Vets in Love
Contents
About the Book
Love is in the air in Talyton St George, Devon’s most romantic town.
Glamorous GP Nicci (aka the galloping doctor), and Matt, the very handsome equine vet, have caught each other’s eyes. On paper it looks like a match made in heaven.
There are problems, however: Matt’s jealous ex-girlfriend being one of them. But the main trouble is Nicci’s determination to qualify for the Badminton horse trials. Because although Matt treats horses for a living, a tragedy in his past makes him terrified every time Nicci competes.
So when Nicci has a terrible accident, a devastated Matt gives her an ultimatum: it’s either him or the riding.
Nicci can’t believe he means it. But can she risk putting him to the test?
About the Author
Cathy Woodman was a small-animal vet before turning to writing fiction. She won the Harry Bowling First Novel Award in 2002 and is a member of the Romantic Novelists’ Association. She is also a lecturer in Animal Management at a local college.
Vets in Love
is the sixth book set in the fictional market town of Talyton St George in East Devon, where Cathy lived as a child. Cathy now lives with her two children, two ponies, three exuberant Border Terriers and two cats in a village near Winchester, Hampshire.
Also by Cathy Woodman
Trust Me, I’m a Vet
Must Be Love
The Sweetest Thing
It’s a Vet’s Life
The Village Vet
Acknowledgments
I should like to thank Laura Longrigg at MBA Literary Agents, Gillian Holmes and the rest of the wonderful team at Arrow Books for their enthusiasm and
support.
Chapter One
A horse is worth more than riches – Spanish proverb
IT’S JUST BEFORE
nine on Monday morning and the rush has already begun. There’s no time for appreciating the bright June sunshine that slants in through the blinds across the window, catching the red, white and blue profusion of geraniums and lobelias in the hanging basket outside the practice.
Having picked a stray strand of hay from my skirt, I sit at my desk, take down the sign that reads ‘I am at the Stables’, and press the button on the computer. While the system loads, I check I have everything to hand – stethoscope and formulary – but I’m still looking for a pen when the door flies open and Claire, the practice nurse, appears, her face almost the same shade of cerise as her uniform.
‘Nicci, it’s going to be one of those days.’ She runs one hand frantically over her fringe, disturbing the red stripe running through her sleek brown hair. ‘Would you be able to see Mrs Green? She’s turned up without
an appointment, even though she knows perfectly well that she shouldn’t.’
‘Is it urgent?’ I ask, detecting a hint of desperation in Claire’s voice. I’ve been working here for eighteen months, having returned to the area after completing my training, whereas she’s been employed by the practice in Talyton St George for several years. She’s in her early thirties, like me, and in spite of her experience, she doesn’t deal with confrontation well and Mrs Green, or Fifi, as she is better known, gives the impression of being someone who isn’t used to being denied.
‘Apparently it’s a matter of life and death, but—’
‘Anything for peace and quiet,’ I finish for her. ‘I’ll see her.’
‘Thank you.’ Claire smiles with relief. ‘You’ve saved my life.’
‘You’d better send her in before I change my mind.’
For a woman in her sixties, Fifi’s heels are high and her nails are long, and it looks as if there’s nothing wrong with her, yet she’s suffering from every condition to be found in the medical textbooks lined up on the shelves behind me, according to a quick glance at her notes. She stands in the doorway, dressed and made up as if she’s on her way to a garden party, with a red fascinator in her copper and blonde curls and a bag decorated with a strawberry motif on her arm.
‘Good morning, Mrs Green.’
‘I really wanted to see Dr Mackie.’ She looks me up and down with a critical eye. ‘He’s done wonders for
my bunions, you know.’ Fifi is referring to Ben, my colleague who, having been established as the family GP here in Talyton St George far longer than I have, has earned his place as the oracle when it comes to medical matters.
‘Dr Mackie isn’t here until later. I’m sure Claire’s told you he’s making house calls.’
‘Oh dear. You’ll have to do, Dr Chieveley,’ Fifi goes on as I offer her a seat.
‘You must call me Nicci.’ Very few patients call me doctor, even though I have a framed certificate behind the desk at reception that confirms Dr Nicola Jane Chieveley is a Member of the Royal College of General Practitioners.
‘I couldn’t do that, not in the surgery. It doesn’t feel right.’ She flashes me a smile, sits down and turns her attention to the gallery of photos I have on the wall. There’s one of me, a blonde, blue-eyed woman in jeans and a T-shirt, with a young girl at my side and a baby in my arms. ‘What lovely children.’
‘They’re my sister’s,’ I say quickly, not wishing to let Fifi create any misunderstandings about my personal life. She’s a terrible gossip.
‘Haven’t you got a picture of your young man?’ she continues.
‘You must know something I don’t,’ I say lightly.
‘I just assumed that at your age you’d be settled.’
‘I’m thirty-one. I’m in no hurry.’
