Anybody But Him (11 page)

‘Hello to you too.' Watching him bounce around her feet with excitement, she said, ‘Yes, I'd rub your ears, but it's too difficult to bend down.'

‘I can fix that.' With his free hand, Blair scooped up the little dog and held him against the side of his chest. ‘There you go.'

With an eye roll she reached out to rub the dog's ears, and could have sworn she saw him grin. ‘Dogs don't smile, do they?'

‘Are you kidding? He has a face to suit every occasion. Okay, Dammit, you're monopolising our guest. Off you go.' He put the dog down on the floor where he rolled onto his back, obviously expecting a belly rub, but when he didn't get one, he leapt to his feet and ran off as if he'd remembered an important task that had been interrupted by their arrival.

‘Have you always lived here alone?'

‘You mean, it's a bloody big house for one?'

‘Well, yes it is, actually.'

‘When the renovation was started, there were two of us. The intention was that there would be some little Morrisseys to fill it up, eventually.'

‘You were married?' She hid her surprise, remembering that he'd hinted once before at a bad relationship.

He nodded. ‘But by the end of the renovation, there was just me, and Dammit of course, with a big house all to ourselves.'

‘Did you think of selling it?'

‘No, not seriously, because the most important part of the house was – still is – my studio. I designed that to suit me. The rest of the house doesn't matter so much.'

‘Did your ex-wife design this part?'

‘No, she left too early to have any influence on it. I got an interior designer in. What do you think of the result?'

‘Impressive.' And, strangely, she was pleased to hear that his wife had had nothing to do with it, though why it should matter to her, she had no clue.

He off-loaded the bags in the kitchen. ‘Before we eat, there's something I want to show you in my studio. If you don't mind?'

‘No, that's fine.' Especially as it gave her the opportunity to be nosy. ‘Where is your studio?'

‘Upstairs.'

Surprised, she said, ‘I didn't know there was a second floor.'

‘No, it looks like a single storey house from the front because of the high-pitched roof, but the extension is actually double height at the back. It's this way.'

She followed him through a door, up a flight of stairs, and into an enormous, light-filled area. It was as big, she realised, as the whole open-plan area below.

‘Wow.'

There were paintings everywhere, stacked several deep around the walls. One wall was filled with shelves and these were crammed with all sorts of stuff – paper, canvases, brushes, and much more. In the corner was a sink and a workbench with more shelves above.

‘I thought you only painted portraits?' She stared down at a landscape that captured the beauty of the wetlands outside town.

‘I earn my living painting portraits, but when I'm not working on a commission I paint whatever I feel like at the time.'

‘This is …' She couldn't think of an adequate description, and was wary of saying something that would mark her down as a complete ignoramus where art was concerned – which she was. In the end she settled for saying, ‘I really like it.'

‘Thanks. That means a lot.'

Yeah, right. Like her opinion carried any weight at all. ‘What did you want to show me?'

He walked over to the shelves and took down an A3-sized sketch book. He flipped through it, then stood staring at one page. ‘This,' he said eventually. ‘I found it last week when I was trying to make some space in here.'

Almost reluctantly, he turned the book around so that she could see a full-page charcoal drawing of … herself.

She'd been ugly at school – nerdy, to say the least –but in this picture she looked pensive, but pretty. Her hair was sticking out all over the place as it always had before she'd had it professionally straightened, but strangely, it suited her – or at least it suited the person in the picture. He'd used a generous amount of artistic licence to create the flattering effect.

‘You drew this?'

‘Yes, when I was seventeen. I even dated and signed it, see?'

She leaned forward to see the date and signature in the bottom corner. At seventeen, he'd been her enemy. What would he have drawn if he'd been her friend?

Her mouth had gone dry. ‘Why would you do that?'

‘Draw you?' He turned the sketch pad and looked at the drawing again. ‘I can't tell you the exact thoughts that were going through my head at the time, but I do know that I thought you were beautiful. I suppose that's why.'

She made a sound of disbelief.

Shrugging, he said, ‘I wanted to show you because … well, to prove that you're wrong about me. I didn't get my kicks from mocking you. I wasn't mocking you here, was I?' He tapped the page.

