‘I won’t be working for the next week—unless you’d rather stay home with Sophie?’

Sophie would adore having her daddy all to herself—and maybe nursing his daughter through her illness was the wake-up call Oliver needed. The thing that would make him start concentrating on his family. Though Rachel already knew what his reaction was going to be.

‘No, she needs her mum with her.’

Sophie needed her dad, too. So did Robin. But Rachel wasn’t feeling up to a row. ‘If you think it’s best,’ she said coolly.

Oliver raked a hand through his dark hair. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll sort things out at the practice.’

Hell. Why did he have to look so sexy when she didn’t have time to do anything about it? Since they’d had the children they didn’t spend Sunday mornings in bed any more. Rachel realised just how much she missed it—the warmth of her husband’s body heating hers, tangled limbs, the roughness of the hairs on his chest against her skin.

Then she remembered last night. The guiltgift—chocolates that she hadn’t been able to face eating because she knew why he’d bought them and they would have stuck in her throat…

Kate Hardy lives on the outskirts of Norwich with her husband, two small children, two lazy spaniels—and too many books to count! She wrote her first book at age six, when her parents gave her a typewriter for her birthday. She had the first of a series of sexy romances published at twenty-five, and swapped a job in marketing communications for freelance health journalism when her son was born so she could spend more time with him. She’s wanted to write for Mills & Boon® since she was twelve—and when she was pregnant with her daughter her husband pointed out that writing Medical Romances™ would be the perfect way to combine her interest in health issues with her love of good stories. It really is the best of both worlds—especially as she gets to meet a new gorgeous hero every time... Kate is always delighted to hear from readers—do drop in to her website at www.katehardy.com

Recent books by the same author:

THE DOCTOR’S PREGNANCY SURPRISE*

THE BABY DOCTOR’S DESIRE*

THE DOCTOR’S TENDER SECRET*

THE REGISTRAR’S CONVENIENT WIFE

THE SPANISH CONSULTANT’S BABY

*London City General trilogy

Their Very Special Marriage

Kate Hardy

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue

CHAPTER ONE

THE noise was deafening. Thirty children running around in the huge room, crawling through tunnels, sliding down enormous tubes into a pool of brightly coloured balls, jumping harder and harder on the bouncy castle until—

Rachel saw it happening from the other side of the room, but she wasn’t fast enough to get there in time to stop it. Robin misjudged his bounce, moved at the wrong angle and clashed heads with one of his classmates. Rachel raced towards them, but Oliver was already there. Both little boys were crying and holding their heads, and he led them away from the bouncy castle to a quieter corner of the room.

‘All right, let’s have a look at you, birthday boy.’ His gentle, teasing tone helped to soothe the little boy. ‘Robin, can you tell Daddy where it hurts?’ He gently checked the little boy. His fingers probed the bump to help him estimate the extent of the injury, then he checked the little boy’s pupils. Robin was still crying, but Oliver kissed his forehead, stroked his hair and turned to the other little boy, who was holding one hand to his forehead and crying equally hard.

By the time Rachel brought over two cold pads—years of working together meant that Oliver hadn’t needed to ask her for them—both little boys had stopped sobbing.

‘Here we go. Let’s put a cold compress on to make you feel better,’ Rachel said. ‘Do you two want to come and sit with me for a little while and have a story?’

Two small, solemn heads nodded.

‘Come on, then.’ Rachel moved so the boys could both sit on her knee, and her gaze met Oliver’s for a moment. His wry smile said it all: Kids.

‘Pupils both equal and reactive, for both of them,’ he said softly. ‘No signs of loss of consciousness, though I think Mikey’s going to have a bit of a shiner.’

She nodded. But with head injuries, you couldn’t be too careful—what looked like a harmless bump could turn into something nasty a few hours later. A tear in an artery could lead to an extradural haemorrhage, where blood pooled between the bone and the dura and caused pressure inside the skull to rise. They’d need to keep a close eye on Robin—in case he started being sick, had a severe headache or fits—and warn Mikey’s parents to do the same.

That was the one bad thing about being a qualified doctor: you knew the worst-case scenario. And when your own children were involved, you stopped being rational and calm and remembered the rarest complications of any condition.

Oliver was smiling at her now, and Rachel was conscious of a jolt somewhere in the region of her heart. Even after fourteen years of being together—eight years of marriage—her husband’s smile could still make her heart turn over. Just the curve of his mouth, and remembering the pleasure that mouth had brought to her over the years. Or the light in his blue, blue eyes. He’d smiled at her like that at Robin’s second birthday party and, nine months later, Sophie had made her arrival into the world.

Would they make love tonight?

Oh, now she was really getting depraved. Thinking about sex in the middle of a six-year-old’s birthday party. But it had been a while. Oliver had been too busy, Rachel had been too tired, and the weeks had slipped by. Maybe tonight she should make an effort. When Rob and Sophie were asleep, she’d put some chilling-out music on the CD player, open a bottle of wine and tempt Oliver to relax with her.

‘That’s my daddy,’ she heard Sophie lisp proudly. ‘He makes people better. So does my mummy.’

‘Come on, little one. Shall we go and tell the ladies we’re nearly ready for tea and Robin’s birthday cake?’ Oliver asked, picking up his daughter and lifting her onto his shoulders.

Rachel smiled gratefully at him. ‘Thanks, love,’ she mouthed, and started telling her son and his best friend a complicated story about pirates and dragons which soon had them forgetting their bump on the bouncy castle.

After the birthday tea—where all the healthy options of raisins, cherry tomatoes and cubes of cheese were ignored in favour of crisps and chocolate finger biscuits, and the jelly and ice cream disappeared in record time—and two rousing choruses of ‘Happy Birthday to You’, because Sophie wanted to be like her big brother and blow out the candles, too, the children dispersed, clutching a balloon, a windmill and a party bag. Rachel strapped the children into their car seats while Oliver paid for the party and brought Robin’s pile of presents back to the car.

‘Did you have a nice party, darling?’ she asked Robin.

‘It was brilliant!’ Robin’s smile was a mile wide.

‘Can we have another one next week?’ Sophie asked.

Rachel laughed. ‘We’ll have to wait until it’s your birthday, Soph.’

‘But that’s ages away,’ Robin said in dismay.

‘Never mind. We can try out your new bike when we get home,’ Rachel suggested, knowing it would distract him.

The ploy worked, because Robin started chattering about his new bike and how it had got proper gears and a really loud bell.

‘And I can go on my pink scooter,’ Sophie said. ‘Robin, you’ve got to wear your hat.’ She blew on her windmill. ‘Look, Daddy, it goes round!’

‘Mmm.’

Oliver was making the right noises but Rachel could hear that his heart definitely wasn’t in it. She shot him a sideways look and groaned inwardly. She knew that look. He was thinking about the practice.

Today was their son’s birthday. His sixth birthday. Oliver had swapped duties so he wasn’t on morning surgery or on call. He’d promised to spend the day with them as a family. To give him his due, he’d spent the day with them so far. He’d been good with the kids at the party, chatted to the other parents. But Rachel knew it just wasn’t possible for Oliver Bedingfield to go for more than four hours without thinking about the practice.

So she was prepared for her husband to check his mobile phone as soon as they got indoors, and equally prepared for the apologetic look on his face.

‘Sorry, love. There’s something I need to sort out.’

Couldn’t he put the children—and her—first, for once? But no. He was a Bedingfield, brought up to believe that his duty to the community came before everything else. ‘Rob wanted to show you how good he is on his bike,’ she reminded him. She’d taken the stabilisers off Robin’s old bike a week ago to get him prepared for his birthday present. Where she’d grown up, it was always the dads who taught their kids how to ride a bike. In the Kent village where they lived, even, it was the dads who did the bike-riding lessons.

Except for Oliver.

‘I’ll come and see him ride it later. I promise,’ Oliver said.

His eyes had grown wary, as if he was expecting a row. He damned well deserved one, Rachel thought angrily. Was one single day too much to ask?

