her desk in with the wretched things, and she could just see Dr Fergus Browne storming in tomorrow and accusing her of mucking around with his precious books—he was just the kind of contrary person to do that!
But wait a minute—he wasn’t going to be in tomorrow, and neither, officially, was she. Tomorrow was Saturday and the day after was Sunday. Which gave her two clear days to get the shelves up!
She gave a small smile as she mentally applauded her brilliant brainwave, and at five-thirty she set off home, to tell Ella all about what had happened.
Ella slammed her way into the flat at just gone seven to find it strangely silent. Poppy usually had music blaring out from the sitting-room.
‘Poppy?’ she called hesitantly.
‘In here! I’m in the bathroom.’
Ella hung up her jacket and left her basket on the table and, picking up an apple which she began crunching into, walked into the bathroom, where she found Poppy, clad only in a black lace bra and knickers, bending down and peering at herself in the badly placed mirror.
Without turning round she spoke in a gloomy voice.
‘Do I remind you of a marshmallow?’
Ella swallowed a pip by mistake. ‘What? I knew this would happen. I always said it—one day Poppy Henderson will finally flip!’
‘Shut up—I’m serious. Do I or do I not remind you of a marshmallow?’
‘Of course you don’t. You remind me of Marilyn Monroe—everyone says so.’
‘Marilyn Monroe was fat.’
‘She wasn’t fat, she was curvaceous. Nice bust, small waist, good legs—just like you.’
‘Fat,’ muttered Poppy dejectedly. ‘Do you think I wear too much make-up?’
Ella shifted uncomfortably. ‘It is a bit much, sometimes—especially by day.’ She saw Poppy’s face and hurriedly changed her tack. ‘I mean, it was different when you were working at Maxwells—that whole look was part of your job. But you’ve got such lovely skin and eyes that it seems rather a shame to cover them up. And if I had hair as shiny as yours I certainly wouldn’t dye it blonde.’
‘You would if it was mousy,’ Poppy pointed out, the harsh light falling on her finely-boned face to cast deep shadows under her cheekbones.
‘It’s golden-brown, not mousy—and what the hell has got into you tonight, Poppy? I’ve never known you to be so negative. Do I take it that you’re one of the many unemployed, and that this is responsible for a face as long as your arm?’
Poppy shook her head, so that the pale curls flew like angry snakes around her face.
‘Not at all—I’ve got a job, and that’s the problem.’
Ella’s face broke into a huge grin. ‘What are you talking about? You’ve got a job, that’s fabulous! You should be jumping up and down for joy and offering me a large glass of wine to celebrate.’
Poppy sighed. ‘Wait till you hear! I’ve got a job working for the most bad-tempered doctor you could ever imagine.’
‘A doctor? But you can’t. . . I mean, you don’t. . .’
‘Exactly,’ agreed Poppy grimly. ‘I know nothing about medicine. I don’t understand what he does, and I certainly haven’t got a clue how to spell the words.’
‘Then how come. . .?’
‘I’m the agency’s last hope. He’s driven away countless others. And that’s the second bad thing—he hates secretaries. From what he’s said I can imagine that a slug eating his prize cabbage would get more respect and affection!’
‘He sounds ghastly.’
‘Believe me, he is. Then there’s the third awful thing,’ added Poppy.
‘Go on.’
‘Someone jokingly told me that he was a professor, and so that’s what I called him—after, I might add, I mistook him for one of the maintenance men.’
Ella stifled a giggle. ‘Oh, Poppy!’
‘How was I to know that “Professor” was the nickname he hated which he’s had since medical school?’
‘You’re making all this up!’
‘Oh, that I were! And now I’ve got to try and get some shelves up in his room before Monday, or else he’ll hit the roof when he sees how I’ve rearranged his blessed books. Do you have Mick Douglas’s number?’
‘It’s in the book,’ replied her friend with a fond but sinking heart. Why had Poppy insisted on rocking the boat in order to do a job that she clearly wasn’t suited for?
Professor indeed! She couldn’t see this job last the week out.
Fergus left the side room and walked quickly into the office, his professional demeanour of calm assurance crumpling into brief despair. It never got any easier. How could it?
The charge nurse looked over at him sympathetically. ‘Coffee?’ he asked.
Fergus shook his head. ‘No, thanks, Geoff.’ He began to write in the patient’s notes ‘systemic lumpus erythematosus’. In his untidy hand he scrawled the inevitable syptoms—the outaneous signs which included the well-known ‘butterfly’ erythema on the face, frontal alopecia, mucosal ulceration. He refrained from writing the two words which the disorder signified to most of the staff on the ward—potentially fatal.
Today was Sunday and he shouldn’t even have been here, but how could he not be here? He had come in himself as if to lessen the blow of the news he’d had to impart.
But how did you tell a young girl of twenty-three, poised on the brink of her professional and emotional life, that she might not see the year out? A beautiful young girl with the face of a Madonna, a classical pianist with so much life and talent in those hands, whose equally young husband had stared at him with bewildered eyes, as if he were some idiot who had made some fundamental and terribly wrong mistake, not the consultant in charge of his wife’s case.
He finished writing in the notes and stood up slowly.
‘What are you up to today, Fergus?’ asked Geoff. ‘Nice day for a country pub!’
Fergus half smiled. ‘No such luck, I’m afraid—I’ve an article waiting at home which won’t write itself.’
Geoff groaned. ‘Rather you than me!’
Fergus left the ward, mentally agreeing with the charge-nurse. He wished he had arranged something today, something which was a million miles away from this damned job.
Still, he’d feel good once it was written, and afterwards he’d reward himself with the luxury of all the Sunday papers and a plate of spaghetti alla carbonara while Vivaldi played gently in the background. An almost perfect evening.
He
