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'I'm sorry, Alex... It's not your fault; it's me, I just don't.. .react.' She was trying so hard to use words that wouldn't make him feel demeaned.

'There's no need to be sorry.' He refastened his seat belt, dipping his head to the task. 'I wish things could be different but, if they can't be, there it is. I think that perhaps you're not entirely recovered from your husband's death. Two years isn't all that long to be rid of grief. I've been there myself, remember.' He looked at her again, perhaps waiting for her to confirm that this was the reason why she couldn't come to life in his arms, except in a passive way.

'It's difficult to say,' she dissembled, knowing that
she lied, but she could hardly tell him that she was long over Daniel and that the reason why he, Alex, couldn't strike any spark was that he didn't, and couldn't, attract her—not in a sexual way. 'I'm sorry if you feel you've been wasting your time,' she added, trying to smile.

'I don't feel that... Absolutely not!' He looked indignant then. 'I've enjoyed every one of our outings, and I hope you have too.'

'Very
much!' At least that was true.

'I feel we get on well, and I'd like us to keep on meeting. I'll settle for friendship, if that's what you want, just so long as I know. Contrary to what all the cynics say, Anna, men aren't always just out for one thing!'

'Oh, Alex, what a speech.' She returned his smile, liking him even more. In fact, she liked him a lot, she realised with a little stab of surprise. So she told him that she would like to keep meeting him, but also made up her mind that their outings must be less frequent and the expenses shared.

I don't want him to feel that I'm taking all and giving nothing back, she thought now as, with her mind on Simon and getting to his house, she picked up her shoulder-bag and let herself out of the flat.

He was looking out for her as she turned into his drive. He had the front door open and was coming down the steps before she got out of the car, Buzz at his heels giving short, annoyed yaps as though to say, not
her
again.

His annoyance was clearly not shared by his master, whose sweeping glance took her in from gleaming head to broad-strapped Scholls. 'A sight for sore eyes!' His words made her colour.

'I haven't brought a cap; I hope that's all right?' She swallowed nervously as he ushered her into the hall.

'Not necessary.' He shook his head. 'Even on the wards it seems to me they're of little value, apart from being decorative.'

'Some hospitals...' she followed him up the stairs to his rooms '. . .are already doing away with them— they're a pain to keep on.' She was chattering too much, and knew she was—all this rabbiting on about caps. Even Simon looked rigid about the shoulders. Perhaps he was thinking that it might have been better to put his patients off.

The consulting-rooms looked different bathed in evening light. The fuschia was wilting and dropping its heads, and Miss Benson had plainly left in a hurry for one or two papers lay on the carpeted floor. Simon picked them up.

'When the bell goes,' he said, 'bring the first patient, Mrs Paterson, straight through to me. I usually have a little chat first but you stay within reach, then take her through here to undress—' he opened a door on the right '—give her one of these gowns to put on, then bring her through again, help her onto the couch and cover her up. It's a little like Outpatients' Clinic, Anna.'

'Only posher,' she laughed, beginning to feel a little better in this quiet atmosphere.

'Here are the notes of who's coming.' He laid them on Miss Benson's desk. 'You've just got time to sift through them before Mrs Paterson comes. She's sixty-four, and likes to have an annual pelvic examination, including a smear. You'll find everything you need in here.' He unlocked a small cabinet. 'I use a Sims' speculum and an Ayre's spatula; the slides are at the back and so is the fixative; labels in the desk.

'Miss Turf, who comes next, is a follow-up after removal of an ovarian cyst at the Causeway Clinic six weeks ago. She's a young woman of twenty-five. The cyst was small and I was able to enucleate it, leaving most of her ovary in place.

'Mrs Flower is a new patient so there's nothing much on the notes, apart from her GP referral letter. She's complaining of amenorrhoea, which may or may not be caused after stopping oral contraception. She's forty-two years old. Spontaneous menstruation should return after six months, and she's been off the pill for eight. She may need a course of clomiphene citrate to get her going again.'

'She could be pregnant,' Anna suggested.

'Her GP would have picked that up, I rather think. He's one of the thorough ones; I get several patients from him.'