Clearly, it was. She forced herself to smile at him, even though she wanted to shake him and tell him their kids were growing up so fast and he was missing everything—that he wouldn’t get this time back again and he was wasting it. ‘OK. We’ll be out in the front garden.’

‘I’ll be with you as soon as I can,’ Oliver said.

But he didn’t meet her eyes, and when he walked into his office in the house Rachel knew he wouldn’t come out into the front garden with them. He never did. She was always the one who watched the children when they went out to play, chatted to other parents in the street.

It wasn’t that Oliver was a snob. He was good with people and everyone in the village loved their GP. But his background was so different from Rachel’s own. He’d grown up in the big house at the far end of the village, always that little bit apart from the others; she’d grown up on an estate in Newcastle where everyone popped in and out of each other’s houses, and children went from garden to garden, playing noisy and busy games until somebody’s mum came out with a tray of orange squash and biscuits. When she’d been pregnant with Rob and they’d moved to the small modern estate on the edge of the village, she’d thought that Oliver would fit in and discover what it meant to live right in the middle of a close community. That he’d break away from the Bedingfield way of doing things.

But then Oliver’s father decided to retire, over a long enough period for Oliver to ease into taking his place as the senior partner in the practice. So Oliver didn’t get the time to join in with Rachel. And, following the Bedingfield tradition, he always kept slightly apart from everyone else.

If it hadn’t been for that clash of heads and the fact that his medical expertise had been needed, he’d have stayed remote at the party, too. On the sidelines, making all the right noises, but his mind elsewhere. Sometimes Rachel thought she was on the way to losing the man she’d fallen in love with, because Oliver was turning into his father. He even ran the practice along the same lines as Stuart Bedingfield had. But this was the twenty-first century—no body doffed their cap to the village bank manager, solicitor or doctor any more. It was time to let the old ways go, forget the social niceties that were no longer an issue.

‘Penny for them?’

Rachel jumped. She’d been lost in her thoughts, watching the children at the same time. ‘Just thinking how quickly they grow up,’ she lied. Much as she liked her neighbour, Ginny, she couldn’t talk to her about Oliver. The last thing she wanted was rumours floating round the village that all wasn’t well between Oliver and Rachel Bedingfield.

‘Don’t they just? I remember when Jack was six. It seems like yesterday—and now he’s eleven and nearly as tall as me! Did Rob enjoy his party?’

‘Loved it.’ Rachel grinned. ‘Funny, you’d think that two hours at Bounce would wear them out. But he’ll be zooming round on that bike until it’s dark.’

‘Ah, bless.’ Ginny gave her a curious look. ‘Oliver working, is he?’

So even the neighbours had noticed. Great. She shrugged. ‘Something cropped up.’

‘Your life’s not your own when you’re the village doctor,’ Ginny said. ‘You must get it, too—people coming up to you at nursery or in the playground to ask you “just a quick question”.’

Parents only did that so they didn’t have to risk facing the practice’s dragon secretary if they didn’t have the luck to get Rita, the receptionist, to ask for an appointment to see Rachel. Another sticking point, another battle that Rachel knew she’d never win. But when Prunella eventually retired, Rachel was going to make sure Oliver didn’t hire a carbon copy as her replacement. ‘Better them grab me in the street than have them worrying about the kids,’ Rachel said, and deftly changed the subject.

Oliver still hadn’t joined them by the time it was too dark for the children to play outside safely. Rachel shepherded Robin and Sophie indoors. ‘Do you want anything to eat?’

‘I’m stuffed,’ Robin said.

‘I’m stuffed, too,’ Sophie said, not to be outdone.

‘Milk, bath and bed, I think,’ Rachel said.

‘But Daddy didn’t see me on my bike,’ Robin protested.

Rachel gave him a hug. ‘He’ll see you on your bike tomorrow, love.’

‘He’ll be busy,’ Sophie said.

Hell. If even a three-year-old spotted that her father didn’t spend enough time with them—and made excuses for him—then it was time to do something.

What, Rachel wasn’t sure. She pulled her weight at the surgery, as did the other doctors and the practice nurse. Maybe she should persuade Oliver to get a practice manager to take the admin burden off him. But it had been the Bedingfield practice for so long...she had a feeling he’d resist. If he didn’t, his family would. The Bedingfields were a sensitive lot and it would be all too easy to start a full-scale family feud. She really didn’t need to give them an extra excuse to dislike her. Being forthright and Northern was more than enough for them. She had to go carefully.

As usual, bathtime meant there was more water on the floor than in the bath. Rachel dried the children and mopped up. ‘Teeth, story, bed,’ she said.

‘But it’s my birthday,’ Robin protested.

‘You know the routine. Teeth, story, bed.’

‘A princess story?’ Sophie asked, beaming.

Rachel hid a smile. Sophie and her ‘pwintheth thtorieth’. Not that Oliver would have got the joke. He didn’t do bedtime routines. Didn’t have time. Just the same as it was always Rachel who helped Rob do his homework and make birthday cards, Rachel who’d taught both children their letters and colours and numbers, Rachel who listened to Robin’s reading, Rachel who did all the liaison with the school, Rachel who did the laundry and the packed lunches. ‘OK, you can choose a princess story. Rob, you can read whatever story you like, but no more than twenty minutes, OK?’

‘I’ll kiss Daddy goodnight.’ Before Rachel could stop her, Sophie had rushed down the stairs and flung open the door to Oliver’s office. ‘Daddy!’

‘Come on, Rob. Come and have a birthday kiss, too,’ Rachel said.

Oliver definitely wasn’t pleased at the interruption. He was trying to hide it in front of the children, but she recognised the little furrow between his eyebrows. A furrow that was actually starting to leave a line, it appeared so frequently nowadays.

‘Daddy, Daddy.’ Sophie climbed onto her father’s lap and hugged him. ‘Love you.’ Then she leaned backwards and put one hand out to steady herself. It landed on the keyboard of Oliver’s computer.

There was a loud beep and Oliver’s mouth tightened. ‘You’ve deleted the file,’ he said between clenched teeth.

Rachel hastily scooped Sophie out of Oliver’s arms. ‘It was an accident. She’s three, Oliver,’ she reminded him. ‘And you can always restore the file.’

‘No, because I hadn’t saved it. I’ve lost the last half-hour’s work.’

‘The system’s got an autosave function,’ she reminded him, her eyes narrowing.

Robin was hanging back by the doorway, looking worried. Rachel sighed inwardly. ‘Are you going to give the birthday boy a bedtime kiss?’ she asked Oliver quietly.

‘Of course.’ Oliver opened his arms stiffly. ‘’Night, Robin. And happy birthday.’

Not as happy as it had been. Not as happy as it could have been. Sometimes, Rachel thought, she could murder her husband. Why couldn’t he put himself in the kids’ shoes just occasionally?

She shepherded the children to bed, read Sophie three stories about Princess Mouse, let Robin finish the chapter of his book about the robot dog, then kissed them both goodnight and turned off the lights.

Now for Oliver.

‘Don’t make it into a confrontation,’ she reminded herself quietly as she walked downstairs. ‘You’ll just set his back up and get nowhere. If you want him to listen and do something positive, take it softly.’ She rapped on the door of his office and put her head round the door. ‘Oliver?’

He glanced up.

‘Did you get your file sorted?’

‘No, thanks to Sophie. Rachel, you know I don’t like the children coming in here.’

They wouldn’t have to go in if he’d come out to them! She bit back her irritation. ‘Oliver, your memory’s fantastic—it won’t take you that long to put it back together.’ She paused. ‘Saltimbocca OK for dinner?’ His favourite. That would put him in a good mood, surely?

He shook his head. ‘Thanks, but I’m not that hungry. Besides, I’ve got a lot to do—as well as making up on that half-hour’s work I lost.’

