CHAPTER TWO

      ‘SORRY…I’m going to interfere, Dad,’ Rebecca said.

      ‘Go ahead,’ Marshall invited.

      He’d known this had been coming when she’d suggested they have lunch together, but he’d accepted her suggestion with an innocent face and had proposed the local Asian noodle house. Now Rebecca was toying with a plate of Pad Thai and making a very obvious effort to be calm and pleasant.

      He waited as she gathered her thoughts, and wondered with a distant sort of curiosity about how he was going to react to what she had to say.

      She was still struggling.

      ‘It’s about Aimee, isn’t it?’ he prompted helpfully.

      ‘Yes.’ She looked up. The noodles were still untouched. ‘And it’s not that I don’t like her. You know that. She seems very nice and, of course, I’ve known her for longer than you have, since we met when we were both working at Southshore Health Centre.’

      ‘But,’ he supplied, still helpfully.

      ‘Just…be careful. Perhaps you don’t need me to say it. Probably you don’t. You’re an experienced, sensible man.’

      ‘Thank you!’

      ‘But I know how hard it can be when two people are working together. Harry and I nearly didn’t reach the finish line a couple of times. Well, more than a couple! And it’s not as if you’re two carefree young lovers, who—’

      ‘We’re not lovers at all,’ Marsh cut in deliberately, feeling a sudden need to assert himself. He wasn’t a fool when it came to human relationships, and he was a private man. This was his business.

      His daughter’s uncomfortable shifting in her seat and sudden apparently starving attention to her noodles gave him a pinch of satisfaction. Rebecca had made her case, he now considered.

      ‘I take your point, Rebecca,’ he went on, making a conscious effort not to increase the gulf in understanding between them. ‘And, of course, you’re right. To a certain extent. Yes, we have more issues to consider at this point in our lives than a couple of twenty-year-olds. But I hope, as you say, that we have more good sense as well. I’m not sure what’s happening yet, and I don’t want office memos to be issued on the subject.’

      ‘Of course not! I won’t say a word. Even to Harry, if you don’t want me to,’ she promised extravagantly.

      ‘I’d prefer that, yes, at this stage.’ He nodded, and saw her eyes widen a little.

      She hadn’t expected him to take her up on that overenthusiastic offer to keep a secret from her own husband, but he really didn’t want it gossiped about for the moment, not even between husband and wife, and if that didn’t convince her that he was being appropriately cautious, what would?

      Everyone in the practice knew that they had been away for the weekend recently, of course, but he’d presented the event as what it essentially had been—a group of friends enjoying two days of winter sports, not a romantic interlude.

      ‘You know I’m only saying this because I care about you, Dad,’ Rebecca said, her voice suddenly husky with tenderness.

      And he did know it, too. As well, he was guiltily aware that he’d once interfered in her relationship with Harry for exactly the same reason, and the result might have been disastrous on that occasion if Harry hadn’t completely ignored his sage advice.

      ‘Shall we change the subject?’ he offered, and she greeted the suggestion with relief.

      Marshall wondered later, as they returned to the surgery together, if she realised how relentlessly her words were laying siege to his inner equilibrium. In many ways he was as wary as his daughter about this new thing that had so unexpectedly entered his life. Rebecca had no reason to accuse him of not being careful.

      If dwelling on things, and replaying conversations—and silences—over and over in one’s mind were signs of being careful, then he was being positively obsessive. That stupid business of Aimee’s wineglass the other night, for example. He could have kicked himself for that unforgivable moment of hesitation.

      He could tell she was afraid he suspected her of being a secret drinker, and he didn’t. She’d given him no reason to. Not at the snowfields or at work here in Sydney. Not during the three times they’d been out together. So why that moment of suspicion, flashing through his mind, that he hadn’t managed to hide?

      ‘Because I’m a doctor, I suppose,’ he concluded, muttering to himself. ‘I’ve had patients who did drink, when sometimes it was the last thing you’d suspect.’

      Like fifty-eight-year-old Joan Allyson, who was first on his list this afternoon.

      ‘How are you, Joan?’ he greeted her, as she sat down in the chair opposite his desk.

      ‘Fighting fit, I hope,’ she answered, and she looked it. Short grey hair, trim, energetic figure, dangling earrings of a pretty red to match her red trouser suit. She had come straight from work, and was due back there after her appointment. ‘I’m just here for my annual check-up.’

      She’d been very good about such things for the past seven years, but it hadn’t always been that way. She’d started drinking heavily about fifteen years ago, after a painful divorce, but she’d hidden it so carefully at first that no one had suspected. Not her grown-up children. Not her colleagues at the insurance company where she’d worked. Not even her family doctor!

      Until she’d turned up one day with gout, indicated by her symptoms of pain and confirmed by the test Marshall had done, revealing high uric acid levels. At that point he’d suspected very strongly, but his questions on the issue had brought only flat denial.

      After that, it had got worse and everyone knew. Her two children had each come to see him in turn to ask if there was anything they or he could do. Without her willingness to admit to a problem, of course, there hadn’t been. Her health had deteriorated. There had been more severe episodes of gout, and treatment for venereal disease. She’d lost her job.

      Finally, and he still wasn’t sure what the trigger had been, although he suspected another one-night stand which had turned bad, she’d come to him of her own volition and had asked for help. She’d heard of a drug called Antabuse, which caused any alcohol intake to create strong feelings of nausea, and she’d been keen to try it. He’d prescribed it for her, but had also urged her to join Alcoholics Anonymous.

      Since then, she hadn’t looked back. Now, seven years since her last drink, she had a well-paid and satisfying job in the administration of the Sydney Opera House, her health was good and on this visit she had some news as well.

      ‘I’m particularly hoping everything’s