Heart Surgeon in Portugal (16 page)

‘Darling girl,’ wheezed Vivienne, brighter now at the sight of Ellie, ‘you’re not a free agent and that employer of yours is such a difficult man.’

‘Ah well … you'd be surprised what a charmer he can be when he feels like it.’

This sounded so unlikely it brought a quizzical look to Viv’s, still lovely, blue eyes, but she said teasingly, ‘You see, darling boy, you don’t have a monopoly on charm.’ She smiled lovingly at her splendid son who, totally unabashed, winked and went off to the kitchen to prepare a tray of iced drinks.

‘Don't let Rico alarm you on my account,’ said Vivienne immediately they were alone. ‘These setbacks... they come and go.’ She sank back into the pillows, her shoulders heaving with a bubbling chesty cough, dark rings of sleeplessness shadowing her fine eyes and contrasting with the hectic colour of her cheeks. Fever? worried Ellie, wishing Vivienne kept a thermometer in the house; taking the dry hot hand in hers and noting the texture and warmth of the skin.

‘Do you always sleep with this many pillows?’

Vivienne attempted a feeble chuckle and patted her throat. ‘Terribly bad for the chins, darling, I know.’

‘It's much worse when she lies flat,’ agreed Richard, carrying in glasses and a jug of iced lemonade. ‘As though her lungs are filling up with fluid.’

‘Okay,’ said Ellie, ‘useful to know that.’ She smiled at the patient, masking her serious concern.

Vivienne was pressing her fingers to her face, hiding her reddened cheeks. ‘I do hate being caught without my war-paint!’

‘Really, Viv!’ exclaimed her exasperated son. He went out of the room, leaving the two women alone together.

‘Delicious!’ approved Ellie, sipping her iced lemon with relish. It was almost as good as Rafe's version. ‘Now why don't I help you put your face on, if it makes you feel better. I can pass the things you need and hold the mirror for you.’ The array of jars and bottles on Vivienne's dressing table was bewildering and Ellie hadn’t a clue where to start. ‘Now what comes first?’

‘My green cream, darling. Hides a multitude of sins.’

Vivienne was speaking jerkily now as breathlessness took its toll. Before Ellie's very eyes the green cream cancelled out the hectic flush; then came a translucent pink gel, and after that a smoothing of La Prairie foundation in a cool beige. Ellie was gobsmacked at the transformation. For the actress this procedure was mere routine, one of the tools of her trade.

When it was time to leave, Rico escorted Ellie to her car, expressing his relief and gratitude when she told him she would put his mother’s case to Mr Harland immediately he returned from London. ‘Ellie - you’re an angel. I can’t thank you enough. I am
so
relieved you’re going to help me. Listen, you must come and have dinner with me. Soon. Promise!’

‘It's not me you'll need to thank,’ she said simply. ‘If anyone can help your mother it's a heart specialist like Rafe Harland. And Vivienne knows he's one of the top men in London. If that doesn't give her confidence then I don't know what will!’

She wasn't quick enough to prevent her small hand being captured and clasped against this charmer's beating heart. At least
his
sounded healthy enough, with that measured rhythmic throb. But if Rico thought he was going to make a conquest of Ellie Robey he was in for disappointment. Because after living with Rafe Harland, even if only for a couple of months, any other man was going to seem just plain boring …

I
t didn’t work out, her plan to ask him over breakfast about Vivienne. Rafe had scheduled an early start in theatre. His usual vitality seemed entirely restored and she could see he was eager to get back to the Centre. He wouldn’t even wait for coffee.

The prospect of another long day on her own lowered Ellie’s spirits. Of course Rafe had a full day of surgery ahead, of course he did; this wasn’t a holiday for either of them. But all the same it was frustrating when she needed to talk to him - and the sooner the better.

She must have looked glum because to cheer her up, moments before he sped away from the Casa, Rafe tucked a firm forefinger under her chin, forcing her downcast eyes to meet his own. ‘Shall we eat out tonight? I’ll be back by seven. There’s this little place where the locals go. Right by the sea. I think you’ll enjoy it.’

Ellie’s heart did a somersault. She’d had this recurring dream … and it was about to come true! The two of them in an intimate little restaurant, candles throwing interesting shadows over her face and giving her cheekbones, their knees pressed together under the snug little table while they discussed the good fortune of being together in Portugal, having space and time to get to know each other.

