Vets in Love

  Contents

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also by Cathy Woodman

  Title Page

  Acknowledgments

  Map

  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

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Copyright

  About the Book

  Love is in the air in Talyton St George, Devon’s most romantic town.

  Glamorous GP Nicci (aka the galloping doctor), and Matt, the very handsome equine vet, have caught each other’s eyes. On paper it looks like a match made in heaven.

  There are problems, however: Matt’s jealous ex-girlfriend being one of them. But the main trouble is Nicci’s determination to qualify for the Badminton horse trials. Because although Matt treats horses for a living, a tragedy in his past makes him terrified every time Nicci competes.

  So when Nicci has a terrible accident, a devastated Matt gives her an ultimatum: it’s either him or the riding.

  Nicci can’t believe he means it. But can she risk putting him to the test?

  About the Author

  Cathy Woodman was a small-animal vet before turning to writing fiction. She won the Harry Bowling First Novel Award in 2002 and is a member of the Romantic Novelists’ Association. She is also a lecturer in Animal Management at a local college. Vets in Love is the sixth book set in the fictional market town of Talyton St George in East Devon, where Cathy lived as a child. Cathy now lives with her two children, two ponies, three exuberant Border Terriers and two cats in a village near Winchester, Hampshire.

  Also by Cathy Woodman

  Trust Me, I’m a Vet

  Must Be Love

  The Sweetest Thing

  It’s a Vet’s Life

  The Village Vet

  Acknowledgments

  I should like to thank Laura Longrigg at MBA Literary Agents, Gillian Holmes and the rest of the wonderful team at Arrow Books for their enthusiasm and support.

  Chapter One

  A horse is worth more than riches – Spanish proverb

  IT’S JUST BEFORE nine on Monday morning and the rush has already begun. There’s no time for appreciating the bright June sunshine that slants in through the blinds across the window, catching the red, white and blue profusion of geraniums and lobelias in the hanging basket outside the practice.

  Having picked a stray strand of hay from my skirt, I sit at my desk, take down the sign that reads ‘I am at the Stables’, and press the button on the computer. While the system loads, I check I have everything to hand – stethoscope and formulary – but I’m still looking for a pen when the door flies open and Claire, the practice nurse, appears, her face almost the same shade of cerise as her uniform.

  ‘Nicci, it’s going to be one of those days.’ She runs one hand frantically over her fringe, disturbing the red stripe running through her sleek brown hair. ‘Would you be able to see Mrs Green? She’s turned up without an appointment, even though she knows perfectly well that she shouldn’t.’

  ‘Is it urgent?’ I ask, detecting a hint of desperation in Claire’s voice. I’ve been working here for eighteen months, having returned to the area after completing my training, whereas she’s been employed by the practice in Talyton St George for several years. She’s in her early thirties, like me, and in spite of her experience, she doesn’t deal with confrontation well and Mrs Green, or Fifi, as she is better known, gives the impression of being someone who isn’t used to being denied.

  ‘Apparently it’s a matter of life and death, but—’

  ‘Anything for peace and quiet,’ I finish for her. ‘I’ll see her.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Claire smiles with relief. ‘You’ve saved my life.’

  ‘You’d better send her in before I change my mind.’

  For a woman in her sixties, Fifi’s heels are high and her nails are long, and it looks as if there’s nothing wrong with her, yet she’s suffering from every condition to be found in the medical textbooks lined up on the shelves behind me, according to a quick glance at her notes. She stands in the doorway, dressed and made up as if she’s on her way to a garden party, with a red fascinator in her copper and blonde curls and a bag decorated with a strawberry motif on her arm.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Green.’

  ‘I really wanted to see Dr Mackie.’ She looks me up and down with a critical eye. ‘He’s done wonders for my bunions, you know.’ Fifi is referring to Ben, my colleague who, having been established as the family GP here in Talyton St George far longer than I have, has earned his place as the oracle when it comes to medical matters.

  ‘Dr Mackie isn’t here until later. I’m sure Claire’s told you he’s making house calls.’

