way.’
‘And just what did you do, exactly?’ he questioned.
‘After I’d told that young boy to call for the ambulance, I loosened Mr Phillips’ collar, wiped his face and sat there holding his hand until help arrived. That’s all,’ she finished glumly.
‘Claire,’ he said, quite seriously, ‘if you’d been a State Registered Nurse, you couldn’t have done any more for him. You did all the right things, and by instinct. Most important of all, he knew that someone was there, caring for him.’
‘Did I? Did I really?’ She looked anxiously into his eyes, but she could only see the truth reflected there.
He nodded, and she drank the last mouthful of her tea, and gave him an enormous smile.
‘You didn’t look very happy at dinner the other evening,’ he observed. ‘Why was that?’
Claire looked at his strong, firm features, the broad set of his shoulders and the penetrating eyes. Suddenly she found herself telling him everything. Telling him about feelings which she hadn’t even acknowledged to herself. And about those she had—about her general dissatisfaction with her life, and her job as a model. And how most of the people she mixed with cared for nothing more than money, and image.
Luke let her talk and talk. She hadn’t spoken to anyone like that for years, not since her father had died. And all the time he listened intently, occasionally nodding.
Eventually she stopped and looked at him, a rueful smile on her lips. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, her blue eyes shining brilliantly, ‘I didn’t mean to place you in the role of father confessor over lunch!’
He ignored the joke and sat there studying her for a minute longer, noting her ice-blue sweater and the glossy abundance of copper curls which fell around her shoulders. Then he leaned over towards her and spoke very softly.
‘Claire,’ he said, ‘forgive me if this sounds like a ludicrous suggestion, but—have you ever thought of becoming a nurse?’
She had not known that he had stood there for almost five minutes on the top step of the main entrance, lost in thought as he watched the tail lights of her taxi disappear into the traffic, wondering what on earth had possessed him to make such a suggestion to her, advising her to come and train at St Anthony’s. He had seen her eyes light up eagerly and she had looked up at him like a little lost puppy.
Was it because she too came from a divorced home, a family in splinters? He had found all the commitment and unity a family provided from hospital life. Could it fulfil her in the same way?
Damn and blast, why the hell hadn’t he just asked her for a date?
Because she was too young. Because a girl like that was probably sick of being asked for a date by every man she met.
Luke had been a doctor long enough to realise that the fleeting gift of beauty was inconsequential without substance. Beneath the sophisticated veneer he had seen the silent appeal in Claire’s lonely eyes. She needed a friend, not a lover. But if she arrived as his protégée, it could make life difficult.
Still, was she really likely to give up modelling—to don a uniform and work all the hours that God sent, as a nurse? If the idea appealed for even half a day, it would be no more than the capricious whim of a very young and impressionable girl, soon to be forgotten when her tall boyfriend reappeared.
The slender young staff nurse from Casualty had appeared at Luke’s elbow, her brown eyes seductive beneath the pert blonde fringe.
‘Excuse me, Dr Hayward,’ she said, smiling, ‘but Switchboard says your bleep isn’t working, and the lab have some urgent results for you, and must speak to you personally.’
He nodded and re-entered the building, his hands deep in the pockets of his cords, his white coat flapping as he strode down the corridor in search of a phone, his ludicrous suggestion already forgotten.
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