No, she had to admit it was true. It was still difficult to reconcile the artist with the boy she'd known back then. ‘Are you sure you didn't knock it out last week and write an old date on it?'

‘Why would I do that?' His eyes narrowed. ‘Anyway, can't you tell that this was drawn back then? My memory isn't that good.'

‘It
is
a bit much to think you could have recreated my embarrassing hair from memory.' She paused. ‘But I don't remember seeing you with a sketch pad in your hand. Ever.'

‘No, you wouldn't have seen me. Drawing was something I did in private.'

‘Why?'

‘Oh, you know, peer pressure I suppose. It wouldn't have been considered cool to be seen doing something so arty-farty.'

‘No, I guess that's right. You obviously got over those hang-ups, though.' She waved a hand around the room.

‘That's what growing up is for, you know. You put the past behind you.'

She shot a glance at him. Was that aimed at her? Because of her outburst in the car? If
so, it was hardly fair. ‘Some of us have more to get over than others,' she said.

He gave an ironic laugh. ‘You've got that right. Anyway, I'm hungry now. Let's go and have lunch.'

Nicola waited for the doctor who'd treated her for chicken pox at six years old, and mumps at eight, and had been very patient when her mother had insisted on giving him the benefit of her advice, not just with regard to her own family's treatment, but with that of many of his patients – as many as she could call to mind.

He was a good man. He would have been justified in being rude to her mother, but remembering his kindness made her smile. The receptionist called her number and she got to her feet. When she opened the door to the consulting room, she was still smiling.

‘Remember me?' She met the surprised, dark eyes of a man of around her own age. ‘Oh, I thought you were older.'

‘You know, I get that a lot.' He grimaced. ‘I think it's the clothes. Trinny and Susannah would have a field day with me, wouldn't they?'

‘No, I meant—' She gave his outfit a once-over. Well, actually, they probably would. She shook her head. ‘I meant to say that I was looking for Dr Whitworth.'

‘Yes, that's me. Have a seat. I'm afraid I don't remember you, though, and we don't seem to have any notes for you, so how can I help?'

She closed the door behind her and sat on the chair he'd indicated. ‘I was looking for
the Dr Whitworth I knew as a child. Are you related to him?'

‘Ah.' He grinned. ‘I'm James, the fourth-generation Dr Whitworth. The latest model, if you like.'

Well, yes, she did like, actually. His father hadn't looked like this– at least, not when she knew him. ‘Fourth generation? It was lucky that you wanted to be a doctor, then. You would have let the side down otherwise.'

‘Yes.' He picked up a pen. ‘So, what's the problem today?'

‘I don't have a problem.' She tilted her head. Had she just said that? ‘I mean, I do have problems, of course, but I'm not a patient. I'd like to talk to you about my father, who
is
your patient. His name's Doyle.'

‘Doyle? Sheilagh and Joe?'

‘Yes, that's them.'

‘You know I can't share the details of Joe's medical history without his permission, right?'

She nodded. ‘The thing is, my father received a letter about a driving test. He's … mislaid it. I was hoping you'd be able to give me contact details for the sender.'

‘That I can do.' He opened a file drawer beside him, and sorted through it.

‘So you did report him, then?'

‘You know he had an accident a few months ago?'

‘No.' She frowned. ‘Nobody told me about that.'

‘It was only minor. No other driver was involved, and your father's injury was superficial, but what concerned me was his description of the accident. He was very confused about how it had happened.'

‘I can imagine.'

‘So you've noticed cognitive changes?'

She nodded. ‘Is it dementia?'

‘I can't answer that question without a proper examination. I asked him to make an appointment, but to date, he hasn't.'

‘No, and he's not likely to either.'

‘Perhaps you could help? If you could suggest a physical reason for him to visit, such as having his blood pressure checked, he might be more willing, and while he's here I can give him a full examination. There are other reasons for cognitive changes besides dementia – some vitamin deficiencies and hormone disorders, depression, medication clashes, infections, brain tumours – and I would want to rule those out first.'