Which had been an accident. And it was only a computer file, hardly a life-or-death situation. She took a deep breath. If she pushed it now, they’d have a row. ‘I’ll make you a sandwich. But, Oliver...I think we need to talk.’

‘About what?’

Did he really not know? Did he think this was a normal marriage? Then again, it might well be, in his terms. He was probably following his father’s pattern. ‘About us.’

‘We’re all right.’

He sounded so sure. Maybe he was right. Maybe the problem was all in her head. Rachel didn’t have the energy for a row. She gave up. ‘Do you want a glass of wine with your sandwich?’

He shook his head. ‘I’m fine, thanks.’

She made a sandwich and quietly took it through to his office. He mumbled a thank you, but she knew he hardly saw her. Her own sandwich tasted like ashes and most of it ended up in the bin. When was the last time they’d eaten as a family? Or was she simply expecting too much?

When she checked on the children, Robin was clutching his favourite teddy in one hand and the string to a rocket-shaped helium balloon—the one her mother had sent by special delivery that morning—in the other. Gently, she disentangled the string and put it safely at the side of the room. He murmured in his sleep; she stroked his hair. ‘Goodnight, Rob. Sweet dreams. I love you,’ she whispered.

Sophie was lying like a small baby with her forearms flopped back, her hands by her ears. Her duvet was half over her face. Rachel straightened it and stroked her daughter’s hair. ‘Goodnight, Soph. Sweet dreams. I love you,’ she said softly.

Her beautiful children. Both with Oliver’s straight dark hair and china-blue eyes. Rob had Oliver’s half-shy smile and tended to keep on the edge of things; Sophie was confident and was usually in the middle. Usually in charge, Rachel thought with a smile. She’d have to teach Sophie to curb her bossy tendencies.

Her smile faded. Oliver wouldn’t. He probably hadn’t even noticed.

She shook herself. Stop feeling so sorry for yourself, Rachel Bedingfield, she told herself harshly. You’ve got a good marriage, a good man and two fabulous children. You’ve got a job you love, a nice house and no financial worries. What have you got to be miserable about? Pull yourself together!

Maybe a bath would help. Preferably shared with Oliver—they just about fitted into the bath together—but she knew that was asking for too much. The mood he was in, he’d snap at her if she suggested it.

She used the expensive bath foam he’d bought her for Christmas, and settled back with a magazine.

Is your husband cheating on you? Check our ten typical signs.

She rolled her eyes. Oliver wasn’t a cheat. He didn’t have time to do anything but work. All the same, she couldn’t help reading it and answering the questions in her head.

His looks.

Ha. He hadn’t changed there. Not the way he dressed, the toiletries he used. Definitely not.

His work...an excuse to account for time spent away.

The back of Rachel’s neck prickled. She shook herself. Of course not. Oliver was just a workaholic. He always had been, even as a student.

Personality or behavioural changes.

Hmm. He’d become withdrawn and distant, but that was to do with work—wasn’t it? Rachel looked closer at the section. They may be subtle and gradual. Um. When had Oliver started being distant? Your spouse may be touchy—reflecting the effort of keeping the affair hidden, the fear of discovery and guilt. No. Of course not. He was just touchy because he was working too hard.

Telephone tip-offs.

She hadn’t had any odd calls, nobody hanging up as soon as she answered. Sure, Oliver checked his mobile phone a lot, but that was work.

Sex.

Changes in your sex life. Ha. What sex life? She couldn’t remember the last time they’d made love. She swallowed. Was that because he was doing it with somebody else? No. Of course not. It was work again. Work, and she was often tired from looking after the children in between doing her shifts at the surgery. He was tired, too, because he put in long hours. It was just a phase their marriage was going through. It happened to every couple from time to time...didn’t it?

Computer use.

An online or cyber-affair. No. He didn’t hide his files when anyone walked into his office. He just didn’t like being disturbed when he was working. That little nagging voice in the back of her head was completely wrong.

Changes in habits.

Ha. Well, he wasn’t doing that. He didn’t have time to go to the gym and his taste in music hadn’t changed recently. As for what he ate... Tonight, when he hadn’t wanted her to cook for them, he’d just been tired and busy.

Gifts.

Hmm. Well, she hadn’t noticed any gifts or receipts hanging about. He hadn’t been buying her things out of guilt either. Cross that one off.

Closed doors.

As a way of distancing himself, physically and emotionally? Hmm. Well, it was only his office door that he kept closed. Work again.

Friends and family notice discord between you.

Ginny’s comment had only been about Oliver’s workaholic habits. Hadn’t it?

All the same, Rachel couldn’t help noticing how many of the signs applied. Seven out of ten. Which she’d blamed on work.

A sexually, emotionally or physically absent partner is likely to be getting fulfilment somewhere else.

No, no and no. She was just being paranoid. Stupid. It was only an article in a magazine. It didn’t mean that Oliver was having an affair. She closed the magazine and dunked it in the bath. ‘So there,’ she said.

But there was an empty feeling in her heart as she climbed out and dried herself. And an even emptier feeling as she went to bed. Alone.

CHAPTER TWO

OLIVER blinked hard. His eyes were sore from the time he’d spent at the computer. But every time he’d thought about stopping, he’d heard his father’s voice. I’m relying on you, son. Keep the practice going, just as I would.

How could he let his father down? Nigel had dropped out of medicine after the third year, which had left Oliver as the one who had to keep the family practice going. Sometimes, just sometimes, Oliver wished his elder brother would shoulder his share of the family responsibilities. But he was realistic enough to know Nigel never would, and their mother would always have a ready excuse for him. Which left Oliver to carry the burden on his own.

The house was completely silent. Oliver couldn’t even hear Squeak, the family hamster, running on his wheel. With a sigh he checked that the doors were locked, and trudged upstairs to the bedroom. Rachel’s bedside light was still on, but she was asleep.

It was barely half past ten.

Couldn’t she have waited up for him for once? She knew how busy he was, that he had to put the hours in at his desk at home. He was senior partner at the practice. He had responsibilities, to his patients as well as to his family. But Rachel always seemed to have an early night nowadays. Leaving him to unwind on his own in front of the news, sport or a film he didn’t really want to see.

He stripped and had a shower, half hoping that the sound of the water would wake her. Maybe she’d surprise him, open the shower door and slide in next to him, and...

Oh, who was he trying to kid? He couldn’t remember the last time they’d made love. Every time he made an overture, she gave him that apologetic little smile. ‘Sorry, love. I’m a bit tired. Maybe tomorrow night?’

And tomorrow never came.

So, lately, he’d stopped even asking. There wasn’t any point.

OK, to be fair, Rachel worked long hours, too. She did her shifts at the surgery, kept the house running, looked after the children. Oliver was guiltily aware that he didn’t do as much as he should on the parenting front, that he’d used work to duck his responsibilities at home. But Rachel was so much better at that sort of thing than he was. She always knew how to make things right when the kids were upset.

He just wished she could make him feel better.

His mouth tightened as he towelled himself dry. And what had that been about earlier this evening? We need to talk. About us. Was she...?

No, of course not. They were all right. It was just a phase that most couples with small kids went through. He’d seen enough of them in his surgery, women tired out by child care and feeling neglected by their spouses.

Maybe he’d buy Rachel some flowers tomorrow. Show her he appreciated her. And then maybe she’d show him some appreciation, too. And if she didn’t appreciate him...well, at least there was one person who did. One person he could talk to. And maybe she could shed some light on what was going on in Rachel’s head.

* * *

Rachel was already up the next morning when Oliver woke. He could hear her in the bathroom, cleaning Sophie’s teeth and encouraging Robin to clean his. By the time Oliver had showered, dressed and gone downstairs, the children were ready for school and Rachel had set a cafetière of coffee next to his place at the kitchen table.

‘See you at the surgery,’ she said. ‘Soph, Rob, give Daddy a kiss goodbye.’

‘Love you, Daddy,’ they both said.

Oliver hugged them back. ‘Love you, too. Have a nice day at school.’