  ‘Oh dear. You’ll have to do, Dr Chieveley,’ Fifi goes on as I offer her a seat.

  ‘You must call me Nicci.’ Very few patients call me doctor, even though I have a framed certificate behind the desk at reception that confirms Dr Nicola Jane Chieveley is a Member of the Royal College of General Practitioners.

  ‘I couldn’t do that, not in the surgery. It doesn’t feel right.’ She flashes me a smile, sits down and turns her attention to the gallery of photos I have on the wall. There’s one of me, a blonde, blue-eyed woman in jeans and a T-shirt, with a young girl at my side and a baby in my arms. ‘What lovely children.’

  ‘They’re my sister’s,’ I say quickly, not wishing to let Fifi create any misunderstandings about my personal life. She’s a terrible gossip.

  ‘Haven’t you got a picture of your young man?’ she continues.

  ‘You must know something I don’t,’ I say lightly.

  ‘I just assumed that at your age you’d be settled.’

  ‘I’m thirty-one. I’m in no hurry.’

  Fifi leans forward, apparently warming to her theme. ‘You’d make a great catch for someone. I wonder …’ She taps her lip with her finger as if she’s creating a mental list of eligible bachelors for me, while I divert her back to the topic in hand, her health, thinking that it’s no good because unless one of them is Daniel Craig or Orlando Bloom, I really won’t be interested.

  ‘That’s enough about me,’ I say, making a brief comparison between Fifi’s beautifully manicured nails and the state of mine. ‘What about you?’ I thought I was supposed to be the one asking the questions here, but for all my training in the art of doctor-patient communication, I can’t stop her. Like the river Taly in flood, Fifi Green is in full flow.

  ‘The Women’s Institute has an evening of music and poetry tomorrow night. You will come along and join us.’

  ‘It’s a lovely idea, but I’m afraid I’m rather busy.’ My eyes drift towards another of the photos, that of a dapple grey mare, the most beautiful and talented horse in the world (okay, so I’m biased) flying over a rustic spread on a cross-country course with her ears pricked and her flaxen tail streaming out behind her.

  ‘I assume it’s you riding that horse, Doctor? Do you compete?’

  I nod. I’m definitely a competitive person, but I’m finding it hard to compete with Fifi in conversation.

  ‘Willow’s an eventer. I’m aiming to qualify with her for Badminton within the next couple of years.’

  ‘How marvellous,’ Fi
fi gushes. ‘Of course, I couldn’t possibly ride a horse with all my problems. I’m in chronic pain the whole time. My wrist is sore, my hips are aching and my back is playing up again.’

  ‘Let’s take things one at a time,’ I say firmly.

  ‘I don’t think Dr Mackie would approve. He has a holistic approach to medicine, treating the patient as a whole person, not separate body parts.’

  I give Fifi one of my ‘looks’, something I have practised in front of the mirror over and over again, and she backs down.

  ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be telling you your job.’ Her eyes flash with good humour. ‘Dr Mackie has a lovely bedside manner, doesn’t he?’

  ‘I couldn’t possibly comment,’ I say, flashing a quick smile back. ‘He’s a happily married man.’

  ‘More’s the pity.’ Fifi sighs.

  She’s married, so I can only assume she isn’t serious. As for me, I have no regrets that Ben has a wife and family. I have my career and an all-consuming hobby. Having a man in my life is an optional extra, not a necessity, whereas keeping a horse is an entirely different matter.

  I examine Fifi’s wrist and discuss her back pain at some length, and as I’m winding up the consultation, thinking that she’ll probably be back to see Ben at the first opportunity, there’s a sharp rap on the door and Claire is back.

  ‘Nicci, I need a word.’

  ‘Will you excuse me?’ I say to Fifi, detecting from Claire’s expression that this is urgent.

  ‘Of course.’ Fifi stands up, looking from me to Claire and back, gleaning clues. ‘I do hope nothing’s amiss.’

  I join Fifi and usher her out, pressing a prescription for pain-relieving gel into her hand.

