Questions of Trust A Medical Romance - By Sam Archer Page 0,33

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 asked her round to warn her to keep a look out for his ex, thereby reinforcing the notion that his problems were being turned into hers as well. And then he’d kissed Chloe. Whether he’d made the first move or whether she had didn’t really matter. He was the needy one in this situation, and it felt as though he’d taken advantage of Chloe’s helpfulness by pressing his further needs on to her.

And yet… guilt wasn’t the strongest of the feelings kindled within Tom by the encounter. Chloe had responded not with shock, or outrage, or a slap in his face, but with eagerness, with passion, however short-lived her reaction had been. She clearly had strong feelings for Tom. And those feelings would still be there within her, however more tightly she wrapped that mantle of reserve and coolness around her that he’d noticed from his first meeting with her onwards.

He needed to speak to her about what had happened, that was certain. But it was too soon this morning. Perhaps they needed even as long as a couple of days to cool off, to get some perspective. One way or another, a decision would have to be made. Would they write off what had happened as a mistake, a product of the long, trying, emotional day they’d had? Or would they – and Tom hardly dared allow his thoughts to wander down this avenue – accept the complexities of their situation, get over the reasons against their getting together, and make a go of it?

After he’d finished seeing the young man, Tom glanced into the waiting room. His next patient was there, but ten minutes early. Otherwise, he was up to date. He decided to reward himself with a cup of coffee. Tracey at reception met his eye, read his thoughts and mimed raising a mug to her lips. He grinned, gave her a grateful thumbs up.

He was typing up some notes one-handed while sipping his coffee when he heard the buzzing from his jacket where it hung behind the door. He hurried over and fished out his phone, looked at the caller ID.

Rebecca.

His heart sinking, he considered ignoring it. He was, after all, at work. But it would prey on his mind all morning and put him off his stride. Reluctantly he thumbed the button.

‘Hello, Rebecca.’

At first he thought there was nobody there, that the indistinct sound he heard was static. Then he realised it was breathing, high and laboured.

‘Tom?’ a woman’s voice whispered. He barely recognised it as his former wife’s.

‘Rebecca? What’s –’

‘Tom, I need your help.’ It came out as a whispered sob. ‘I’ve done something silly.’

He felt coldness claw at his stomach, his throat. ‘Rebecca, where are you?’

‘At –’ Her voice choked off, then resumed. ‘At the Jubilee Inn. Somerset Road.’

Tom knew it, one of the town’s small collection of hotels. ‘What have you done, Rebecca?’

‘I’m… sick. I need help.’

‘I’m calling an ambulance.’

‘No.’ It came out forcefully, despite the weakness of her voice. ‘I don’t need that. But I need you to come round, Tom. Right away.’

‘Tell me what you’ve done, Rebecca.’ He tried to keep the desperation from his voice.

‘Just come, Tom. Please. I need your help.’

She rang off.

Tom stood, gripped by indecision. His instinct was to call an ambulance anyway. But what would he tell the dispatcher? Hello, it’s Dr Tom Carlyle. I need you to send an ambulance to my former wife, who’s in some sort of trouble, though I don’t know what it is. They’d probably send an ambulance anyway, because they knew and trusted Tom. But how humiliating would it be if Rebecca turned