‘Yes, of course. I'll do my best to get him here.'

He smiled. ‘Normal ageing generally results in some level of decline in sensory, perceptual, cognitive, psychomotor and physical functioning and, therefore, also in driving skills, so in any event, I think it would be sensible for him to undergo an on-road driving test.'

‘Yes, I agree. I haven't noticed the same changes in Mum. Well, she's a bit more forgetful nowadays, but she's only as crazy as she's always been.'

He wrote a name and phone number on a small pad, and tore off the page. ‘I think they're both characters, your parents. There aren't enough people like them around, in my opinion.' He smiled again as he handed her the scrap of paper.

‘Oh. Thank you.' She reached for it, then winced at the sudden movement.

His eyes narrowed. ‘Are you all right?'

‘Cracked rib.' She took a slow breath in.

‘Do you want me to look at it?'

She shook her head. ‘I've been to hospital. I've got painkillers. I just need to be more careful to avoid jarring it.'

‘Yes.' He paused. ‘So, are you going to register as a patient here?'

‘No. I'm only in town temporarily. I'll be gone in a few weeks, and I don't intend to need a doctor again.'

He rose and escorted her to the door. ‘Well, it was good to meet you. I do hope you can persuade your father to come and see me.'

She was on her way out of the clinic when she heard Blair's voice, and looked to her right. ‘What are you doing here?'

He held up a prescription before folding it and slipping it into the pocket of his jeans. ‘Picking up a repeat for Mrs Thompson, your neighbour.'

‘Why?'

He lifted his eyebrows. ‘She's running out of her medicine. She needs some more.'

‘Yes, I get that, but why you?'

‘Why not? Not everybody in town hates me, you know.'

No, she got that as well.

He held the external door open and gestured for her to go ahead of him. Outside, he said, ‘What are you doing here, anyway? Are your ribs giving you trouble?'

‘No. Well, no more than usual as long as I don't make any sudden movements. I came to ask Dr Whitworth about my parents. Remember the letter about the driving test?'

He nodded. ‘Did talking to the doctor help?'

‘Yes, he gave me the info I needed to arrange the test, but I have to convince Dad to come and see him.'

‘Does he think there might be a problem?'

‘Possibly, but it could be any of a number of things.' She bit her lip. ‘Or just normal ageing.'

After a moment's silence he asked, ‘How are you getting home?'

She grimaced. She hadn't thought of that when she'd got Travis to drop her off at the surgery. ‘I'll phone for a taxi.'

‘You'll be waiting for a while. Or you could come with me. I have to go to the chemist for Mrs Thompson, but that won't take long. Then we could have a gentle stroll by the river, if you like. It's a great day for it.'

He was right, it was a great day, and she'd love a walk by the river. A slow one wouldn't be too painful. She went around to the passenger side of his car where she waited for him to open the door.

Blair parked the car outside the chemist, and Nicola waited while he went inside. When he returned to the car a few minutes later, he opened her door and helped her out. They crossed the road and followed the path to the River Way, leaving the street behind.

‘I hate these things,' he said after a few minutes.

She looked up to see him gesturing at the exercise equipment at the side of the path. ‘What's to hate?'

‘They look so incongruous. They're completely out of place in this natural setting.'

He did have a point.

‘You wouldn't catch me using them,' he said.

‘But then you don't need to.'

He gave her a quizzical look, and she turned away. She'd made it sound like she'd ogled his body. Which she had, of course. ‘I mean, you get plenty of exercise from digging in the garden, don't you?'

‘Yes, that's true. Dragonflies,' he said, gesturing at the river.

‘I love dragonflies.'

‘Shall we stop here? Sit for a while?'

She nodded, and made for a bench between the path and the river. ‘Dad used to call them helicopters,' she said when they were settled. ‘Una never liked them, though. She thought they were trying to eat her when they flew at her.' She fell silent, smiling as she remembered those days.

He gave her a curious look. ‘You're smiling for a change.'

‘I smile. I smile a lot.'

He made no comment, but one eyebrow rose.