Fifi leans forward, apparently warming to her theme. ‘You’d make a great catch for someone. I wonder …’ She taps her lip with her finger as if she’s creating a
mental list of eligible bachelors for me, while I divert her back to the topic in hand, her health, thinking that it’s no good because unless one of them is Daniel Craig or Orlando Bloom, I really won’t be interested.
‘That’s enough about me,’ I say, making a brief comparison between Fifi’s beautifully manicured nails and the state of mine. ‘What about you?’ I thought I was supposed to be the one asking the questions here, but for all my training in the art of doctor-patient communication, I can’t stop her. Like the river Taly in flood, Fifi Green is in full flow.
‘The Women’s Institute has an evening of music and poetry tomorrow night. You will come along and join us.’
‘It’s a lovely idea, but I’m afraid I’m rather busy.’ My eyes drift towards another of the photos, that of a dapple grey mare, the most beautiful and talented horse in the world (okay, so I’m biased) flying over a rustic spread on a cross-country course with her ears pricked and her flaxen tail streaming out behind her.
‘I assume it’s you riding that horse, Doctor? Do you compete?’
I nod. I’m definitely a competitive person, but I’m finding it hard to compete with Fifi in conversation.
‘Willow’s an eventer. I’m aiming to qualify with her for Badminton within the next couple of years.’
‘How marvellous,’ Fifi gushes. ‘Of course, I couldn’t possibly ride a horse with all my problems. I’m in chronic pain the whole time. My wrist is sore, my hips are aching and my back is playing up again.’
‘Let’s take things one at a time,’ I say firmly.
‘I don’t think Dr Mackie would approve. He has a holistic approach to medicine, treating the patient as a whole person, not separate body parts.’
I give Fifi one of my ‘looks’, something I have practised in front of the mirror over and over again, and she backs down.
‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be telling you your job.’ Her eyes flash with good humour. ‘Dr Mackie has a lovely bedside manner, doesn’t he?’
‘I couldn’t possibly comment,’ I say, flashing a quick smile back. ‘He’s a happily married man.’
‘More’s the pity.’ Fifi sighs.
She’s married, so I can only assume she isn’t serious. As for me, I have no regrets that Ben has a wife and family. I have my career and an all-consuming hobby. Having a man in my life is an optional extra, not a necessity, whereas keeping a horse is an entirely different matter.
I examine Fifi’s wrist and discuss her back pain at some length, and as I’m winding up the consultation, thinking that she’ll probably be back to see Ben at the first opportunity, there’s a sharp rap on the door and Claire is back.
‘Nicci, I need a word.’
‘Will you excuse me?’ I say to Fifi, detecting from Claire’s expression that this is urgent.
‘Of course.’ Fifi stands up, looking from me to Claire and back, gleaning clues. ‘I do hope nothing’s amiss.’
I join Fifi and usher her out, pressing a prescription for pain-relieving gel into her hand.
‘Let Dr Mackie know how you get on. Give him a call or make an appointment for two weeks’ time.’
‘Thank you, Dr Chieveley.’ She hurries out to reception, but fortunately Claire had the foresight to show our next patient into the nurses’ room, so Fifi is left with the impossible task of extracting the gossip she wants from Janet, the receptionist, while Claire and I enter the nurses’ room where a man in his fifties is sitting slumped on the edge of the examination couch. He’s pasty and overweight with a flabby paunch, as if the only exercise he takes is lifting a pint or two in the pub.
‘You needn’t have jumped me up the queue.’ He wipes sweat from his brow. ‘I can wait, you know. I have all day.’
‘This is Steve Wilde. He’s complaining of chest pains,’ Claire says quietly.
‘How are you doing, Steve?’ I move across the room and take his pulse, which flutters like a dying butterfly – too fast and missing beats – under my fingertips.
‘You can hold my hand for as long as you like, Doc,’ he says weakly.
‘Take no notice, Nicci,’ Claire says. ‘He’s always the joker.’
‘Has he had any aspirin?’ I ask her.
‘I’ll get some.’ Claire wheels across the trolley with the ECG and crash kit. ‘Steve’s in charge of our local Am Dram group and famed for his roles as a panto dame.’
‘Have you had chest pains before?’ I notice how he’s
shaved the stubble from one side of his face and not the other.
‘I thought it was indigestion.’
‘When did they start?’ I say, checking his blood pressure, which is sky-high.
‘A couple of days ago.’ He touches his chest and forces a smile. ‘Not this bad though. I put it down to acid.’
‘Claire, can you call an ambulance?’ I say, wondering why he didn’t think to call one himself from home. Steve’s in denial. This has nothing to do with acid. He is one very sick man.
‘It’s done,’ Claire says, handing him some aspirin and a glass of water.
‘There’s no need for an ambulance,’ Steve says. ‘I’ll feel like a fraud.’
‘It’s just a precaution.’
‘I don’t like to be a bother.’
‘Better safe than sorry,’ I tell him, waiting for him to swallow the tablets. ‘I’m going to check your heart.’ I get him to lie propped up on the couch, help him remove his shirt, which he appears to have put on over his pyjamas, and set up the ECG, but my fingers are all thumbs as I stick the electrodes to his chest.
