which his profession conferred on him. Doctors weren’t to be trusted. Tom was a doctor. Therefore Tom could never be trusted, however trustworthy he was. It was illogical, it was absurd, Chloe knew. It was also what she believed, as deeply within her bones as some people held religious convictions.
She had a problem, then. She was passionately, ardently drawn to Tom; and she could never, ever, let matters progress any further than they had this evening, or even get as far as they had. Chloe filled her water glass again and, as she drank, considered her options.
There were two, as far as she could tell.
She could discuss the matter openly with Tom, face to face. Acknowledge that there were powerful feelings between them but that there was no possibility of their getting together romantically, and sound him out as to whether or not he wanted to stay platonic friends. Even if he agreed, it would always be a spectre between them, as real as it was before it made itself known; and there’d be times, surely, when they’d let their guard down and succumb as they had done tonight.
Or, she could break off contact with Tom, explaining her reasons as painlessly as she was able. She could register herself and Jake with the other GP practice on the opposite side of Pemberham, and revert to the cordial, nodding acquaintance she’d had with Tom until recently.
The second was the more painful option, at least in the short term. But in the long run it was the more likely to work.
Her mind made up, Chloe went back to bed. This time, after only an hour, sleep came to her.
Chapter Seven
‘Late night, doc?’
The young man was the third patient to ask Tom that, though the others had done it in a more diplomatic day. Tom began to get the message: he really must look tired, the bags under his eyes visible to everyone and not just to him. He’d often reflected that doctors were one of the few groups of workers in whom obvious tiredness was considered somehow an acceptable and even admirable quality; it suggested the heroic medic had been up all night, tending to the sick, which often was the case. In other professions, the bleary-eyed look was usually taken to be a mark of excessive partying the night before, and frowned upon.
Tom had in fact slept very little, but the reason was neither that he’d been partying nor that he’d been caring for patients.
He’d got in to work early, having woken once more at five and decided to get up rather than risk sleeping past the alarm. And he was driving himself harder than ever this morning, keeping up with his caseload and seeing Ben Okoro’s patients when his colleague lagged behind. Working at a breakneck pace meant not having to think about other things, because that was all he’d been doing as he tossed and turned the night before, and it would drive him crazy if he continued with it.
Refusing to think any more about what had happened between him and Chloe the night before was one thing. Shaking off the feelings that had been engendered was quite another. As the night had dragged on, Tom had become aware not only of the obvious physical frustration he’d felt, but also of disappointment, bewilderment – and, most corrosively of all, guilt.
The guilt was on two counts. First, although Chloe technically wasn’t his patient but Ben’s, the distinction was fine enough that Tom felt the ethics of the situation were hazy at best. A clinch with your own patient was clearly unethical, there were no two ways about it. But with a colleague’s patient? Tom didn’t know if the regulatory authorities had ever adjudicated such cases. He supposed they must have.
The second, and more powerful, source of Tom’s guilt came from his knowledge that he and Chloe had fallen into each other’s arms at a time of high stress and emotion for him. He’d relied on her help during the day because of a problem of his own, involving his ex-wife, which wasn’t Chloe’s problem at all. Then, he’d
She had a problem, then. She was passionately, ardently drawn to Tom; and she could never, ever, let matters progress any further than they had this evening, or even get as far as they had. Chloe filled her water glass again and, as she drank, considered her options.
There were two, as far as she could tell.
She could discuss the matter openly with Tom, face to face. Acknowledge that there were powerful feelings between them but that there was no possibility of their getting together romantically, and sound him out as to whether or not he wanted to stay platonic friends. Even if he agreed, it would always be a spectre between them, as real as it was before it made itself known; and there’d be times, surely, when they’d let their guard down and succumb as they had done tonight.
Or, she could break off contact with Tom, explaining her reasons as painlessly as she was able. She could register herself and Jake with the other GP practice on the opposite side of Pemberham, and revert to the cordial, nodding acquaintance she’d had with Tom until recently.
The second was the more painful option, at least in the short term. But in the long run it was the more likely to work.
Her mind made up, Chloe went back to bed. This time, after only an hour, sleep came to her.
Chapter Seven
‘Late night, doc?’
The young man was the third patient to ask Tom that, though the others had done it in a more diplomatic day. Tom began to get the message: he really must look tired, the bags under his eyes visible to everyone and not just to him. He’d often reflected that doctors were one of the few groups of workers in whom obvious tiredness was considered somehow an acceptable and even admirable quality; it suggested the heroic medic had been up all night, tending to the sick, which often was the case. In other professions, the bleary-eyed look was usually taken to be a mark of excessive partying the night before, and frowned upon.
Tom had in fact slept very little, but the reason was neither that he’d been partying nor that he’d been caring for patients.
He’d got in to work early, having woken once more at five and decided to get up rather than risk sleeping past the alarm. And he was driving himself harder than ever this morning, keeping up with his caseload and seeing Ben Okoro’s patients when his colleague lagged behind. Working at a breakneck pace meant not having to think about other things, because that was all he’d been doing as he tossed and turned the night before, and it would drive him crazy if he continued with it.
Refusing to think any more about what had happened between him and Chloe the night before was one thing. Shaking off the feelings that had been engendered was quite another. As the night had dragged on, Tom had become aware not only of the obvious physical frustration he’d felt, but also of disappointment, bewilderment – and, most corrosively of all, guilt.
The guilt was on two counts. First, although Chloe technically wasn’t his patient but Ben’s, the distinction was fine enough that Tom felt the ethics of the situation were hazy at best. A clinch with your own patient was clearly unethical, there were no two ways about it. But with a colleague’s patient? Tom didn’t know if the regulatory authorities had ever adjudicated such cases. He supposed they must have.
The second, and more powerful, source of Tom’s guilt came from his knowledge that he and Chloe had fallen into each other’s arms at a time of high stress and emotion for him. He’d relied on her help during the day because of a problem of his own, involving his ex-wife, which wasn’t Chloe’s problem at all. Then, he’d
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