‘Nursery, Daddy,’ Sophie corrected him. ‘I’m going to big school next year.’

He couldn’t help grinning. His daughter was so pedantic. But she had her mother’s smile, wide and welcoming, enough to charm anyone. And that cute little lisp meant she could get away with murder. ‘All right, Sophie. Nursery, then.’

She nodded in satisfaction. ‘Bye, Daddy.’

‘Bye,’ Rob echoed.

‘Bye.’ Rachel leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

Oliver was almost tempted to grab her and kiss her properly. But then she’d be late dropping the kids off and her surgery would start late, so she’d be late picking Sophie up from nursery again and...oh, it would be just too much hassle. He contented himself with a ‘See you later’. She gave him an odd look, but he shrugged it off. Rachel was just in a funny mood right now. Probably PMT. He’d go carefully for the next couple of days, and then she’d be back to her usual sunny self. He hoped.

* * *

When Rachel had dropped Sophie at nursery and Robin at school, she drove to the surgery. Her first patient, Teresa Lord, was already waiting for her.

‘What can I do for you, Teresa?’ she asked with a smile.

‘It’s...’ Teresa sighed. ‘I know this is going to sound stupid. But I’ve been so miserable, and my sister’s taking Prozac. She says it makes you feel so much brighter. And I wondered...’

Rachel’s heart sank. She hated it when patients thought antidepressants were the answer to everything. ‘It’s one of several options, yes,’ Rachel said carefully. ‘So how have you been feeling?’

‘Low.’

‘How are you sleeping?’ Waking early—often two or three hours earlier than usual—was a common symptom of depression.

‘OK. It’s just it’s a bit hard to get to sleep.’ Teresa bit her lip. ‘I lie there and think.’

‘Is anything particular bothering you?’ Rachel asked gently.

‘No.’ Teresa sighed and her shoulders sagged. ‘Yes.’

‘Tell me about it. Maybe I can help,’ Rachel offered.

Teresa looked torn between wanting to confide and afraid that it would make things worse. Rachel had a fair idea why her patient was worried. ‘Remember, whatever you tell me is confidential. I’m your doctor. I’m not going to gossip about you in the playground. Nobody in the village will hear a word from me,’ she said quietly. Teresa’s face cleared, and Rachel knew she’d guessed correctly. She waited, knowing that it was best to let the patient set the pace.

‘It’s my husband,’ Teresa blurted out. ‘I think he’s having an affair.’

Ouch. Just what Rachel had half been thinking about Oliver. ‘What makes you think that?’

‘He’s been distant with me lately. And he’s working late every night. And he snaps at me and the kids. Then he can be so loving... I thought maybe he was worried about something at work. But then I read this article, and I recognised the signs.’

You and me both, Rachel thought grimly. I bet you read the same article I did. ‘Just because you did a quiz in a magazine and the results weren’t very nice, it doesn’t mean Dick’s definitely having an affair,’ she reassured Teresa, though she was sure her words sounded hollow. ‘You’d be much better off talking to him about your worries. The longer you leave it, the more anxious you’re going to get, the worse you’ll feel and the more likely you are to end up having a hell of a row instead of discussing it calmly.’

‘So you’re not going to give me antidepressants?’

‘Antidepressants can be useful in cases of clinical depression—they change the chemicals in your brain,’ Rachel said. ‘But I think in your case, Teresa, they’re not going to help. You’re upset for a reason—a good reason—and the way to help yourself feel better again is to tackle the cause of what you’re worrying about. If you don’t want to talk to Dick about it on your own, talking to a counsellor’s a good start. It’ll help you find some common ground with him.’

‘I don’t know if he’ll agree to go.’

Mmm. Rachel could dish out the advice, but she couldn’t take it herself. If she asked Oliver to go to marriage counselling with her, he’d probably look at her as if she’d grown three heads. ‘Then why don’t you get your mum to have the kids for the night, sit down with Dick and talk things through with him? If you tell him how you’re feeling and listen to how he’s feeling, too, you might be able to see a way through it together. It might be that he’s got problems at work, he doesn’t want to worry you about them, and he doesn’t realise how he’s being at home.’

‘Or he might be having an affair,’ Teresa said glumly.

‘If he is, then taking antidepressants isn’t going to change anything. You need to talk to each other,’ Rachel said gently. She looked up the numbers for the nearest counsellors on her computer, wrote three of them down and handed the paper to Teresa. ‘Before you talk to him, you could have a word with one of these. They can give you some tips to help you discuss things without making it a confrontation.’

‘I suppose.’

Rachel reached over and squeezed Teresa’s hand. ‘You might be getting yourself worked up about nothing. Give it a try. You can always come back and see me again if it doesn’t help and you’re still feeling low.’

‘What about St John’s wort? My cousin takes that.’

‘Some studies show it’s effective with depression,’ Rachel said. ‘But it reacts with some medications—it makes the drugs go through the body too quickly so they don’t work properly. The Pill’s one of the drugs it reacts with, so if you’re going to take St John’s wort you’ll need to use an extra method of contraception.’

‘I never thought of that,’ Teresa said, blinking in surprise. ‘It’s a natural remedy. I just assumed it’d be safe to take.’

‘It can be, if you’re not taking any other medications,’ Rachel said. ‘But if you do go into the chemist for a complementary remedy, it’s always worth having a chat with the pharmacist before you buy it, just to check it’s going to suit you and won’t interfere with anything else you’re taking—and also how long you should take it for.’

Teresa nodded. ‘Thanks, Rachel.’

Rachel smiled back. ‘That’s what I’m here for.’

When Teresa left, Rachel waited a while before buzzing her next patient in. Teresa’s worries had made her own doubts resurface. Supposing Oliver was having an affair? Would he agree to see a relationship counsellor? Or would the suggestion be the thing to push him over the edge and make him leave her?

She shook herself. Ridiculous. They had a strong marriage. They’d been together for fourteen years, despite the initial opposition of his family. Two gorgeous children. Oliver wouldn’t walk out on them...would he?

* * *

Oliver buzzed his first patient in. ‘Good morning, Mrs Porter. How are you?’

‘Fine. Well, um, look, I don’t want to waste your time, Dr Bedingfield. It’s a bit silly.’

‘That’s what I’m here for,’ Oliver said with a smile. ‘What’s the problem?’

‘I keep getting pins and needles in my hand. I’ve been waking up in the night and my hand’s just numb until I shake it or rub it.’

‘Do you get it during the day as well?’

‘Not really. It’s a lot worse at night,’ Hayley said.

‘It sounds as if it might be carpal tunnel syndrome,’ Oliver said. ‘The bones in your wrist form a tunnel, called the carpal tunnel, and the main nerve in your hand—the median nerve—goes through it, together with other tendons and ligaments. When the tendons get swollen for any reason, they squash the median nerve and that’s what causes the pain and tingling. May I take a look at your hand?’

‘It’s the left one.’ She held it out for inspection.

‘Does it affect your fingers at all?’

‘My thumb, first finger and middle finger,’ she said.

A textbook case—but he needed to check a couple of things. ‘OK. I’m going to ask you to do a couple of things which will tell me where the problem is.’ He started with Tinel’s test—tapping over the carpal tunnel in the wrist to see if he could reproduce the tingling. ‘How does that feel?’

‘My fingers are tingling,’ Hayley admitted.

Positive: so next he’d try Phalen’s test. ‘I want you to flex your wrist for me, as hard as you can.’ He smiled as she followed his instructions. ‘Yes, that’s perfect.’ He kept half an eye on the second hand of the clock as he spoke. ‘Have you ever had pins and needles in your hand before?’

‘A bit, when I was pregnant.’

He nodded. Rachel would probably know about that. She did all the antenatal appointments at the practice. ‘You often get carpel tunnel syndrome in the last few months of pregnancy.’

‘That’s what Rachel said.’

