Role Play. Caroline Anderson
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He grinned. ‘I’m flattered.’
‘It wasn’t meant to be a compliment,’ she said severely, squashing the urge to laugh.
The grin widened. ‘Listen, little lady, with my problem I’ll take what I can get.’
‘Yes, well, just make sure it isn’t something nasty.’
‘Like Ravinda Patel?’
Her head flew up and their eyes clashed in the sudden silence. ‘I thought …’
He shook his head slowly. ‘Ravi’s interested in me, but that’s as far as it goes. I’ve never given her the slightest encouragement.’
‘That’s not how it looks.’
He shrugged. ‘Ravi’s got expressive eyes. You’ll have to trust me.’
Abbie wasn’t sure she dared. Instead, she changed tack. ‘Why are you telling me all this?’
‘Because the internal politics of any closely knit working community are very sensitive — I just wanted you to know the truth.’
‘How do I know it’s the truth? How do I know you aren’t the world’s most monumental flirt who’s seen a new toy to play with?’
‘Me?’ His expression of injured innocence had to be seen to be believed. Only the wicked twinkling of his extraordinary blue-gold eyes gave him away.
‘You, Leo Chandler,’ she said firmly, and quelled the urge to laugh. ‘Anyway, all that besides, what good is role play going to do? We just end up making fools of ourselves and learning nothing we couldn’t learn by any other more conventional means.’
‘Does that worry you? Making a fool of yourself?’
She shifted awkwardly. How did he know that? ‘I like to be in control of a situation,’ she compromised.
He laughed. ‘In general practice? No way. You want pathology if you want control. Dead people don’t do anything unexpected. Live people, now …’ He shot her a sideways look. ‘I have to go out on some calls — come with me. Part of your education.’
‘Only if we can go in my car,’ she said quickly.
He grinned. ‘Mine not good enough for you?’ he teased.
She felt herself flush, ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean that, but it is a little — well — unconventional?’ she tried.
He grinned. ‘So she is. I’m only using her while my incredibly boring and middle-of-the-road Volvo is being serviced. Topsy usually only comes out on high days and holidays.’
‘Topsy?’ she said incredulously. Not since her brothers’ youth had she heard of a car with a name. ‘Why Topsy?’
He shrugged expressively. ‘Because of the servicing and repair bills, which, like Topsy, just grow’d and grow’d.’
She laughed softly. ‘I’ll bet. Look, I’m sorry if I was rude. It’s nothing personal, I’m just not into retro-motoring.’
He gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘Most women think she’s wonderful.’
‘Yes, well, I’m not most women,’ she told him repressively.
He shot her an odd look. ‘No, you’re not, are you?’ he said, his voice quiet. ‘Pity, it could have been fun. Ah, well …’ He uncoiled his legs and stood up, suddenly almost oppressively large in the small room, and ambled towards the door, whistling softly.
She glared at his departing back, and was treated to the disturbing sight of his neat little bottom and long, lean legs striding casually down the corridor, the soft cotton of his trousers tugging and easing, outlining his firm, muscular thighs with every stride.
He turned at the end and caught her watching him, smiling knowingly at her blush.
‘Coming?’
She went — against her better judgement — in Topsy. The car was in distinctly average condition, and she handled, as he put it, ‘like a bitch’, which did nothing for Abbie’s nerves. Nor, frankly, did his proximity in the little car. It was, quite simply, nothing like big enough to keep her as far away from his long, rangy body as she would have liked to be, and every time he changed gear her leg muscles contracted to pull herself further away from him.
Predictably, he noticed. ‘Why are you trying to climb out of the door?’ he asked casually.
She forced herself to appear relaxed. ‘I wasn’t — I was just trying to keep out of your way.’
He shot her an evil grin. ‘Don’t worry on my account,’ he told her, and she gave him a dirty look and turned away to stare fixedly out of the side-window, anchoring her hair firmly with one hand to stop it from flying in her eyes.
It was a mercifully short drive, thankfully, through the leafy little Suffolk town of Brocklingford to the house of his first patient.
She was a girl of twelve who suffered from autism, a disorder of behaviour affecting the ability to communicate, where everything said was taken literally — not only words, but tone and movements. Nothing emphatic, nor over-demonstrative, and certainly no physical contact that was a demonstration of affection, Leo told her, because the other and most noticeable feature of autism was an inability to form any relationship or interact normally with another person. It also involved repetitive behaviour patterns, and frustration of those patterns almost inevitably led to major tantrums.
Maxie, she was told, was not severely autistic but had ‘autistic features’ — meaning, in her case, the lack of social communication skills, and repetitive behaviour coupled with the classic shocking temper. However, she was very gifted musically and also highly intelligent, which was quite unusual.
Abbie was interested, never having had an autistic patient, but she was quite unprepared for the level of literal thinking she was to find.
Maxie’s mother greeted them at the door and told them that she had refused to stay in bed. Leo grinned, unsurprised, and followed the woman through to the back of the house.
The girl was pretty in a plain sort of way, but very distant. She was sitting in the dining-room, playing the pino with exquisite sensitivity.
‘Hello, Maxie,’ Leo said softly.
She stopped playing abruptly and looked at him with no interest at all. ‘Dr Chandler. Why are you here?’ she asked tonelessly.
‘Your mother said you hadn’t been feeling well.’
She turned away, avoiding eye contact. ‘Yes. I’ve got a headache now. Who’s that with you?’
‘Dr Pearce. She’s going to be with the practice for a year. May I have a look at you?’
She turned back again. ‘Can’t you see me?’
At first Abbie thought she was being cheeky, but then realised she had interpreted Leo’s remark quite literally.
‘Yes, but I need to look at your eyes and ears and throat with an instrument, and measure your blood-pressure with another, and then perhaps ask you some questions about your diet.’
‘I’m not on a diet.’
‘The food you eat every day is your diet. We talk about being on a diet when we really mean a reducing diet.’
‘Oh.’ She turned away again. ‘All right.’
‘Could you come over here?’
She stood, her movements wooden, and walked over to him. He looked into her eyes with the torch, then checked her ears and took her blood-presssure and temperature.
‘You’re a bit hot.’
‘It’s sunny.’
‘No, inside. You’ve got a raised temperature —