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And, anyway, there were far better things to look at. Gosh, it was nice to lie there, Freya thought, looking up at Richard.
And for Richard it was nice too—nice to feel her hair, because it had entranced him.
He looked down, but not into her eyes. Her robe was hanging open a little, and he could see the curve of her breast and the edge of a pink areola beckoning. He wanted to slip his hand in...
But sustenance first.
‘I’m starving.’
He wasn’t asking her to cook for him—a bowl of cereal was his usual choice when in a rush, and he was in a rush. To resume proceedings!
He hauled her off his lap and walked through to her tiny kitchen, where he opened up the cupboards while Freya lay there, liking it that he hadn’t asked if he could do so.
Usually that would have made her tense. She recalled well how she had sucked in a breath when she had bought her little cottage and Malcolm had opened her fridge. But now she lay smiling as Richard opened and closed her cupboards.
‘You have absolutely nothing to eat,’ Richard said when he came back. ‘Not even cereal.’
‘I meant to stop at the shops on the way home from work. I think there’s some soup...’
‘That’s not going to cut it. Come on,’ he said. ‘Get dressed.’
‘We could always ring for pizza,’ Freya suggested.
He was tempted. There was a huge appeal in the thought of having pizza delivered and then moving straight to bed. And he had seen from his search of the fridge that there was a bottle of wine there.
A perfect evening.
Except—rarely for him—the pleasure was laced with guilt.
Did she fully get that he didn’t do the dating thing?
He wasn’t that bad—it wasn’t all bed. Just...mostly.
He had come here tonight fully intending to take Freya to that damned film—which was actually quite a concession for him. Richard couldn’t remember the last time he had been to the cinema.
But now he had to be clear. Richard wanted to make sure that she didn’t think this might lead to anything more than a few casual dates and a whole lot of bed.
While he hoped he had spelled things out yesterday—and although getting pizza and going straight to bed would be easier and far more pleasant—Richard knew that he needed to tell her that this night wouldn’t change anything.
Yet clearly it was going to.
For they were soon back at the Italian restaurant—but as lovers this time.
CHAPTER SIX (#ufa772c71-6473-5118-bbbe-2fb399325060)
TONIGHT IT WAS Richard who had the carbonara.
Freya chose spaghetti, and it came with a rich, meaty tomato sauce.
‘You did it again,’ Richard said.
‘What?’
‘When I saw your carbonara last night I regretted my choice...’ And then he stopped, because he’d been about to say that next time they came here the spaghetti with the rich, meaty tomato sauce was what he’d want.
But he didn’t.
Instead he remembered he was off work tomorrow and ordered a bottle of red.
‘I don’t like drinking if I’m working the next day,’ he explained. ‘But I’ve got a few days off now.’
‘And me.’ Freya smiled.
He wondered if she was waiting for him to suggest they do something together.
Ah yes, The Talk, Richard reminded himself.
Except Freya got there first.
‘I’m going home for a couple of days before a stint on nights,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a new lot of tenants arriving at my cottage next week.’
‘Holidaymakers?’ Richard said.
‘Yes, they’re there for two weeks and then I’ve another lot coming in. I’ve arranged for someone to come in and clean, and change the sheets and things, but I just need to sort a few things out.’
‘Don’t you hate having people staying at your house?’
‘I’ve put a lot of stuff in the cellar,’ Freya said. ‘And that’s locked. It doesn’t bother me.’
‘But isn’t it a hassle?’
‘Not really.’ Freya shrugged. ‘And even if it is at times, then it’s worth it. It helps a lot with the mortgage, though in a couple of months it’s going on the market...’ Freya halted.
Or was it?
She recalled that just before Richard had arrived her plans had started to change. She needed to be alone to think about that, to decide what she was going to do, and so she asked about him instead.
‘What about you? Do you have plans?’
‘I have an interview.’
‘Ah, that explains the haircut,’ Freya said as she twirled spaghetti around her fork.
‘Not really. I was well overdue for that. It’s not an interview as such—more an informal lunch to suss things out...’
He let out a sigh and promptly forgot the reason he had brought her here. Instead he told her what tomorrow was about. No-one else knew.
‘There’s a role coming up.’
‘I thought you loved what you do?’
‘And I do, but it is consuming. I’m actually heading to the airport after the lunch. I’m going to Moscow tomorrow for a few nights, to get away completely.’
‘Moscow?’
