Free Trust Me, I'm a Vet by Cathy Woodman Page B

out of my consulting room!’
    ‘Is he still here?’ I ask Frances once I’ve brought the Arnie Gilbert episode to a conclusion.
    ‘If you mean Alex, he’s out the back.’
    ‘What did you let him go out there for?’
    ‘I didn’t,’ Frances says. ‘Izzy showed him through.’
    ‘Oh, fantastic.’ I stomp off down the corridor, following the scent of hot damp cotton to where Izzy is unloading sterilised drapes from the autoclave. Emma would go ballistic if she knew a Fox-Gifford was snooping around her practice. ‘Where is he?’
    ‘That way.’ Izzy points to the door into the operating theatre. ‘I wouldn’t —’
    I shove the door open.
    ‘Too late,’ she sighs.
    There in front of me is Alex Fox-Gifford, trousers in one hand, needle and nylon thread from one of the suture dispensers in the other.
    ‘Oh, er, sorry.’ Embarrassed, I start backing out, then change my mind. What have I got to apologise for? I’m allowed to be here.
    ‘We haven’t been introduced.’ Alex looks at me, one eyebrow raised, his expression quizzical as he stares at me. ‘It is you.’ He grins. ‘I don’t believe it, you’re the bog-snorkeller?’
    I can’t deny it. Suddenly it seems extraordinarily hot, and it isn’t just because Izzy has left the autoclave open next door.
    Alex sticks the needle into the fabric of his trousers, then holds out his hand to shake mine. ‘I’m sorry I was sharp with you the other day.’
    I hesitate, but his grip is firm and confident. His fingers are stained purple, his nails cut short but engrained with mud – no, blood. Definitely blood.
    ‘I was angry with myself for letting the horse get the upper hand and spin away like that. I didn’t have enough leg, as my mother would say.’
    I can’t stop my eyes drifting downwards. He has more than enough leg in my opinion. There is a small puncture wound on the inside of his thigh and, oh my God, he’s wearing a contour-enhancing pair of pants, red ones with a logo reading ‘Superdad’. Superdad? It hadn’t occurred to me that this man might have kids. I force myself to look up to where his shirt has fallen away at the base of his neck, revealing the line of his collarbone and a smattering of dark hairs on his chest, and try to focus my gaze on the tufts of white thread which are all that remain of the top two buttons.
    ‘Where’s the dog?’ he asks.
    ‘In the freezer. It wasn’t a difficult decision.’ It seems a pity to have had to put down such a young dog, a much-loved family friend, and kill off one of the patients Emma has registered at Otter House, but I had no choice.
    ‘Another fit like that, and he could have killed someone,’ Alex agrees. ‘I wasn’t trying to take over before, you know.’ He stops studying the tear in his trousers and looks up at me, his eyes wide and appealing for forgiveness, and I find my resolve to hate him because of who he is and what he’s done in the past to Emma thawing slightly. ‘I didn’t want anyone getting hurt.’
    ‘Thanks,’ I say quietly, and then he has to go and wreck the beginnings of what could eventually become a frost-free relationship between the two practices in Talyton by holding up his trousers and asking me, ‘What stitch do you think I should use?’
    ‘I hope you’re not asking that because I’m a girl,’ I say, outraged.
    A flush spreads up his neck and covers his cheeks like a rash. I’ve obviously hit a nerve.
    ‘I didn’t mean that at all. I’m not like that. I might be a bastard sometimes, but I’m not a sexist bastard.’ He ties a knot in the end of the nylon and starts sewing furiously, running a continuous suture from one end of the tear to the other, then tying it off. ‘Could I possibly borrow a pair of scissors, please?’ he adds.
    ‘If you must.’ I dart out to the prep room and take a pair from beside the sink. When I return, Alex holds the thread up and I snip.
    ‘Thank you, nurse,’ he says, and when I respond with a glare he