  ‘Let Dr Mackie know how you get on. Give him a call or make an appointment for two weeks’ time.’

  ‘Thank you, Dr Chieveley.’ She hurries out to reception, but fortunately Claire had the foresight to show our next patient into the nurses’ room, so Fifi is left with the impossible task of extracting the gossip she wants from Janet, the receptionist, while Claire and I enter the nurses’ room where a man in his fifties is sitting slumped on the edge of the examination couch. He’s pasty and overweight with a flabby paunch, as if the only exercise he takes is lifting a pint or two in the pub.

  ‘You needn’t have jumped me up the queue.’ He wipes sweat from his brow. ‘I can wait, you know. I have all day.’

  ‘This is Steve Wilde. He’s complaining of chest pains,’ Claire says quietly.

  ‘How are you doing, Steve?’ I move across the room and take his pulse, which flutters like a dying butterfly – too fast and missing beats – under my fingertips.

  ‘You can hold my hand for as long as you like, Doc,’ he says weakly.

  ‘Take no notice, Nicci,’ Claire says. ‘He’s always the joker.’

  ‘Has he had any aspirin?’ I ask her.

  ‘I’ll get some.’ Claire wheels across the trolley with the ECG and crash kit. ‘Steve’s in charge of our local Am Dram group and famed for his roles as a panto dame.’

  ‘Have you had chest pains before?’ I notice how he’s shaved the stubble from one side of his face and not the other.

  ‘I thought it was indigestion.’

  ‘When did they start?’ I say, checking his blood pressure, which is sky-high.

  ‘A couple of days ago.’ He touches his chest and forces a smile. ‘Not this bad though. I put it down to acid.’

  ‘Claire, can you call an ambulance?’ I say, wondering why he didn’t think to call one himself from home. Steve’s in denial. This has nothing to do with acid. He is one very sick man.

  ‘It’s done,’ Claire says, handing him some aspirin and a glass of water.

  ‘There’s no need for an ambulance,’ Steve says. ‘I’ll feel like a fraud.’

  ‘It’s just a precaution.’

  ‘I don’t like to be a bother.’

  ‘Better safe than sorry,’ I tell him, waiting for him to swallow the tablets. ‘I’m going to check your heart.’ I get him to lie propped up on the couch, help him remove his shirt, which he appears to have put on over his pyjamas, and set up the ECG, but my fingers are all thumbs as I stick the electrodes to his chest.

  ‘I feel like I’m an extra on Casualty and you’re about to start spouting medical terms at me.’ He can hardly force a smile any more. ‘It’s all mumble jumble to me.’

  ‘Don’t you mean mumbo-jumbo, Steve?’ Claire says, giving me a look of concern. ‘I’m going to get Janet at reception to call your wife,’ she goes on. ‘I think you should have someone with you.’ Without waiting for his response she goes outside.

  At the same time, Steve gasps and clutches his throat, his lips turning blue. I glance at the trace of the electrical activity of his heart – it’s all over the place.

  ‘On a scale of one to ten, where is the pain now?’ I ask calmly, although my heartbeat is all over the place too. This isn’t looking good.

  ‘Oh, about a five, no, make that a …’ He can’t speak, let alone decide on a number, confirming my suspicions from the evidence so far that he’s in the grip of a major heart attack. He’s trying to be brave, but I can sense his growing panic, and panicking will only make his condition worse.

  Although I’m afraid that he’s about to go into cardiac arrest, I concentrate on keeping him as calm as possible, distracting him while we wait for his family and the ambulance, which is probably trying to make its way through the holiday traffic that jams the lanes into Talyton St George on hot summer days like today.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve met a panto dame before,’ I say, keeping my hand on his, partly to reassure myself that he does indeed still have a pulse, and partly to reassure him. He’s breathing more steadily now and his colour is returning.