‘I do.' She shrugged and gazed at the river. She really did like this place and she'd be sad to leave it behind. Not that there weren't plenty of water views in Sydney, but they weren't the same. This place held good memories. ‘Dad used to bring us both here to fish. I always caught more than she did.'

‘Ah, good old sibling rivalry.'

‘Dad was a great teacher. He taught us everything he knew about fishing. He probably wished he'd had sons, but instead he got lumbered with two daughters.'

‘I'm sure he didn't see it that way, and I'm glad to hear you say something positive about one of your parents, at least. It makes a change. I think you take them too seriously. You should try to see the funny side of what they say instead of hating them for embarrassing you.'

She frowned. ‘I don't hate them. Well, there have been times …' After a pause she said, ‘Why do you care, anyway?'

Sighing, he said, ‘I feel sort of responsible.'

‘You?'

‘I never meant you to take the teasing to heart the way you did.'

‘Well, of course I did. The last thing a teenage girl needs is to be the butt of someone's jokes.'

‘I'm starting to see that.'

About bloody time, she thought. Aloud she said, ‘Do you even remember that poem I wrote? The one you and your mates laughed at?'

Blair nodded.

‘You weren't meant to see it. It was utterly private, between me and the page. How would you have liked it if someone had caught you drawing, or painting, and passed your work around for everyone to make fun of?'

His head dropped, his chin touching his chest. ‘Lousy.'

‘See? Only it was worse for me, because you could draw, where as my poem was garbage—'

‘It wasn't so bad.'

‘It was, but let me finish,' she said. ‘I know I looked a mess, I had parents who did crazy things, and I was stupid enough to fall in love with one of the cool guys.'

His head jerked up. ‘In love?'

Her cheeks hot, she said, ‘It was a ridiculous crush. I didn't know any better. But you read the poem; you know that.'

‘I didn't read it, to be honest. Someone shoved it under my nose, and gave me a rough-guide version. Rough being the operative word. I reacted the way I did because …'

‘Because you despised me.'

‘No! Not that. Not at all.'

She waited.

‘Because I didn't want you getting any ideas about me. You were too nice, too good to get involved with me. ‘

She gave a grunt of disbelief.

‘It's true.' He sighed. ‘There were reasons, okay? Things I don't want to go into.'

She turned to look at him. ‘Reasons? What sort of reasons?'

‘Didn't I just say that I didn't want to go into them?'

‘What reasons?'

He shook his head. ‘I'm going to regret opening my mouth. You're not going to let it drop, are you?'

‘What do you think?'

He leaned forward with his forearms resting on his knees and his hands joined. He swore in a low voice, but just loud enough for her to hear. ‘Some of this stuff … I've never told anyone.'

Intrigued, she kept quiet, letting him continue in his own time.

He took a deep breath. ‘My father skipped town when I was ten.'

She vaguely remembered that his father hadn't been around much, but she'd never known the Morrissey family very well– he could have been working away on a remote mine site, or driving trucks, or anything. She definitely hadn't realised that he'd left his wife and kids.

‘My mother … was already drinking heavily when he left, in fact, I think that was what drove him away. Afterwards, she deteriorated. Over the years she became barely able to care for herself, let alone her kids.'

‘Oh.' Frowning, she said, ‘So who looked after you?'

He hesitated, then looked up at her. ‘I didn't want the three of us to be split up, and I knew that if anybody outside the family found out what our home life was like, we'd be taken into care, and I might never see my brother and sister again.'

She stared.

‘That's what happens, isn't it? Foster parents don't want three kids from the one family, do they?'

‘Well, I don't know. I've never thought about it.'

‘No. That would be because you had two great parents. You had a secure childhood. You didn't live in fear of someone coming to the door and finding your mother passed out on the kitchen floor. I thought about it, though. I thought about it a lot.' He stood, strode towards the river and shoved his hands in his pockets.

After several seconds, he turned and climbed the slope back to the bench. As he sat he said, ‘Sorry. Just needed a moment there. You were embarrassed by your parents, but seriously, you had nothing to worry about. I would have given anything to have parents like yours. A father to take us kids fishing. A mother to bake us shortbread.'