She’d wear something bare and strappy to show off her tan and her swim-toned figure …

‘It will be very casual,’ called back Rafe, aiming his car keys at the Renault which bleeped and flashed its lights for a brief second. He tossed his briefcase on to the back seat. ‘You’ll need to cover up. Bound to be mosquitoes by the water.’

‘Tread softly for you tread on my dreams,’ muttered Ellie as in a cloud of dust the car disappeared from sight. ‘That awesome gold silk Vivienne picked out for me? No chance! I’ve run out of mosquito repellent so I’m going to get bitten all over and look a fright. And somehow I’ve got to be bring up the subject of Vivienne without it looking as if Rafe’s being ambushed. Ambushed into helping a patient who has panic attacks if a doctor comes anywhere near her… This could turn into a nightmare of an evening. Bring it on!’

‘You’re very restless tonight,’ commented Rafe when they were settled at the water’s edge, sharing a rough-wooden table covered with a paper tablecloth on which the waitress had scribbled their order. She had brought them a carafe of Alentejo red and a bowl of salty black olives into which a ravenous Rafe was making steady inroads. Ellie glanced around at the other diners – mainly local Portuguese. The place was done out like a fishing loft with nets, glass floats and lobsterpots, the sliding windows pulled back to allow diners to enjoy the cooler night air. Their table for two was certainly intimate, too cramped for the surgeon’s powerful long legs. There wasn’t going to be any footsie business because he had turned his rush-seated chair to face the sea and was gazing contentedly at the calm dark water, occasionally appraising the other tables where the locals were vociferously enjoying themselves. Ellie wondered if he wouldn’t rather be with them than stuck with an apparently tongue-tied girl in skinny white jeans and grey sweat-shirt. Her fingers played with her hair which she had clipped loosely at the nape of her neck.

Repeatedly she twisted tendrils round her finger, wondering when to launch into her tale and possibly bring the wrath of Rafe down on her head.

‘Surprisingly good,’ approved her companion, lifting his wine glass to the light and swirling its ruby depths. ‘What do you think?’

Under Rafe’s tutelage Ellie was learning to appreciate wine. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘For a house red, not bad at all. Quite herby, isn’t it.’

‘You’re right,’ said Rafe after a long slurp. ‘Even savoury.’

The sun had dropped below the horizon and it was already dark. The dangling glass floats looked ghostly in the muted light. Someone put a thick yellow candle on their table, its flame guttering in the whisper of breeze coming off the sea, rivulets of hardened wax spilling down to anchor it firmly in its saucer. All Ellie’s concentration was on Rafe’s face as she sat there, moulding a piece of melting wax in her restless fingers. The light from the flickering candle flame emphasised those deep-etched naso-labial lines, that hard, experienced mouth... She squashed the soft wax into a heart shape, feeling about as comfortable as some naïve virgin on a date with a very sophisticated and clever man-of-the-world … except of course she wasn’t. And this was not a date. And there was something important to discuss with Rafe Harland.

Right! She would go for it, now, before the food came … no, better wait till they’d eaten and he was sated and mellow. No no – better to get it over with, say what she needed to say and then she’d be able to relax. Enjoy being on her own with the most wonderful man she was ever going to meet…

Rafe got there first. And what he said shocked Ellie rigid.

‘Do you want to go back to England early?’ he said suddenly. ‘Is this what all the fidgeting’s leading up to?’

Ellie gasped and swallowed an olive, stone and all and as she coughed and spluttered Rafe reached across the table to give her a sharp thump between the shoulder-blades.

‘What
on earth
makes you think that?’

Her astonishment was so obvious that Rafe – for one fleeting second – could only feel relief that he’d made a big mistake. Then his fast-thinking brain worked out what lay behind Ellie’s fervent denial.
Of course she wouldn’t want to leave yet - not now, not with Ricardo Schiapa on the scene
. ‘Are you in love with someone?’ He put it bluntly, his face like stone.

Even in candlelight you couldn’t miss it. Crimson came surging up her neck, way up, disappearing into her hairline. Rafe watched with clinical detachment, noting her dilated pupils and the way her lips quivered. ‘Certainly not!’ she retorted, Seeking a diversion, she grabbed her chance and plunged into the case of Vivienne Carr.

‘Look Rafe, I’ve been wanting to talk to you about my actress friend, Vivienne.’

Here we go,
thought Rafe resignedly.
Lover boy’s mother
.

‘She’s terrified of doctors,’ confided Ellie. ‘Won’t go near one. She has this
phobia
.’

‘So?’ The surgeon looked mystified. ‘She's not the first—and she won't be the last.’

