Questions of Trust A Medical Romance - By Sam Archer Page 0,17

you in to write a medical column or something.’

He shook his head. ‘I’m not a writer.’

‘No publications in the medical literature?’

He shrugged. ‘A couple of papers in low-impact journals, that’s all. It’s hard to be taken seriously as an author with the name Thomas Carlyle. People think it’s a pseudonym.’

‘I did wonder about that,’ she laughed. ‘Were your parents Calvinist clergy at all?’

Tom pretended to consider. ‘They were probably the most irreligious people on the face of the earth.’

Around them the playground bustled with parents trying to maintain a semblance of control over children running riot in the May sunshine. Tom hoped Kelly or Jake wouldn’t need attention, not for a few minutes more. He was enjoying the closeness to Chloe, the companionability, and wanted to prolong the moment.

He said, ‘Believe it or not, I used to come to this very playground when I was a boy.’

Chloe turned her face to him, giving him an excuse to look at her. He resisted the urge to run his gaze across the contours of her face, the cheekbones, the curved lips. Her eyes held plenty of attraction themselves.

‘I thought you’d only been in Pemberham six months.’

‘I have. Working here, I mean. But I was born here. I’m a local boy. Went off to medical school in London and joined my first practice in the inner city. I decided to move back here once… well, once I became a single dad. I thought it was a better environment to bring Kelly up in.’ Immediately Tom regretted mentioning the “single dad” detail. She might think he was dropping heavy hints. Then again, hadn’t she already worked out that he was bringing Kelly up alone? Whenever Chloe encountered them out and about, it was always just the two of them.

But he’d created an opening into the conversation for her. ‘Whereabouts in London did you train?’ Chloe asked.

‘St Matthew’s. Tough, but a terrific experience.’

She nodded in recognition. Everybody had heard of St Matthew’s, one of the great teaching hospitals on the Thames, along with Guy’s and St Thomas’s.

Tom said, ‘Yourself? Are you a Londoner?’

‘North London, born and bred.’

And that was it. No further details from her. Once again Tom sensed Chloe retreating into herself, as if she’d emerged to taste the day and decided she’d had her fill. She wasn’t cold, wasn’t rude. Just self-contained.

He’d noticed, glancing over her registration form on the day she’d joined the practice, that in the section marked marital status she had ticked single. Not divorced or widowed. Yet she titled herself Mrs Chloe Edwards. Tom was intrigued.

But you shouldn’t be, he told himself yet again. She’s a patient at the surgery. Nothing more. Don’t be so nosey.

His phone went in his pocket and he grimaced. ‘Sorry.’ He fished it out and glanced at the caller ID.

Damn. Not now.

Tom stepped away a few paces, keeping his eye on Kelly at the climbing frame. At the same time Chloe moved closer to her son who was still engrossed in the toddlers’ slide.

‘Hello, Rebecca,’ said Tom.

‘Tom. Have you got a minute?’

Which meant, he knew, that it was going to take considerably longer than that.

‘I’m in the playground with Kelly,’ he said. ‘Can I ring you back later?’

‘I’ll be out then,’ she said curtly. ‘This won’t take long.’

Tom listened. At first what she was saying didn’t register, and he found himself mesmerised by the pendulum rhythm of a child on a swing, back and forth, back and forth. Then Rebecca asked if he’d understood, and when he didn’t reply, she repeated herself.

This time he did take it in.

Despite the warmth of the spring morning, Tom felt a chill creeping through his limbs, his bones.

Chapter Four

Chloe increased the wipers’ speed a notch, but they were fighting a losing battle against the downpour. The weeks of brilliant early summer weather had broken, finally, and the slate-coloured skies of the last twenty-four hours had opened up.

She steered the Astra carefully, uncertain of the route. It was a part of Pemberham with which she was unfamiliar, the south side, more deprived than the chocolate-box old town. Drab estates squatted miserably, their greyness darkened by the rain.

Despite the dullness and faint menace of the environment, Chloe felt a thrill of excitement. She was on her first assignment as an investigative reporter. Her whimsical column had proved so popular over the last two months that her editor, Mike Sellers, had invited her along to the Pemberham Gazette’s small office suite in the town centre the previous week for a chat.

‘Your