'Oh, yes.' Feeling slightly foolish, Anna confined herself to reading the notes as Simon went through to the main consulting-room.

A few minutes later she heard the sound of a car turning in at the drive. Quelling one or two butterflies, she got to her feet, hearing Simon call out, 'This looks like Mrs Paterson, missing my gatepost by an inch! Wait till she rings before you go down. She likes to take her time, hates being pounced on... She's just a shade difficult.'

That's all I need, Anna thought, but stayed where she was until the sound of the doorbell pealed through the house, making Buzz—safely confined to the kitchen— bark like a maniac. On the doorstep, legs planted wide apart, stood a large perspiring lady in a polka-dotted dress. She was puffing from the exertion of getting out from behind the wheel of her car. She viewed Anna with raised eyebrows.

'You're not the usual girl!'

'No, I'm standing in, just temporarily.' Anna stretched her mouth into a smile.

'I don't like change... I like people I know.'

Anna smiled still more, refusing to apologise for her presence.

They went up the stairs very slowly in a cloud of Yves Saint Laurent, which increased in density when, a few minutes later, Mrs Paterson undressed behind the screens.

She was no sooner settled on the couch than she reared up again, fixing Simon with her eye and telling him that during a year something might have gone wrong, so would he be extra thorough as she didn't want to die just yet?

'Have you any reason to suspect there's something wrong?' he asked, as Anna took her gown.

'Well, no,' she admitted, 'no; I haven't, but I like to be sure. My sister died of cancer six years ago and I know it runs in families.'

'There's no medical evidence to support that, Mrs Paterson.' He was gentle and kind, encouraging too, as he positioned her on the couch. 'That's right; that's perfect. Now, try to relax; try to let go... Good, that's splendid; won't be a minute now!'

He couldn't have been more encouraging, Anna thought, if Mrs P. had been giving birth. At the end of it all he informed her that so far as he could see there was nothing amiss, apart
from
natural atrophic
changes.

'You mean it's old age?' Mrs Paterson allowed herself to be wrapped in her robe.

'Well, as we get older...' Simon began, but was interrupted again.

'I
expect
to degenerate, Mr Easter—' even her expression was withering '—so long as it's nothing untoward, so long as it's nothing worse. Now, I'd like the result of that sample you've taken just as soon as it's back from the labs... Get them to give it priority. I don't like hanging about.' She was getting dressed at this point, talking to Simon over the screens.

She was a little less voluble going down the stairs, although she remarked to Anna that getting old was all very well but one had to be
vigilant.

Miss Turf, who came next, was quieter and easier to deal with. Attractive, slim and young, she answered Simon's questions with confident brevity... Yes, she felt well... Yes, she'd gone back to work... She was grateful for all he'd done.

Mrs Flower, in early middle age, was reassured that once ovulation had been induced by a course of tablets she would begin to menstruate again, and be back to normal. 'You'll realise, of course, that when that happens conception will be possible,' Simon reminded her, scribbling in her notes.

'I do, and I'll get some advice from my GP,' she replied. 'Neither my husband nor I want to add to our family. I had my three sons before I was thirty. We planned things that way.' She looked pleased with herself and just a little smug, Anna thought, watching her swing her feet to the floor and reach for her towelling robe.

She went happily off, remarking to Anna what a wonderful summer it was. She had come in a blue Audi, which she'd left in the shade by the gates. Waiting until she'd driven off before closing the front door, Anna spotted a little brown and white spaniel, bobbing on the back seat.

Inside the house, and confined to the kitchen, Buzz was barking again. 'Shall I let him out?' Anna called up to Simon, who came down at the double, saying he'd do so himself. 'You mean you don't want a chewed-up nurse/receptionist?' She stood back to let him pass.

'Yes, that's what I mean... Can't stand the sight of blood!' he grinned, with a return of his old teasing manner, and Anna rejoiced to see it but hid her pleasure by staring at the wall. Watch it, she told herself, don't go dotty just because he's smiled and showed his charming side.