Rachel, not ‘Dr Bedingfield’, he noticed. Rachel’s style of medicine was very different from his own. ‘Is there a possibility you’re pregnant at the moment?’

Hayley shook her head. ‘Definitely not.’

There were other medical conditions which affected the carpal tunnel, too, including wrist fractures, diabetes, thyroid disease and rheumatoid arthritis. Repeating the same hand movements over and over again could cause it—it was common with people who used computers, assembly-line workers and mechanics and people who played a lot of golf or did a lot of gardening. ‘Have you changed your job lately, or taken up a new hobby, or texted people more than usual on your mobile phone?’

‘I started doing cross-stitch last month,’ Hayley said. ‘But would that cause it?’

‘It’s a repetitive hand movement so, yes, it could be part of the problem,’ Oliver said.

‘But I use my right hand for stitching.’

‘And the left for holding an embroidery ring?’

‘Well, yes.’ Hayley grimaced. ‘My hand’s tingling now.’

‘OK, you can relax your hand.’ He noticed that she flicked her wrist to stop the pins and needles: a characteristic response to carpal tunnel syndrome.

‘What we can start with is a wrist splint at night—that will stop your wrist from moving, but you’ll be able to do pretty much anything you usually do with your hands. Taking some ibuprofen at night, just before you go to bed, can help with the inflammation. You also need to change the way you do needlework—take more breaks, so it gives your wrist and hand a chance to rest. If that doesn’t work, there are a couple of other things we can try.’

‘What sort of things?’

‘An injection of corticosteroids into your wrist often helps.’

She shook her head. ‘I’m not good with needles.’

‘The other option’s minor surgery to release the pressure on the nerve.’

‘You mean, cut my wrist open?’

‘It’ll stop the pain and you’ll get full use of your hand and wrist back within a couple of months.’

Hayley grimaced. ‘I think I’d rather put up with the pins and needles!’

‘Hopefully it won’t come to that. I’ll prescribe you a splint and Rosie—’ the practice nurse ‘—can show you how to put it on. Give it six weeks—around three in four patients find it’s a lot better then. If it’s not any better, come back and have a chat with me.’

‘And have an injection?’

‘Not necessarily. I mean have a chat, see how you’re feeling and discuss what your options are. I promise, no needles unless that’s what you decide you want.’

She almost sagged in relief. ‘Thanks, Dr Bedingfield.’

‘Pleasure.’

The rest of morning surgery flew by, and Oliver definitely needed a cup of coffee at the end of it. Rachel was already in the rest room. He sighed inwardly, hoping that the tension between them from last night would have vanished, but half expecting it would still be there.

‘Hello.’

She spun round and smiled when she saw him. ‘Hi.’ She added milk to the mug of coffee she’d just poured and handed it to him.

Peace offering? He just about stopped himself uttering the words. ‘Thanks.’

‘Had a good morning?’ she asked as she made a second mug of coffee.

‘Average. Though I had a nasty case of carpal tunnel. Hayley Porter.’

‘Mmm, she had it when she was pregnant,’ Rachel said. ‘Poor thing. It’s still giving her gyp, then?’

‘I’ve given her a wrist splint, and told her to take ibuprofen before bed. Hopefully that’ll help. If not, the next step’s a steroid injection.’

‘Which could itself cause problems—apart from making sure you don’t touch the median nerve when you put the needle in, there’s a risk of the patient developing a haematoma,’ Rachel said. ‘Plus she might need a second injection and splints if it doesn’t work. And if that doesn’t work, you’ll have to divide the flexor retinaculum to decompress the nerve.’

‘We can do it by keyhole surgery,’ Oliver said.

She shook her head. ‘I know endoscopic techniques—’ keyhole surgery ‘—mean that patients recover faster, but there’s less risk of a complication with the open technique, and more chance that you’ll release the carpal tunnel fully. Half the time with endoscopic techniques you can’t see well enough and you have to convert it to an open technique anyway.’

His turn for a peace offering. ‘Want me to refer her to you?’ He knew Rachel didn’t get to do as much minor surgery as she’d like.

Rachel nodded. ‘Please. Not that you’re a bad doctor. She’s just really, really scared of needles. Lucy—’ the midwife for Hollybridge and the next village ‘—gave up in the end and sent her to me to do the antenatal blood tests.’

‘Then you’d be the best doctor to calm her down. She’s used to you and she trusts you.’

‘She trusts you, Oliver. Everyone does.’

Did they? He wasn’t so sure. Especially where his wife was concerned. ‘Rach, what you were saying yesterday...’

‘Hmm?’

‘About us. I’ve been thinking.’

She looked nervous; her brown eyes suddenly went very, very dark. ‘What about us?’

‘You’ve got a point. We don’t ever talk about us any more, only about work or the children.’

She nodded. ‘Maybe we should—’

But before she could finish, Rita, the practice receptionist, put her head round the door. ‘Rachel, sorry to interrupt, I’ve got the hospital on the phone. Says it’s urgent.’

‘Hell. I’m expecting some test results. If they’re calling, that means bad news,’ she said. She gave Oliver an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry, I really need to take that call. Catch you later?’

‘Sure.’

Though he couldn’t help wondering. What had she been about to suggest? He had no idea. He didn’t know what Rachel was thinking a lot of the time nowadays. Maybe they could try again and talk tonight when the kids were in bed.

Maybe.

CHAPTER THREE

EXCEPT things didn’t work out quite as Oliver planned. Surgery overran and the florist was closed when he got there, so he had to make do with what was left at the supermarket. Not the ideal choice, but the thought was what counted, wasn’t it?

‘Thank you,’ Rachel said politely when he handed her the huge bunch of carnations. Then she gave him a suspicious look. ‘What are they for?’

What did she mean? He’d bought them because he knew she liked flowers. ‘Do I need an excuse to buy my wife flowers?’ he demanded.

‘No-o.’

But she didn’t sound that sure. He tried to remember when he’d last bought her flowers—except for birthdays and anniversaries—and drew a blank. Hell. No wonder she looked leery. She probably thought he was going to tell her that he’d promised to cover someone else’s shifts and he’d bought the flowers out of guilt.

Well, he had bought them out of guilt.

‘I thought maybe we could, um, spend some time together, tonight. Talk,’ he muttered.

‘Oliver, I can’t. It’s the school PTA committee meeting tonight and I have to be there—I’m the chair. I can’t just back out at the last minute and let everyone down.’ She sighed. ‘It’s been booked for weeks. You know I write everything on the calendar.’

The one that hung by the phone. The one he never really took any notice of.

‘Why don’t you ever look at it?’ she asked, almost as if she’d read his thoughts.

Because, if there was anything important, Rachel always reminded him. She hadn’t bothered this morning. So it wasn’t his fault he’d forgotten, was it? ‘Some other time, then. Soon,’ he added.

But when? Not tomorrow—that was his trauma medicine course. Thursday was the practice late night. Maybe Friday, then.

When had life become so complicated? When had he and Rachel stopped having time for each other? More to the point, how were they going to fix it? Right now, he didn’t have any answers.

* * *

On Thursday morning, Rachel was surprised to see Megan Garner halfway through the morning. The practice antenatal clinics were held on Wednesdays, and she’d seen Megan last week. ‘Hi, Meg. I thought I was seeing you next Wednesday?’

‘You are.’ Megan’s face was ashen and there were dark shadows under her eyes—more than Rachel expected to see, even though Megan was probably having the usual difficulty sleeping in late pregnancy.

‘What’s up?’

‘It’s Jasmine. She’s got chickenpox.’ A tear trickled down Megan’s face. ‘I haven’t had it. Ever. I played with all the kids in the village and I never, ever got chickenpox. And my mum’s friend said chickenpox can—can ki—’ She broke off, her breath shuddering, clearly too distraught to say the word, and scrubbed at her eyes with the back of her hand.

‘Hey.’ Rachel took her hand. ‘Of course you’re worried. And I’m glad you came to see me. First things first, we don’t know you haven’t had chickenpox.’

