Free The Impossible Search for the Perfect Man by Debbie Howells/Susie Martyn Page A

the phone
keeps ringing.
    He clears his throat.
    ‘Erm, I’d like you all to know that
after a long deliberation, I’ve um, made a decision to er, partially
retire.’  We all look at each other in astonishment.  The only person
who looks unsurprised by his announcement is Miles.
    ‘As you all know, um, my health hasn’t
exactly been, well, perfect, lately...’ So it’s not just a whisky habit
then.  ‘…and the old er, quack has advised me to slow down. So, um,
seems I don’t have too much choice in the matter.’  Poor old Beamish looks
rather forlorn. What a bummer.
    ‘Um, Miles, I’m delighted to say, has
agreed to er, take on the role of senior partner and in my um, absence, he is
at the helm.’  Everyone looks at Miles, who smiles awkwardly, lanky legs
stretched out in front of him, looking uncomfortable.  ‘You will however
have the pleasure of my company on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. So it’s
very much business as usual.  Erm, that’s all.’
    Except it’s not, is it.  Oh, I can
see we’re all thinking the same thing.  We’ll never cover the
workload.  We’re going to need another new vet.  
     
    After Beamish’s bombshell, we’re all shell-shocked.  But actually, it turns out he’s
sixty-five, which is much older than he appears. It probably won’t be long
before he retires altogether.  This clinches it, I decide.  Emma has to sort herself out, because one thing this practice doesn’t need is a vet with
personal problems. I’m not entirely sure she’ll share my enthusiasm.  And
nor does she know, my letter’s winging its way to Jerome as we speak.
    Agnes goes out for lunch with Beamish.
 Probably a rather swish one, I imagine, as they’re gone a jolly long
time.  Hmmm… maybe they’ve gone to that little French bistro for an
intimate five course dejeuner followed by café and cognac…Or that new Italian I
really like which serves the most divine antipasti, all washed down by a bottle
of montepulciano… But my daydreaming is interrupted as the phones keep
ringing and there’s general firefighting to be done.  I’m just putting
down the phone when Marcus comes in briefly.  He’s got an x-ray due in
shortly.
    ‘Bit of a shock, wasn’t it?’ he says
thoughtfully, about Beamish’s announcement. ‘I wasn’t
expecting that at all. Trouble is we’re flat out already.  I’m not sure
how we’re going to cover everything.’ 
    My guess is they’ll do what they always
do when we’re a vet short, and end up working dawn till dusk.
    I agree with him, tentatively suggesting
that possibly we’ll need a new vet before long.  
    ‘I just hope Emma isn’t going anywhere,’
he adds, ‘only I’ve been wondering about her lately.  She does seem quite
distracted.’
    I’m saved from avoiding an explanation
by the timely arrival of his client, a pretty female one, naturally, with fair
hair that looks like she’s just stepped out of a salon, which she probably has
and all in preparation for her vet appointment.  Her equally pretty show
pony prances along beside her.  
    Agnes arrives back at a quarter to four,
cheeks slightly flushed and looking very smiley, all things considered.
 Seems they had a jolly nice lunch in the jolly expensive, traditional old
English Wheatsheaf.    Lucky Agnes.  
 Beamish has gone home, so it seems we’re into the one-vet-down thing
right away.  And we’ll have to break the news to some of our longer
standing clients, who’ve known Beamish right since the beginning.  Perhaps
I’ll impress Agnes by putting together a very official looking newsletter we
can circulate to our clients, with a nice smiley picture of Beamish and an
authoritative one of Miles - if there is one.  
    One of the first clients that the Lower Shagford horse fraternity grapevine connects with is Sylvie
Williamson.   But of course.  I would expect
no less.  She arrives at the practice in her enormous brand new supercharged,
super-shiny range rover,