‘And she hates the thought of illness, so much so that she’s like an ostrich, burying her head in the sand and hoping the problem will go away. So she never sees a doctor if it can be avoided. The thing is—I believe she
is
ill and needs treatment a.s.a.p.’

‘Oh yes?’ Rafe mustered up an expression of polite interest.

‘I've got as detailed a case history as possible, from Vivienne herself - and from Rico. His father’s that famous Italian director… you know? But they split up years ago.’ Again that puzzling cold hard stare whenever she mentioned the actress’s son. ‘Ricardo Schiapa’, she repeated uncertainly.

Now was her chance to emphasise their supposed ‘romantic friendship’ but somehow Ellie hadn’t the heart for continuing that pretence. Viv’s health was a serious matter; this was no time for frivolous teasing games.

‘Stop beating about the bush. What are you trying to say.’

Rafe’s bad-tempered expression wasn’t helping matters. Just as she feared, the surgeon thought she had no business involving herself – or him – in Vivienne’s difficulties.

Rafe continued to scowl at her. There she sat, all freckly honeyed skin and Bardot hair, her sweet face red as a cherry. Her entanglement with Schiapa was almost more than he could stand and Rafe was just on the point of telling her exactly why, when a waiter appeared and thumped down platters of garlicky prawns and rustic bread. And Rafe was starving. ‘Wonderful!’ he said.

Ellie saw her chance had gone. She’d blown it. She’d hesitated too long …

‘Tuck your napkin under your chin and get stuck in. Don’t fill yourself up with bread – save some room for the pièce de résistance which comes later.’

Ellie began to eat and soon the two of them were licking the delicious juices from their fingers and mopping their plates clean with bits of bread. When he’d finished, Rafe sat back and gave her one of those long appraising looks that always made Ellie wonder if she’d got a smut on the end of her nose. She stared boldly back and the two of them sat in silence for a long long moment.
I love looking at you,
she told him silently, trying to convey this in her eyes;
in fact, I am totally in love with you.

‘Well, get on with it,’ he said resignedly, flicking his napkin out of the open neck of his shirt. ‘Give me the case history.’ He topped up their wine glasses, never taking his eyes away from her relieved and animated face.

Now that she had Rafe’s full attention, Ellie grasped her moment, rapidly listing her observations, everything useful for a clinical diagnosis. Those gimlet eyes rested unwaveringly upon her throughout, the surgeon‘s clever fingers stroking his mouth and chin in meditative fashion.

‘Is she well enough to travel to the Centre for tests?’

‘Only by ambulance. Though I shouldn't be surprised if she refused to go.’

‘Then it might be as well for me to visit Mrs Carr at home.’

Ellie just couldn't hold back the beam of relief and pleasure that spread over her whole face.

‘What if I just turn up unannounced on her doorstep - use my
fatal charm
to put her at her ease. Then your friend won’t have time to work herself into a state.’

‘
My fatal charm’
– a phrase delivered with irony making it quite clear that Rafe Harland regarded ‘charm’ as an artifice. Ellie concealed a smile … he and Rico were chalk and cheese, that was for sure.

But here was Rafe, offering the perfect solution to the thorny question of how to get Vivienne to the Centre for examination—just what Ellie wanted, but hadn't dared suggest. ‘Mr Harland – I could just hug you!’ she said fervently, meaning every word.

‘Shouldn't do that if I were you,’ warned Rafe softly, dark eyes glinting in the candlelight, ‘you might get a warmer reception than you bargained for.’

Ellie bit her lip at the reproof. She had been undignified, over-familiar. And worse – unprofessional. Something in her vexed expression brought a mirthless bark of laughter from Rafe's throat. ‘I shall want you with me when I demonstrate that my bedside manner is as impeccable as my cutting technique. We'll take Mrs Carr by surprise. How about tomorrow, at eleven? It’s Flora’s theatre day and I had planned to get on with my research,’ he murmured to himself, deep in thought ….

They were interrupted by the pretty dark-eyed girl who cleared away the dishes and replaced their plates. Smiling broadly, she now brought a steaming pot with a mouth-watering aroma that had Rafe rubbing his hands in anticipation. ‘Let me serve you.’ He ladled a generous helping on to Ellie’s plate and there in the café by the sea the two were soon tucking into a rich savoury stew of pork and clams which came with a mound of golden chips and a salad glistening with olive oil. The locals were knocking back the food with relish and the atmosphere was lively, noisy - and far from romantic.