Once More, With Feeling. Caroline Anderson

       CHAPTER ONE

      ‘AT LAST!’

      Emily turned into the health centre car park and killed the engine, glancing at her watch with a sigh of relief. She still had three minutes to spare, but only by the grace of God.

      With a wry grin she recalled the advert for the job.

      ‘Four-partner practice in rural North Devon urgently needs full-time replacement partner because of unforeseen retirement due to ill health. Must be on obstetric list and do minor surgery, CHS and IUCD. Most important qualification an ability to map-read …’

      They weren’t kidding! She had meandered back and forth across Exmoor, which would have been lovely if she’d had time to appreciate the scenery, but she was determined not to be late.

      The trouble was, the roads were all so tiny it was hard to tell which were major and which were minor. Assumptions, she had fast discovered, were a foolish luxury. Still, she was wise to their tricks now and read every single sign—hence her arrival with three—no, two now—minutes to go before her interview.

      She had spoken on the phone to the senior partner, Dr Allen, who had sounded very welcoming and encouraging—or was that just wishful thinking on Emily’s part? Whatever, she would still have to run the gauntlet of the other two partners.

      And she wouldn’t do it sitting in the car.

      She glanced at her reflection in the mirror, dragging a comb through her thick dark hair. It swung neatly back into the bob, the ends curling obediently under, just grazing her shoulders. Her smoky green eyes, wide and incapable of deceit, stared unblinking back at her.

      Just for courage, she winked at herself and her reflection winked cheekily back.

      Here goes.

      She got out of the car, locked it and strode confidently to the door.

      The waiting-room was deserted, and the receptionist looked up with a smile. ‘Can I help you?’

      ‘Yes, I’m Emily Thompson. I’m here for an interview.’

      The smile widened. ‘Oh, hello, Dr Thompson. Dr Allen wasn’t expecting you just yet—you can’t have got lost.’

      Emily laughed softly. ‘Only a little. The directions were excellent.’

      ‘I’m glad you thought so. I’m Sue Hooper, by the way—receptionist and general dogsbody. I’ll tell Laurence you’re here. Would you like to take a seat?’

      ‘Thanks.’

      She settled herself in one of the hard, upright chairs and looked around. Tiled floor—practical, but not very welcoming. Neat pile of magazines, but none of your glossies. Farmer’s Weekly, Woman’s Weekly, My Weekly, the odd Reader’s Digest—a far cry from her last practice in Surrey.

      There were pictures on the wall, faded and fly-blown, and the paint had seen better days, but the health-promotion posters and clinic details were fresh and up to date.

      She glanced towards the door that must lead to the consulting-rooms, and saw an indicator board, with names and coloured lights, clearly used to call the next patient.

      She scanned the names, and her heart came to an abrupt and grinding halt.

      Dr D Trevellyan.

      David.

      Her mouth felt suddenly dry, and she flicked out her tongue and ran it over her lips. It couldn’t be. Surely not? Trevellyan was a common enough Cornish name, and here, only forty miles or so from the Cornish border, it wouldn’t be so very unusual.

      And besides,

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