Buzz elected to stay in the kitchen whilst Simon prepared his meal of meat and biscuit, and set it down for him. 'I suppose,' he said, going over to the sink to wash his hands, 'that it would be courting a turndown if I asked you to stay and share my supper?'

She looked at him, standing there with his back to her and swishing water over his hands. He had left his jacket upstairs and his white cotton shirt and dark trousers made a sharp outline against the window and wall. He was staring ahead, waiting for her answer, shoulders slightly raised. The power of his attraction was overwhelming and she swayed on her feet, hardly recognising—or believing—her own voice when she told him she ought to get back.

'Of course.'
His
voice held a tinge of amusement. 'I'm indebted to you for your help.' He seemed to be wrestling with the taps, then she heard him swear explosively as he swung round to face her. 'The damned hot water's stopped running—that means the tank in the loft has run dry! I'll have to go up there... Damn it to hell... It's the second time it's occurred!' He brushed past her and made for the stairs to the second floor, Buzz leaping ahead and Anna following.

'Have you a proper loft ladder?' she asked.

'No, but there's a folding one in the attics that reached up all right. I've used it before. Now, you go off home... You don't have to be involved.' He sounded short-tempered and dismissive, and she didn't blame him at all.

'I'll stay while you're up in the loft. I'd rather.' They had reached the attics floor.

'Don't tell me you're afraid I'll break my neck!'

'Just a leg, perhaps.' She met his gaze steadily. 'Think what a nuisance that would be.'

'Much though I like your company, I'd rather you stayed at ground level,' he said as they carried the ladder from the attic, and got it hoisted up at the trap.

Anna could see the caverns of the roof space, dark and mysterious. 'I'll stay here,' she promised. 'I don't know much about tanks.'

Simon began to climb, rung by rung, not especially cautiously. He had the look of a man who'd climbed ladders before. He went up, long-legged and lithe, showing a pair of dusty heels and an inch or two of sock. And then he was about to vanish—his head had already gone, one hand was stretched to switch on a light and then the whole of him was illuminated as he doubled up and climbed over the rim of the trap.

Standing there at the foot of the ladder, still leaning hard against it, Anna could hear him walking lightly over her head. The loft must be boarded, she thought, and thank heaven for that—at least he wasn't having to balance on joists and risk coming through with one leg, like people did in films.

But his footsteps had ceased and, straining her ears, she heard a series of thuds, then a hissing, cistern kind of noise which was the water coming into the tank.

'We're in business.' Simon's voice sounded hollow and echo-like. 'It's just as I thought—the ball had adhered to the bottom of the tank. I'll have to get a new one... Should have done so before, but kept hoping for the best.'

'Are you all right up there?' Anna called.

'Couldn't be better... One thing about the Victorians...they knew how to build good roofs.'

The hissing went on for several minutes, and then he came back, filling the trapdoor space once again and descending the ladder, which Anna held on to for dear life—feeling it moving against her hands. It was silly to heave a sigh of relief when he was safely back at her side, but that was exactly what she did—for supposing that ladder had slipped?

'Thanks for staying.' He folded it up and slid it back into the attic.

'I believe in safety first.' Her eyes were on the cobwebby trails in his hair.

'What's the matter,' he asked, 'have I grown two heads?'

'No, just a cobweb or two.'

'Snap,' he grinned, 'so have you—that'll teach you to stand holding ladders for men climbing up into lofts.'

She laughed; so did he, then, suddenly grave, he took her face between his palms. Tilting it up to his, he kissed her, his mouth moving over hers with a sensual, passionate rhythm, flooding her with delight and with a longing for more. . .much, much more.. .making every barrier she'd erected between them explode into shivering bits.

When he lifted his head and moved back she felt that she was going to die. 'I'm taking advantage; behaving badly. Good job you're not staying to supper!' He was looking amused; he was
joking.
Oh, how could he, how could he do that? How could he stand there so unaffected when she was still feeling so much?

'It's perfectly all right, but I'd better be going.' She smiled swiftly back at him.

'I'll see you out.' Down the stairs they went, past the consulting-rooms floor and down to the wide, closed front door, where he turned to face her again. 'Thank you for your help, Anna, you did a cracking job.' His hand moved to open the door.