The Best Of The Year - Medical Romance. Carol Marinelli
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over my body. It was like ants marching underneath my skin. Maybe my talent at lying was deserting me. ‘Don’t you have a financial planner?’ I said.
‘Sure, but it’s always good to get inside information, don’t you think?’
I couldn’t hold his penetrating gaze. I lowered mine and mumbled something about seeing a patient and left.
I was walking Freddy in Hyde Park in one of the dog exercise areas after work. It was freezing cold and flakes of snow were falling but I was determined to wear out the little mutt. While I’d been at work he’d chewed my favourite hippopotamus slippers Jem gave me for Christmas two years ago and one of my computer cables. I decided to let him off the lead so he could have a good run around and play with the other dogs. What I hadn’t realised was that Freddy didn’t like other dogs. Before I knew it he was at the throat of a corgi and it looked like Freddy was winning. The howls and growls and yelps and cries of ‘Help!’ from me created such a ruckus that people did what people normally do in that situation—they stopped and stared and did absolutely nothing.
Except for one man who came out of the shadows and pulled the dogs apart with his bare hands. Except his hands weren’t bare. He was wearing gloves, lovely butter-soft black leather ones that Freddy’s teeth immediately punctured. I grabbed Freddy and snapped his lead back on but the stupid mutt was straining at the leash, trying to get to the overweight corgi, who was doing the same on the end of its lead, which its owner had now refastened.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I said. ‘It’s not my dog. I didn’t realise he would … I blinked as the man’s face was suddenly illuminated by one of the park’s lights. ‘You!’
Matt Bishop gave me a rueful look. ‘It’s not my dog either. It’s my great-aunt’s.’
‘Your great-aunt isn’t the Queen, is she?’
He threw back his head and laughed. I stood transfixed at the sound. It was deep and unmistakably masculine and made something deep and tight in my belly work loose. It wasn’t just his laugh that was so captivating. It was the way his normally stern features relaxed, giving him an almost boyish look. At work with the pressures of lives in his hands he looked as if he was nudging forty. Now he looked no older than thirty but I knew he had to be at least thirty-three or -four to be as qualified as he was to head the department.
He was wearing casual clothes under a dark blue cashmere overcoat. Jeans and a sweater with the tips of his shirt collar showing. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more handsome-looking man. Not in a pretty-boy way but in a totally testosterone-oozing way that made the breath catch in my throat.
His gaze went to the cup-cake beanie I was wearing. It was pink and white and had a red pom-pom on top that looked like a cherry. I was pretty proud of it, actually. I taught myself to knit, making novelty beanies. So far I’ve made a mouse, a zebra and a bee.
The dogs were still snarling at each other. I had Freddy on such a tight leash I could feel the muscles in my arm protesting at the strain. Who needed the gym when you had an unruly dog? Freddy hurt more than three sets of ten-kilogram biceps curls.
‘Quiet, Winnie,’ Matt said. The corgi slunk down into a submissive pose but not before giving Freddy another murderous look. Freddy growled like something out of a horror movie and completely ignored my command to be quiet. I guess because my voice wasn’t as deep and authoritative as Matt’s, because as soon as Matt said it to Freddy he sat and shut up. He even held up his paw for a shake.
‘Nice job,’ I said. ‘You don’t happen to be best friends with Cesar Millan, do you?’
Matt smiled and my breath caught again. ‘Dog training’s pretty simple. You just have to show them who’s pack leader.’
I’m not sure how it happened but somehow we started walking together. The dogs kept eyeing each other warily, but after a while they seemed to forget their ignominious start and got on with the job of sniffing every blade of grass … well, the ones that weren’t covered in snow, that is. A light dusting had fallen, making the park look like a winter fairyland. I love winter. I think it’s the most romantic time of the year. That’s why I wanted to be married in early December. Everyone gets married in spring or summer. I wanted to be different. But, then, sometimes you can be too different, which I’ve found to my detriment.
‘Where does your great-aunt live?’ I asked into the silence. Actually, I was quite proud of the fact I’d waited at least thirty seconds before speaking. That’s a record for me.
He named the street running parallel to mine. I was so shocked I stopped and looked up at him. ‘Really?’
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.
I gave a shaky laugh. ‘Whoa, that’s spooky. I live in the next street. Number forty.’
‘Why spooky?’
‘As in weirdly coincidental,’ I said. ‘London’s a big city.’
‘True, but it’s close to the hospital and I’m only staying there until I can move back into my place once the tenants move out in a couple of weeks.’
He was living a street away from me?
‘Where is your place?’
‘Notting Hill.’
Of course, I thought. I’d had a feeling Matt came from money. He had the right accent and the well-groomed and cultured look. It had taken me years to shake off my Yorkshire vowels. Now and again when I was overtired one would slip out. I privately envied people like Matt. They hadn’t been dragged around the countryside in search of the next New Age trend, living in mud huts or tents or straw houses, not eating animal products or wearing them, not using chemicals or eating sugar or salt or processed food.
Don’t get me wrong. I love my parents. They’re good people, loving and kind and well meaning. But I couldn’t imagine Matt Bishop’s parents cavorting around a stone circle stark naked and chanting mantras. They probably wore Burberry and sipped sherry in the conservatory of their centuries-old pile in the countryside while a host of servants tended to their every whim.
‘How long have you got the dog?’ Matt asked.
‘Until the weekend after next,’ I said. ‘My neighbour is visiting her sister in Cornwall. I don’t know why she didn’t take him with her. Maybe her sister won’t let her. Can’t say I blame her. He needs to go to reform school.’
I heard him give a soft, deep chuckle and another shiver shimmied down my spine.
‘My great-aunt is visiting my parents for a few days,’ he said.
I cast him a sideways glance. ‘Your parents don’t like dogs?’
Nothing showed on his face but the tone of his voice contained a hint of something I couldn’t identify. ‘My father.’
‘Is he allergic?’
His mouth tightened for a nanosecond. ‘You could say that.’
‘Do you have siblings?’ I asked, after we’d walked a few more paces. See how good I was getting at silences? Maybe there was some hope for me after all.
‘No,’ he said after a slight pause. ‘There’s only me. You?’
‘A sister called Jem—short for Jemima. Our mum was really into Beatrix Potter, in case you hadn’t guessed. Jem’s ten months older than me.’
He flashed me a quick glance. ‘That was close.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘My parents were using natural contraceptive methods. So natural they fell pregnant straight away.’
He smiled again. ‘Are you close to your sister?’
‘Very, although we’re quite different.’
‘What does she do?’
‘She’s a teacher.’
We