‘It’s a bit drastic, I know, but I love getting away. I don’t put my phone on, so the hospital can’t call me to come in—or if they do I don’t hear it.’
‘Well, you don’t need to go all the way to Moscow for that. There are more than a few places in Scotland where you can’t get a signal.’
‘Please...’ He grinned. ‘I was teasing about changing the movie reels.’
‘I know you were,’ Freya agreed. ‘But, trust me, there really are plenty of places you can’t get a signal. I went away for Christmas with my family last year and we all had to keep going for walks just so we could make a call, or check emails and things. And in summer, depending on what provider they have, the tourists often can’t get a good signal. We have a wee laugh, watching them walking around with their phones in the air.’
‘Well, I’ll bear that in mind,’ Richard said.
‘So, are you keen for this job?’
‘I’m curious, certainly.’
He told her the name of a very exclusive private hospital which made her look up from her pasta.
‘I’ve a friend, Marcus, who’s director of anaesthetics there, and there’s a position coming up—a very attractive one...’ He didn’t get to finish, for Freya had a question.
‘But won’t you miss the adrenaline?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But there are days when I think no, I won’t miss it at all. It’s a big decision—but you’d know all about that, given you’ve just made a big move yourself.’
Freya gave a shrug. ‘I just knew that I wanted to get away.’
He looked at her through slightly narrowed, assessing eyes. ‘Why?’
‘Lots of reasons,’ Freya said. ‘I had a bit of a rough year. Well, not myself, exactly...’ She didn’t know why it was so hard simply to say it. ‘My best friend lost a baby last year... Andrew.’
‘Were you present at the birth?’ Richard asked.
‘Not at the actual birth, but I was there on admission,’ Freya said. ‘Alison ended up having a crash Caesarean. She came in a week before her due date, everything about the pregnancy had been fine, and then I went to check the foetal heart-rate...’ She paused a moment as she recalled it. ‘At first I thought I had picked up Alison’s...’
She didn’t, of course, need to explain to him that the mother’s heart-rate was usually a lot slower than the baby’s.
‘But then I knew the heart-rate was the baby’s...’
‘Not good.’
‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘My senior, Betty, was there, and a doctor was there within a minute, and everything was set in motion. We got her straight upstairs to Theatre. I didn’t go in. Betty knew I was too involved. He was born flat and was resuscitated but died two days later. Cord compression and meconium aspiration...’ Freya screwed her eyes closed for just a second but then opened them and gave an uncomfortable shrug. ‘Anyway, it was a difficult time.’
‘Did she blame you?’
‘Oh, no—nothing like that. It was more...’ Freya didn’t know how to describe how she’d felt when she didn’t really know herself.
‘You blamed yourself?’
‘A bit,’ Freya said. ‘Well, I questioned myself. It made me realise that being so involved with my patients isn’t always ideal.’
‘So you came to nice, anonymous London?’
‘It wasn’t just because of that,’ Freya said, ‘but it is nice to be not so involved with the patients.’
‘I’m sorry—you don’t get to do a job like yours and not get involved.’
‘It’s not that easy...’
‘I never said anything about easy.’
That annoyed her. Richard was too brusque, too direct, and he had hit a nerve.
‘You don’t know me.’
‘I’m trying to.’
It was a rare admission for him, because while he might be talking about getting involved professionally, he certainly did his best not to on the personal front.
‘You cannot do this job, Freya, and not care. Or rather, you cannot do this job in the way you want to do it and not care.’
He signalled for the bill and then remembered that they still hadn’t had The Talk.
It didn’t seem so important now. Freya was off to Scotland tomorrow and he to Moscow. And she certainly wasn’t jumping up and down demanding to know when they would see each other again as they headed to the Underground.
‘You really don’t have to see me home,’ Freya said.
‘I’m not,’ Richard said. ‘I believe in equality—it’s your turn to see me to my door.’
CHAPTER SEVEN (#ufa772c71-6473-5118-bbbe-2fb399325060)
UH-OH!
Freya woke to a very un-lumpy mattress—in fact, she felt as if she was wrapped in cotton wool. And then she heard Richard speaking into the phone.
Her one and only one-night stand was over.
And, instead of regretting it, she smiled as she lay there, recalling last night.
They had arrived back at his gorgeous apartment and he’d poured them a drink and headed off for a shower.
She’d ended up in there with him.
And then they’d taken their drinks to bed.
Oh, it had been bliss.