  ‘I love it,’ he says. ‘I don’t act professionally any more, but I still tread the boards for the Am Dram group’s annual Christmas show. My wife is used to me borrowing her lippy and blusher, but my daughter hasn’t always appreciated me dressing up in women’s clothing.’ His grin quickly turns into a grimace of pain. His breathing quickens again and to my relief I hear the sound of a siren.

  ‘The ambulance is here, Steve. I’m going to call ahead to let the right people know you’re on your way.’ He doesn’t argue with me – he’s exhausted and in too much pain. Within a short time, he’s on the way to hospital with his wife, and all I can do now is hand over to the consultant in A&E and hope that he makes it.

  The next few patients sympathise when I explain that I’m running late because of an emergency, and two of them can tell me exactly what it was because they’ve already heard about Steve’s condition on the grapevine, but my last patient of the morning is not so forgiving.

  ‘Mr Warren,’ I say, calling him through from the waiting room where he’s sitting beside a striking young woman in her mid-twenties, with long, dark, glossy hair, full lips, brown eyes and lashings of mascara. I recognise her as one of my patients, a vet who came to see me with a horse-inflicted injury not very long ago, a needle-stick wound that became infected and required a course of antibiotics. She’s wearing a crisp white blouse and jeans that emphasise her curvaceous figure, the kind that makes other women jealous.

  ‘Do you want me to come in with you?’ she says, touching the man’s arm as he stands up.

  ‘No, Mel. I appreciate you giving me a lift, but I can walk and talk for myself, thank you very much.’ He pauses before going on more gently, ‘Why don’t you book that appointment?’

  ‘I haven’t got my diary with me,’ she says. ‘Go on, Matt. Now you’re the one keeping everyone waiting.’

  I watch my patient walk along the corridor towards me. He’s a man of about my age and of average height dressed in soft moleskin trousers, a check shirt and light sweater. He has one hand clenched around a set of keys and the other around his mobile, and he moves with a slight stoop, his right shoulder dropped and carried forward of the left – okay, I’m a doctor, I notice these things.<
br />
  ‘What time do you call this?’ he says curtly as I step back to let him pass. ‘My appointment was over an hour ago. I’m a busy man.’

  ‘I’m sorry for the delay, Mr Warren. You could have rearranged, instead of waiting,’ I say, finding it hard to apologise to someone who appears to lack both patience and common sense, and perhaps compassion too, or any powers of observation. Didn’t he notice the ambulance? I suppress a sigh of annoyance at his attitude, especially when he appears quite healthy. This is one of the occasions when I’d very definitely prefer to be up at the stables, kicking about in my jodhs and polo shirt. I glance down at my work attire – an embroidered white vest with a lacy cotton cardigan over the top, a straight skirt and turquoise heels – I like to think I’m quite a glamorous lady doctor, and tall at almost five foot eight.

  ‘How can I rebook when I don’t have a spare moment?’ he goes on. ‘Unless you’d consider opening up the surgery late one evening, say ten-thirty?’

  I assume he’s being flippant.

  ‘Take a seat,’ I say, returning to mine and checking the notes on the monitor.

  Matt Warren, thirty-two years old – that’s one great advantage of being a GP, having all the basics on record – blood type O, height 177cm which is – I make a quick calculation – five foot ten inches, and weight eleven stone six. As for the rest, he’s rather … well … I appraise his figure and his face in an enquiring medical way, assessing him for signs of health, and I would have to declare, if pressed, that he is extremely fit, in more ways than one, being ruggedly handsome and lightly tanned, with short brown hair, hazel eyes and a determinedly square jawline.

  It’s a pity he’s so prickly and off with me. I don’t take it personally though.

  As he catches me staring at him and I catch him staring at me, his irritation seems to disappear. His mouth curves into a smile and dimples form in his cheeks, at which I’m completely disarmed and almost forget he’s one of my patients.

  ‘It’s a long time since I was sick,’ he says ruefully, something I can understand – I never have time to be ill. ‘I guess these things happen though. I’m a vet and I should know. I was operating on a horse until three this morning.’ He yawns as if to emphasise the point before looking up at the photos on the wall. ‘Is that you on the horse?’