‘Mum said I didn’t.’

‘It’s possible that you had it so mildly, you only had one or two spots and your mum thought they were gnat bites,’ Rachel reassured her. ‘Studies show that eighty per cent of people who can’t recall having chickenpox are actually immune. And chickenpox in pregnancy is really rare—only about three in every thousand pregnant women get it.’

‘What about the baby?’

‘Yes, there is a risk of the baby developing problems such as skin scarring, eye problems and neurological problems, but that’s only a risk if you get it between thirteen and twenty weeks. So you can stop worrying about birth defects because you’re well past twenty weeks.’ She paused. ‘When did Jasmine go down with it?’

‘She got the first spots yesterday. She was in the bath and I saw them.’ Megan shook her head. ‘I’d heard you can literally see chickenpox spots coming out, but I thought people were exaggerating. But I could see them popping up on her back.’

Rachel nodded, calculating mentally that Jasmine became infectious four days ago. The incubation period was between ten days and three weeks, so if Megan did develop chickenpox it would be somewhere between the end of the following week and the next fortnight. ‘Right. You’re due to have the baby in ten days’ time. If the baby’s late, that could mean you’ll deliver the baby in three weeks’ time. Jasmine’s spots will all have crusted over by the end of next week, so there shouldn’t be any risk to the baby from Jasmine.’

‘What about if I have the baby early? Or if I get it?’

‘Let’s not panic yet. There’s a very high probability that you’re already immune—remember, around ninety-five per cent of adults have already had it—so I’ll do a blood test and ask the lab to rush it through for me. If you’re not immune, I can refer you to the hospital for preventative treatment—they can give you something called VZIG and give the baby the same thing when he’s born.’ She smiled. ‘That stands for “varicella zoster”—chickenpox to me and you—“immunoglobulin”. They’re antibodies which will protect you and the baby against developing chickenpox.’

Megan was shaking slightly. ‘But if I do get it—or the baby?’

‘If you get it before you have the baby, we can give you an antiviral medication called acyclovir. We can also give the baby antibodies and the antiviral medication.’ Rachel thought it prudent not to mention that ten per cent of pregnant women with chickenpox went on to develop pneumonia—Megan didn’t smoke, so that cut her risk anyway—or how serious chickenpox could be for newborns. Until they knew whether Megan was immune or not, Rachel didn’t want to panic her patient. ‘How’s Jasmine?’

‘Miserable.’

‘If she’s got a temperature, you can give her some infant paracetamol or ibuprofen to bring it down.’

‘She hasn’t said she’s hot, just itchy. I keep telling her not to scratch, but she can’t help it. Mum says I should put calamine lotion on her.’

‘That’ll help to stop the itch—though there’s something out now that stops the itch for a bit longer and isn’t quite as messy.’ Rachel scribbled a note on her pad, tore off the top sheet and handed it to Megan. ‘You don’t need a prescription for this. If Ian at the pharmacy doesn’t have it, he can tell you who does stock it or what’s the next best thing. Putting a bit of bicarb soda in a tepid bath can help, too. If it’s affecting her sleep, bring her to see me and I can give her some antihistamines to stop the itch and help her sleep. She might have a sore throat, so give her plenty of cool drinks. Otherwise, I’d recommend keeping Jasmine’s nails really short and doing things with her that keep her hands occupied so she can’t scratch. Make sure you get enough rest, though.’ She smiled at Megan. ‘Do you want a glass of water before I do the scary needle thing?’

Megan shook her head, smiling back. ‘No, I’m OK. At least you don’t leave bruises. Lucy does.’

‘Poor Lucy. She’s paranoid that half my mums ask her to let me do the blood samples instead of her.’

‘So, has Sophie had chickenpox yet?’ Megan asked, looking away as Rachel deftly took the blood sample.

‘No. I saw the notice up at nursery this morning. I’ll be watching her for the next couple of weeks.’ Rachel put her hand flat on the desk. ‘Touch wood, we haven’t had the nits notice up for a while.’

‘Oh, no. Don’t talk that up!’ Megan groaned.

‘Nits scare me a lot more than they scare Soph. She refuses to let me put her hair in a ponytail. And she hates even a detangling comb in her hair—I dread to think what she’d be like with a nit comb,’ Rachel said ruefully. ‘OK, you can press on the cotton wool for a few seconds.’

‘You’re done already?’

‘I’m done. Not so bad, was it?’ Rachel wrote out the lab form. ‘I’ll ring you as soon as I get the results through. It probably won’t be until Monday, but don’t spend the weekend fretting about it. There’s a very, very strong chance that you’re immune—and if you’re not, we can protect you and the baby.’

‘Thanks, Rachel.’ Megan took a deep breath. ‘I feel a bit better now.’

‘Good. If you’re worried, talk to me or Lucy, OK? That’s what we’re here for.’ The calmer Megan stayed, the better her blood pressure would be—and the better it would be for the baby.

When Rachel had finished surgery, she checked with Rita that Oliver didn’t have a patient with him, then knocked on Oliver’s door. At his ‘Come in’ she put her head round the door.

‘Good or bad time?’ she asked.

He pulled a face. ‘Not brilliant.’

‘OK, then, I’ll keep it short. Chickenpox is doing the rounds again. The note’s up on the nursery door. If Soph gets it, we’re going to need locum cover for one of us where our shifts overlap.’ It would probably be her, but she’d give Oliver the option of nursing their daughter if he wanted to.

Oliver rolled his eyes. ‘That’s all I need. Good locums are—’

‘Like gold dust,’ Rachel finished. She’d heard him say it so often. ‘That’s why you’re getting advance warning. So you can be prepared. I’m not saying Soph’s definitely going to get it.’

‘But it’s one of the most infectious viruses, it spreads by droplets in the air, and ninety per cent of susceptible contacts get it.’ Oliver sighed. ‘I hope she doesn’t get it as badly as Rob did.’

‘Me, too.’ Rachel paused. ‘Um, it’s Sophie’s full day at nursery today. Want to meet me for lunch in the Red Lion for one of their bacon and Brie baguettes?’ If that didn’t tempt him, nothing would.

‘Sorry, I can’t. I’ve got a pile of house calls, plus I’m seeing a drug rep, and I’ve already put him off four times.’

‘Right.’ So it was nothing, then. She shrugged. ‘Just thought I’d ask.’

‘Rach—’

‘Doesn’t matter.’ She wanted to get away before the tears pricking at the back of her eyelids got any worse. Stupid, feeling rejected by her own husband. He was busy. She knew that. But all the same she wished he’d just grab a little bit of time to spend with her. She forced a smile to her face. ‘See you at home.’

‘Don’t forget, it’s late surgery tonight for me,’ he reminded her.

As if she could forget. Oliver spent more time at the practice than he did at home nowadays. ‘Sure,’ she said, hoping that he didn’t hear the wobble in her voice, and left his consulting room.

* * *

When Oliver came home after evening surgery, he handed Rachel a box wrapped in gold paper and a matching ribbon. ‘For you,’ he said with a smile.

Belgian chocolates. Her absolute favourites. She knew she ought to throw her arms around him and say thank you, but something stopped her. Why was he buying her chocolates? It wasn’t the sort of thing that Oliver did.

Unbidden, the words from the magazine article floated back into her mind. Your partner buys you lots of gifts because he feels guilty about betraying you and showering you with presents makes him feel better. Before she could stop herself, the words were out. ‘Flowers on Tuesday, chocolates tonight... Is there something I should be worried about?’

Oliver bridled. ‘Look, I just felt guilty that I couldn’t have lunch with you when you asked me. For God’s sake, I thought you’d like them. But I can’t do anything right where you’re concerned.’ He scowled. ‘Maybe you ought to start taking evening primrose oil.’

‘What?’ She stared at him. What was he driving at?

‘It’s meant to help mood swings.’

He thought she was having PMT? Or, even worse, early menopause? For goodness’ sake, she was only thirty-four! She shook her head. ‘Oliver, I’m not having mood swings.’

