The Doctor's Christmas Gift. Jennifer Taylor
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the fact that she could still feel the impression Matthew Fielding’s fingers had left on hers.
‘I’m delighted to meet you, Dr Fielding.’ She smoothed her face into a suitable expression, pleased that she had managed to control the inane smile at last. She didn’t feel nervous but maybe she was. After all, this job was another step in the right direction, another rung to be climbed on the ladder towards her goal.
The thought helped her focus on what was really important rather than the strange way she seemed to be behaving that night. She had made her plans a long time ago and not once had she veered from the route she had chosen—A levels, med school, experience in a variety of suitable general practices before she opened her own surgery. Now all she needed was a year here at Brookdale Surgery, a practice in an increasingly popular area of the city, then she would be ready to start looking for suitable premises…
‘So I’d really love a cup of coffee—wouldn’t you?’
Catherine jumped when she realised that she’d missed what Matthew Fielding had said. A little colour touched her cheeks at the lapse. She prided herself on always being focused and it wasn’t like her to let her mind wander.
‘I…um…coffee would be nice,’ she said, hoping that she had guessed correctly what he’d been saying. It seemed that she had because he smiled at her once more. He really did have the most wonderful smile, she thought. It was so warm and friendly that it must make people long to confide in him.
Catherine took a quick breath when she realised her thoughts were wandering again. It was a relief when Matthew turned to lead the way out of the room. She kept her eyes locked on his back as she followed him into the corridor, hoping it would help if she concentrated on something tangible. She must be nervous. It was the only explanation that made any sense.
He had to be well over six feet tall, she decided, her gaze sweeping up the solid length of his muscular back. He moved with the easy grace of a trained athlete, his long legs striding purposefully along the corridor so that she had to quicken her pace to keep up. Her brown eyes skimmed over the neat hips and trim waist, the wide shoulders, before moving up to his well-shaped head.
His hair was a rich, sandyblond colour, very thick and crisp-looking. He wore it cut very short, probably because it had a tendency to curl if he allowed it to grow any longer. Catherine sighed wistfully as she thought how typical it was that a man should be blessed with that kind of hair. Her own hair was so straight that she’d long since given up any hope of making it curl. Now she rarely bothered to do anything different with it, preferring to wear it the way she wore it that night—neatly coiled into a heavy, nut-brown knot at the nape of her neck.
Someone—a man who had hoped to become rather more than a friend—had told her once that she should let her hair down both physically and metaphorically speaking. However, it was a piece of advice she had never heeded. She preferred to keep all aspects of her life strictly under control.
‘I hope you don’t mind if we use the kitchen.’ Matthew Fielding paused and looked back at her, a hint of amusement making his blue eyes sparkle. ‘I know it isn’t usual to conduct an interview around the kitchen table but I haven’t eaten all day. I’m sure you would prefer not to have to give a practical demonstration of your skills, Catherine, if I passed out from lack of sustenance!’
Catherine felt a frisson run under her skin when he addressed her by her first name. It was odd how disturbing it was to have him call her that, as though they had crossed some unseen boundary. She gave a small shrug, not wanting him to guess there was anything wrong.
‘Wherever is most convenient for you, Dr Fielding. I really don’t mind.’
‘Make that Matthew. Or better still, Matt. That’s what most people call me, or at least those I class as friends.’ He opened the door then stepped back to let her precede him.
Catherine smiled politely as she went into the room although she took care neither to agree nor disagree with his suggestion. She had no qualms about calling him Matthew once their relationship was established, but as for using the diminutive…
She shivered, wondering why the thought of being classed as one of his friends bothered her so much. She had a wide circle of friends, all of them people like her who understood exactly what constituted friendship. They followed the rules and accepted there were limits to what a friend could be called upon to do. There should be no exchanges of confidences, no unannounced visits, no demands other than the brief sharing of time at various social events. That Matthew Fielding would view friendship as something entirely different went without question although Catherine had no idea how she could possibly have known that.
It was yet another niggling little worry, another uncertainty, and her mouth pursed. How did she know that Matthew Fielding would expect a lot more from someone he classed as his friend?
‘Sugar? Milk?’ Matthew had plugged in the kettle and was now taking mugs out of a cupboard. Catherine forced her mind back on track again. Maybe this was a rather strange place to hold an interview but she mustn’t allow it to upset her.
‘Just milk please,’ she replied evenly, pulling out a chair and sitting down at the big pine table. She glanced round the kitchen and realised immediately that it wasn’t just somewhere the staff made themselves a drink during the day. It was a real family kitchen, from the bright yellow Aga to the childish drawings fixed to the refrigerator door by a selection of colourful magnets. She frowned uncertainly, wondering what the arrangements were within the practice.
‘I live here in the main part of the house. There’s just the kitchen on the ground floor, though, because the rest of the space is needed for the surgery,’ Matthew informed her. He opened the fridge and took out a bottle of milk. He splashed some into a mug then brought it over to the table for her.
‘Thank you.’ Catherine smiled politely but she couldn’t pretend that she wasn’t surprised by what she’d learned. She hadn’t realised that the surgery was essentially part of Matthew’s home although she had no idea what difference it made.
‘You’re welcome.’
Once again she was treated to one of those wonderful smiles before he went back to the refrigerator and dug around inside it for a moment. He had a head of lettuce and a couple of tomatoes in his hands this time when he slammed the door.
‘As I was saying, the main part of the house is also my home, which makes it very handy for getting to work of a morning. No such thing as traffic jams to contend with…well, not vehicular ones, anyway.’
He grinned as he plonked the lettuce on a chopping board and set to work. Catherine watched as he expertly shredded it then set about slicing the tomatoes. It was obvious that he was used to doing such tasks because his hands never faltered when he carried on speaking.
‘When Glenda and I decided to open the practice we realised that one of us would have to live over the shop so to speak. It was a question of economics. Property in the city is horrendously expensive, as you know, so there was no way that we could afford to buy or even lease suitable premises.’
‘I see. So you decided to combine the two and make your home here?’
‘That’s right. I was married by then and Ruth, my wife, was expecting our first child. The plan was that we would live here until the practice got on its feet and then we would move out of the city. However, after Ruth died it made more sense to continue living here. It means that I don’t have to waste time travelling to and from work and can be home with the children as soon as I finish.’ He put down his knife and went back to the fridge.
Catherine frowned as she tried to absorb what he had told her. She’d had no idea that Matthew Fielding was a widower although there was no reason why she should have known, of course. His domestic arrangements had little to do with her except where they overlapped into his work. She waited until he had found what he needed in the fridge, which turned out to be a bowl of large brown eggs this time, before she set about clarifying the situation.
‘And Glenda—who I assume is your partner in the practice—is quite happy