? There were bound to be differences—after all, it had been a long time since they’d seen each other. She’d slimmed down a little, her features losing the roundness of her teen years, and there were a few tiny lines around her eyes, a result, no doubt of the long hours spent on duty as a hospital doctor.
And what of Nick himself—he’d changed, too, hadn’t he? She frowned slightly as she tried to recall. He seemed more powerfully built now in his thirties than he had before and his features more defined somehow, but his colouring was as dark as it had ever been and those eyes—well, there was no changing those. She gave a little shiver as she remembered how he had looked at her, the gaze every bit as challenging and uncompromising as it had ever been. But then there had been that brief moment of wicked laughter and with a thrill she’d all but forgotten she’d been reminded anew of how it had once been between them.
It had never been like that with Jeremy. Carefully she dried her hands then, crossing the room again, she sat down at her desk, switched on her computer and drew the bundle of patient records towards her, reading the name on the top one and smiling as she did so before pressing the buzzer that indicated to the reception staff that she was ready to start her afternoon surgery.
Moments later Tommy Page came into the room, accompanied by his mother Eileen. Tommy had suffered brain damage at birth that had left him with severe learning difficulties and now at twenty-eight he still lived at home with his mother, although on three days a week he attended a local day centre.
‘Hello, Tommy.’ Rachel smiled. ‘Come and sit down and tell me how I can help you today.’ This was Tommy’s third visit to the surgery in the short time that Rachel had been in Westhampstead.
‘Sore throat,’ he said. Sitting down in one of the chairs beside Rachel’s desk, he unwound the football scarf he was wearing and pointed to his throat.
‘How long have you had this sore throat, Tommy?’ asked Rachel, glancing at his mother, knowing that Tommy was given to exaggeration.
‘He says for the last couple of days,’ said Eileen. ‘I’m sorry, Dr Beresford, but he insisted on coming to see you.’
‘It’s all right,’ said Rachel reassuringly. ‘Now, Tommy, I think I’d better have a look at your throat.’ Tommy opened his mouth and allowed Rachel to insert a flat wooden stick, obediently issuing the ‘ah’ sound she requested.
‘Your throat doesn’t seem too bad,’ she said at last, after gently testing the glands on either side of his neck.
‘It really hurts,’ Tommy said, obviously fearful now that Rachel didn’t believe him.
‘I’m sure it does, Tommy,’ she said. ‘I think you may have a cold developing so what I want you to do is to drink plenty of warm fluids and suck some throat pastilles.’ She looked at Eileen. ‘If he starts to run a temperature give him soluble paracetamol every four hours.’
‘Very well, Doctor.’ Eileen stood up. ‘I hope we haven’t wasted your time.’
‘Of course you haven’t,’ Rachel replied, then, looking at Tommy, she said, ‘Have you been to the day centre today, Tommy?’
‘No, because of my sore throat,’ Tommy replied.
‘They’ve been very good to him,’ said Eileen. ‘They’ve even fixed him up with a computer so he can play games at home.’
‘Computer,’ said Tommy, pointing to Rachel’s.
‘Yes.’ Rachel smiled. ‘Just like mine. That’s wonderful, Tommy.’
‘Come on, Tommy,’ said his mother, taking his hand, ‘we mustn’t take up any more of Dr Beresford’s time.’
‘Bye, Tommy,’ said Rachel.
Just before the door closed behind them she heard Tommy say to his mother, ‘She’s ever so nice, Dr Rachel.’
‘Yes, Tommy, she is,’ his mother agreed.
‘I love her,’ said Tommy.
With a smile Rachel pressed the buzzer for the next patient.
Steadily she worked through the list. There were many people in Westhampstead who had been patients of Rachel’s father and who remembered Rachel as a child, and it seemed to her that these early surgeries of her days at the centre sometimes took far longer than they should as people reminisced or wanted to know where she had been working. Some, she suspected, even came out of curiosity, perhaps for a second opinion, or to see if Rachel was anything like her father had been as a GP.
‘So, how is he now—your father?’ One such patient came towards the end of that afternoon surgery, a woman called Peggy Reilly who had known Rachel