‘Look, I understand about PMT. I’m a modern man, not a dinosaur.’

‘Yeah, right.’

He frowned. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Just leave it. I’m going to have a bath. There’s ham and salad in the fridge, and French bread in the bread bin. If you want dinner, you can get it yourself.’

‘Rach—’

‘Leave it,’ she said again, and walked quickly away. Oh, God. This was unbearable. If Oliver really was having an affair... She shivered. And if he wasn’t, and she accused him of having an affair, it would deepen the gulf between them.

How was she going to bridge that gulf? Because if she didn’t, there was a good chance her marriage would be over by the end of the summer. They couldn’t go on like this.

Oliver didn’t come in to talk to her while she was in the bath, and she didn’t bother taking a mug of coffee into his office—what was the point, when he’d only snap at her for interrupting? She tried and failed to read the latest thriller from a writer who usually gripped her. All she could think about was Oliver, and how her marriage was crumbling before her eyes and she didn’t know how to stop it.

When she heard Oliver coming upstairs, she considered talking to him—but panicked and pretended to be asleep. She noted with an inward sigh that he didn’t cuddle into her, turning his back on her instead. Worse, judging by his deep and regular breathing, he fell asleep quickly, whereas she stayed awake until the small hours, trying to work out whether she was just being silly or whether she really did have something to worry about.

* * *

When Rachel woke the next morning, her eyes felt gritty and her head felt as if someone had whacked it with a sledgehammer. A cool shower and a hairwash helped, and a couple of paracetamol helped even more.

Robin was already getting himself dressed, so Rachel went to wake Sophie. And stopped dead. There were half a dozen spots on the little girl’s face. Gently, Rachel pulled the duvet back, lifted Sophie’s pyjama top, and saw that Sophie’s torso was covered in spots.

Very recognisable spots, red with a blister in the centre. Chickenpox.

She sighed. ‘No nursery for you this morning,’ she said softly to the sleeping child. ‘I’d better ring them and tell them you won’t be in until all the spots have crusted over. Which probably won’t be for another week.’ She stroked her daughter’s hair. Best to let her sleep while she could—as soon as Sophie was awake, she’d start to itch and scratch her spots.

Rachel walked back to her bedroom. Oliver sat up, rubbing his eyes, then stretched. ‘Is it morning already?’

Oliver never wore a pyjama top. The sight of her husband’s muscular shoulders and bare chest sent a shiver of desire through Rachel. But now wasn’t the time. ‘Bad news. Soph’s covered in spots. I’ll ask Ginny if she’ll take Rob to school with Jack, and I’m afraid you’ll have to get a locum in for me or share my list around today.’

Oliver groaned. ‘You talked it up yesterday.’

‘No. I just warned you it was on the cards. And that meant any time in the next twenty-one days. She can’t go back to nursery until the last spots have crusted over, so I won’t be working for the next week—unless you’d rather stay home with Sophie?’

Sophie would adore having her daddy all to herself. And Oliver would learn all about Pwintheth Mouse—maybe nursing his daughter through her illness was the wake-up call he needed. The thing that would make him start concentrating on his family.

Though Rachel already knew what his reaction was going to be.

‘No, she needs her mum with her.’

Sophie needed her dad, too. So did Robin. But Rachel wasn’t feeling up to a row. ‘If you think it’s best,’ she said coolly.

He raked a hand through his dark hair. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll sort things out at the practice.’ Almost as a second thought, he added, ‘Do you need me to bring anything home for Sophie?’

‘Antipruritic lotion. The itching’s going to drive her crackers, and I can’t make her sit in the bath all day. I don’t really want to take her out until her spots have crusted over, though.’

‘Sure.’ Oliver climbed out of bed and headed for their shower room.

Hell. Why did he have to look so sexy when she didn’t have time to do anything about it? Since they’d had the children, they didn’t spend Sunday mornings in bed any more. Rachel realised just how much she missed it, the warmth of her husband’s body heating hers, tangled limbs, the roughness of the hairs on his chest against her skin.

Then she remembered last night. The guilt-gift—chocolates that she hadn’t been able to face eating, because she knew why he’d bought them and they would have stuck in her throat.

Ha. What was the point of lusting after a man who’d not only fallen out of lust with you, but had fallen in lust with someone else?

She shook herself, and went to make a start on the calls to rearrange the children’s usual routine.

* * *

Distracting a small child from scratching the itchy spots was, well, almost impossible, Rachel thought. She’d tried reading the little girl’s favourite stories, letting Sophie loose with the CD-ROMs on Oliver’s old computer which they kept under the stairs for the kids to use, drawing pictures with her, reading more stories, doing jigsaw puzzles, reading more stories... And now Rachel was more shattered than if she’d gone in to the surgery. The house was a mess—she hadn’t even had time to hang the washing out, let alone tidy up—and Sophie was decidedly grumpy.

‘Daddy’s home!’ Sophie yelled.

Since when was delirium a symptom of chickenpox? Rachel wondered. The usual complications were bacterial infection of the spots if they were scratched, ear infections, conjunctivitis and rarely meningitis or encephalitis—inflammation of the brain, which started about four days after the rash first appeared. Any signs of drowsiness, breathing problems, convulsions or a stiff neck and dislike of bright lights and Rachel would drive Sophie straight to the nearest emergency department.

‘Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!’

‘How’s my best girl?’ Oliver’s deep voice asked.

Rachel blinked and glanced at the clock. Lunchtime. Oliver never came home at lunchtime. Ever.

He walked into the kitchen, with Sophie sitting on his shoulders. ‘Hi,’ he said, giving Rachel the broad grin which had made her fall head over heels for him as a student.

Despite the fear gnawing in her stomach—the fear that today was the day when Oliver would bring everything into the open and she’d learn something she really, really didn’t want to know—she couldn’t help smiling back. ‘This is a nice surprise.’

‘I can’t stay long—but I thought you’d be going stir-crazy, being cooped up at home, so if you want to go out and have a walk or something?’

Her fairy godmother had definitely been at work. ‘Thanks. I could do with ten minutes to myself,’ she admitted. ‘Want me to make you a sandwich first?’

‘No need.’ Gently, he lifted Sophie from his shoulders and set her on the floor. ‘I brought supplies. Bacon and Brie baguettes to go, from the Red Lion. Plus the stuff to stop the itching. And something special for my little girl.’ He fetched a carrier bag from the hall, and fished out five comics for preschoolers.

‘Ooh, Daddy! Thank you!’ Sophie squeaked.

‘And for Robin.’ He put a puzzle magazine on the table, and Rachel blinked in surprise. Oliver had noticed that Rob liked doing puzzles?

‘And...’ He brought out a bottle of red wine and a DVD. A romantic comedy—the sort of film he absolutely hated and Rachel adored. ‘Something for us, tonight.’

For us? He was actually planning to spend time with her tonight? Rachel was so shocked that she burst into tears.

Immediately, Oliver put his arms round her and held her close. ‘Hey. It’s OK,’ he said, stroking her hair. ‘Soph’s going to be absolutely fine. Don’t worry about work—the practice will manage without you for today, and I’ve got a locum to cover you from Monday. I’ve known Caroline Prentiss for years.’

‘Caroline Prentiss?’ The name sounded familiar, but Rachel couldn’t think why.

‘She’s just moved back into the area—she was looking for a locum job, so that’s all sorted. And I’ve asked Prunella to chase the lab for Megan’s serum results.’

Which meant they’d get the results double-quick—everyone was scared of Prunella, except Oliver. ‘Thank you,’ Rachel muttered against his chest. ‘Sorry. I’m just being...’ Her voice tailed off.

‘You’ve been cooped up with a sick toddler all morning, and I don’t pull my weight in the house. It’s no wonder you’re feeling tired and tearful.’

