The Best Of The Year - Medical Romance. Carol Marinelli
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about his parents, whether he was close to them or not. I sensed tension between him and his father but that might just be my imagination. Although a lot of men of Matt’s age had the young stag, old stag thing going on. It could be quite a competitive dynamic, especially as the father neared retirement age.
‘What does your father do?’ I asked.
‘He’s in corporate law.’
‘Does your mother have a career?’
‘She used to work as a legal secretary but she didn’t go back after she married.’ He waited a beat before adding, ‘My father likes having her at his beck and call.’
I frowned at his tone. ‘Is that what she wants?’
He shrugged the shoulder nearest me. I felt it brush against mine. ‘She seems happy enough being the trophy wife. It’s either that or get traded in for a newer model. At least he’s spared her the indignity of that.’
I was surprised—and secretly delighted—he’d revealed that to me. I wondered if he felt I was someone he could talk to about stuff. It’s hard for doctors, particularly specialists at the top of their field. Everyone comes to them to solve their problems. No one ever thinks to ask if the specialist has problems of his or her own. I suspected Matt had some frustration towards his mother for settling for a life of sherry mornings and bridge club. Did his father play around? Openly or furtively?
I thought of my parents with their easygoing lifestyle. They loved each other. No one could ever be in doubt of that, least of all Jem and I. They were open about their—thankfully occasional these days—other partners, which Jem and I still found totally weird, but they always came back to each other and would never dream of stopping each other from reaching their potential. If my mum wanted to do something, my dad would support her in it one hundred percent, and vice versa. They didn’t have secrets, or at least none Jem and I were aware of.
I decided against telling Matt about my background. He didn’t ask, which either meant he wasn’t interested or he was tired of small talk. Or maybe he regretted revealing what he had. I glanced at him covertly to find he had a frown on his forehead.
The dogs were walking to heel like star graduates from obedience school. I felt a little proud of myself, actually. Maybe I could win over Freddy by the time Margery got back. Have him eating out of my hand instead of biting it.
‘Have you checked out the venue for the ball?’ Matt asked.
‘No, I thought I’d do that once I wore out Freddy.’
He stopped and looked down at me. I couldn’t see his eyes because his face was in shadow but I could see the misty fog of his warm breath as it met the cold air. ‘How about I come with you? That is, if your husband wouldn’t mind?’
My heart gave a little stumble as I gave him one of my fixed smiles. ‘Believe me, he won’t mind at all.’
MATT CAME TO pick me up in his car forty-five minutes later. I’d had just enough time to feed Freddy and wash his musty wet feathers smell off me. I spritzed myself with my neroli oil spray and brushed out my hair, which had been in a knot at the back of my head for work and then squashed flat by my beanie.
I’m not in the least bit vain but I will say one thing for myself—I have great hair. It’s thick and healthy with just enough wave in it to give it loads of body, or I can straighten it, and it’s long enough to put up or leave loose. Jem hates me for it, as hers is a riot of corkscrew blonde curls that makes her look like she’s poked her fingers into a power outlet.
I was waiting on my front step as Matt’s car double-parked. There are never any spaces in front of my house, which is usually my biggest bugbear, but tonight I was glad about it. The last thing I wanted was for Matt Bishop to park his car outside my door and invite himself in. One step inside and my charade would be blown. There wasn’t a single thing to suggest I was a recently married woman, and it wasn’t just the absence of a husband either. I had sent back all the wedding gifts … apart from the really gorgeous art deco standard lamp Jem had given me.
Before I’d taken a step off my front porch Matt got out of the car and opened the passenger door for me. His gaze ran over my hair and my outfit in a way that made me feel as if he was seeing me for the first time. I actually saw him blink a couple of times as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. I had changed into a raspberry-red knee-length dress and I’d teamed it with black leather boots—I tell my parents they’re synthetic—and I was wearing fishnet tights. I was wearing a fake-fur coat—even I am with my parents on that—but I have to admit there was a hint of high-street hooker about my get-up. But, then, I love playful clothes. Not just so people will laugh at them instead of me, but more to put my finger up at the world for making snap judgements about appearances. We are all the same naked … well, more or less.
Mind you, I was having hot flushes thinking about Matt Bishop in his birthday suit. Even though he had a tall, rangy build, his neat, conservative clothes weren’t quite able to hide the firm tone of his muscles. I could imagine how taut and toned his abdomen was, unlike mine, which was paying the price of a two-week stint of comfort eating.
I slipped into the low-slung sports car, the rich, soft leather seat cupping my body like an expensively gloved hand. I could smell Matt’s subtle aftershave and took a deep breath to take more of it in as I pulled down the seat belt and clicked it into place.
He got in behind the wheel and I covertly watched the muscles bunching in his thigh as he put his foot down on the clutch and put the car into gear. There’s something about a manual car that’s intensely masculine. Surging through all those gears, the guttural sound of all those throaty revs, the G-force as the rubber hits the road. I felt myself being pushed back further into the seat as we headed to the corner.
The hotel where the hospital ball was being held was a boutique one owned by a former patient. We were getting the use of the ballroom at a cut price. The hotel was popular with A-list celebrities because it was both intimate and luxurious. I hadn’t been there before so I felt like a Hollywood superstar walking up the runner of red carpet on the front steps leading into the polished marble foyer. Uniformed staff were behind the shiny brass and marble reception desk and there was a concierge and three porters in another section. There was a massive arrangement of flowers on a marble stand and a veritable waterfall of crystals hung from the ceiling in a gloriously decadent chandelier that tinkled musically as we walked under it.
I didn’t want to appear too kid-in-the-candy-store overwhelmed by all the glitz and glamour surrounding me, but given I hadn’t stepped into a proper hotel until I was eighteen I still had a lot of catching up to do. My parents didn’t even stay in motels or caravan parks, let alone posh five-star hotels. They camped. And before you start picturing a nicely erected tent and a crackling fire and us four sitting around it singing ‘Kumbaya’, let me tell you it was nothing like that. We didn’t have a proper tent. My parents always borrowed one that looked like it had a past life in the circus. It was huge. But that was because there were usually ten other families with us, which meant Jem and I had to hang out with a bunch of feral kids we had nothing in common with apart from having hippy parents.
It nearly always rained, and we were bitten to death by midges, or it was stinking hot and ants would get in our food, which was ironic given there was never any sugar in it.
So you can probably see why walking into the boutique hotel in Mayfair was such a big deal for me. Oh, and the fact that I was walking in with Matt Bishop was even more thrilling. We were getting looks. You know, the sort of double-take looks people give when they think they’re seeing someone important walk by.
I can tell you, I felt important. I only wished I really was with Matt, I wished his hand was holding mine or his arm was around my waist. I was a little shocked at where my thoughts were straying. I hoped he couldn’t read my mind. It was hard enough keeping my body language under control.
Matt