And relieved, Rachel thought. This was the Oliver she knew and loved: a workaholic, but one who still found time for those he loved. Maybe he was right. Maybe they’d just been at cross-purposes these last few months. Everything was going to be all right.

‘Why’s Mummy crying?’ Sophie wanted to know.

‘Because she’s feeling a bit out of sorts, too,’ Oliver said. He kissed the top of Rachel’s head, then stepped back. ‘Right, you. Go and get some fresh air for five minutes. I’ll make us a coffee, then we’ll have lunch together. Just like we should have done yesterday.’

When he’d been too busy. And he was even busier today, covering for her as well as doing his own list. Guilt flooded through her. ‘You had to cancel things, didn’t you?’

He shrugged. ‘They can wait.’ He smiled. ‘Five minutes. Or I’ll eat your baguette as well as my own!’

She knew that look. Teasing, loving... Her husband was back. And he wasn’t—absolutely wasn’t—having an affair. He loved her, she loved him, and all was right with her world again.

So why was there still that little niggle in the back of her mind?

CHAPTER FOUR

OLIVER worked that evening, just as Rachel knew he would. But when she was reading a story to Sophie, he came upstairs to kiss the children goodnight. Then he took her hand and led her downstairs into the living room. It wasn’t dark outside but he’d already pulled the curtains.

‘Just you and me now,’ he whispered. ‘You, me, a film and a bottle of wine.’

He’d uncorked the Merlot to let it breathe; he poured two glasses and handed one to her. ‘It’s been too long since we did this, Rach.’

And whose fault is that? she wanted to ask. Who is it who spends every minute in his wretched office in the evenings? But she took a sip of wine instead, savouring the taste.

He took the glass from her hand, set it down beside his own, then sprawled on the sofa and patted the space next to him. ‘Come here.’

She lay with her back to him, spoon-style, and his arm curved round her, pulling her back against him. It was how they’d often spent Friday nights when Robin had been tiny, watching a good film together and sharing a bottle of wine. They’d have the baby listener turned down low—the flashing lights would tell them if Robin was crying—and often they’d only catch the first half of the film, because then Oliver would start to kiss the back of her neck and slide his hand under the hem of her top, and they’d be so lost in exploring each other that the film would be forgotten.

Did he remember those nights, too? Maybe, because the arm around her waist tightened. Rachel relaxed against him. It felt so good to be in Oliver’s arms again, to feel the warmth of his body against hers.

‘Rach,’ he whispered, nuzzling her shoulder and she arched back against him. He kissed along the line of her neck. ‘I love the way you smell,’ he murmured. ‘The way you taste.’ His hand slipped under the hem of her top and he cupped her breast. ‘The way you feel.’

Which was exactly the way she felt about him. She twisted round so she was facing him, and cupped his face in her hands. ‘Me, too,’ she whispered, and kissed him.

‘I want you so much,’ he told her when he broke the kiss. His pupils were huge, edged with a narrow rim of blue, so his eyes looked almost black with passion.

Everything was going to be all right. They were going to make love, and everything was going to be all right.

Slowly, he undid the button of her jeans and slid the zip down. He teased her, his fingers drifting over her midriff; Rachel made a small sound of impatience and tilted her hips.

‘Something you wanted, Dr Bedingfield?’ he asked, his voice low and husky.

‘You,’ she replied, her voice equally husky.

‘I think that can be arranged.’ He gave her a smile that managed to be teasing yet smouldering at the same time, and a thrill of desire ran down her spine.

It didn’t take him long to remove her jeans—or her to remove his. Her top followed, then his T-shirt. And finally they were skin to skin. Rachel could still remember the first time they’d made love in her narrow single bed at university, the heady excitement of exploring each other’s body fully for the first time, learning where each other liked to be touched and stroked and kissed. That headiness had never quite gone away, for her. Even now, she thrilled at how good Oliver’s body felt against her own.

And right now he was all hers.

‘Rachel.’ He breathed her name as he kissed his way down her collar-bone, stroked the length of her spine, then finally took the hard peak of one nipple into his mouth.

Rachel couldn’t help closing her eyes, concentrating on the sensations evoked by his clever mouth. All she could feel was Oliver, all she could sense, all she could—

‘Mum-mee!’

They both stilled.

‘Maybe she’ll go back to sleep,’ Oliver mumbled against Rachel’s skin.

As if to contradict him, Sophie’s wail grew louder. ‘Mum-mee!’ she sobbed again.

If Rachel could have cloned herself at that moment, she’d have been happy. As it was, whatever she did she lost. Sophie was ill and needed her—Rachel couldn’t possibly desert her sick child. But Oliver... This was the first time in weeks they’d been close. Who knew when her husband would let her get this close again?

Damned if I stay, damned if I go, Rachel thought, her heart feeling as if it had been torn in half. She pulled away from Oliver regretfully, and slipped her jeans and T-shirt back on. ‘I’d better go to her. She’s not well. If we leave her, she’ll get into a state and it’ll take us for ever to calm her down again.’

‘Sure.’

‘Can you bring a drink up for her and the infant paracetamol?’ And maybe if Oliver stayed with her, maybe if they cared for their daughter together—then maybe when Sophie fell asleep again they could take up where they’d left off.

Though she knew she was kidding herself: he was already reaching for his own clothes. It didn’t take a genius to know what he’d be doing while she was settling Sophie again.

Oliver brought up a spill-proof beaker of water, so it wouldn’t matter if their daughter went to sleep still holding her cup—she wouldn’t get drenched and wake up again. He poured the infant paracetamol into a spoon for Sophie and encouraged her to take it. And then he uttered the words Rachel had been expecting and dreading in equal measure: ‘I’ll just do a bit of admin while you’re here with Sophie.’

If only you’d slept just a few minutes longer, Rachel thought, rocking her daughter to sleep in her arms. If your father and I had made love, everything would have been all right. Now, who knows? Work will come between us yet again.

When Sophie had drifted back to sleep, and Rachel padded barefoot into Oliver’s office holding a glass of Merlot, her husband didn’t even look up. ‘You go ahead and watch the film. I’ll be in with you in a minute.’

His definition of ‘in a minute’ definitely wasn’t the same as his wife’s, because he was still working when the film had finished. And Rachel’s mood had cooled to the point where she didn’t want to make love any more—what was the point, when she clearly came so far down Oliver’s list of priorities?

He didn’t reach for her in bed that night either. Which in some ways was just as well, because Sophie woke several times, each time feeling itchy and out of sorts and wanting comfort from her mother. Rachel felt like a zombie from lack of sleep the next morning, and her mood hadn’t improved by Saturday evening, when Oliver appeared, freshly showered, wearing smart black trousers and a casual silk shirt.

‘Aren’t you getting changed?’ Oliver asked.

She stared at him. Changed? ‘Why?’

‘My mother’s drinks party. We’re supposed to be going, remember?’

Rachel shook her head. ‘I told you this morning, I rang her and explained that Sophie was ill and I can’t leave her.’ Surely he wasn’t going to suggest that they should still ask Ginny to babysit, when Sophie was ill and miserable and wanting her parents? She bit back her irritation. ‘You can still go, if you want.’ On his own. Leaving her to do all the nursing.

‘I promised her we’d be there.’ Oliver emphasised the ‘we’. ‘She called me to remind me this afternoon.’

Doing his usual power-play thing: making his son choose between his old family and his new one. Even after all these years Isabel hadn’t quite forgiven Rachel for Oliver doing something against his family’s wishes—as if Oliver wasn’t a grown man, perfectly able to make his own decisions. ‘Look, Sophie’s ill and she wants me with her. Your mother understands that a babysitter—even someone Sophie knows really well, like Ginny—just isn’t an option.’ Though Isabel had made it very clear she considered it a feeble excuse on Rachel’s part. No doubt that was why she’d phoned Oliver, expecting him to pressure Rachel into going. Stupid, really, when Rachel didn’t even fit in with the Bedingfields’ social set. She still had the wrong accent, even though her Geordie accent had softened over the years.

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