Read an Excerpt

Choosing her words with care, she said, ʻI think most women marry a man, not a family history.ʼ

ʻBut think how important it is when you first meet your future in-laws.ʼ She had to agree, that was true.

He went on, ʻI suppose you know all about your family and your ancestors. Donʼt you feel different from me?ʼ

ʻAre you getting at me again?ʼ

ʻA week ago I would have been. This evening, I am not. Iʼd like an honest answer, I really would.ʼ

She hesitated, and then said, ʻWeʼre all pretty well documented. Nothing gets thrown away – we have household accounts, lists of servants, school reports, doctorʼs bills, diaries, all sorts of things. I used to think they were a weight, but now I like to know they are there.ʼ

ʻThey make you know who you are?ʼ

She saw the trap he was leading her into. ʻI am me, not my family,ʼ she said. ʻJust as you are you, with or without a family.ʼ

ʻBut what if I feel different from you? Not better, not worse, but different? What if I think the difference means that we can never really … well, understand each other?ʼ

ʻThen youʼre wrong. Iʼm not like that woman you mentioned who thought this letter is pointless. I can see its point, I can guess what it means to you. But thereʼs far more to you than a … less-than-full family history.ʼ

ʻLess-than-full family history,ʼ he mocked gently. ʻLucy, youʼre wasted as a doctor. With your gift for language you should be a writer.ʼ

ʻWith my gift for language Iʼll tell you what I think of you in a minute,ʼ she threatened. ʻDonʼt make fun of me. Now, the bottleʼs empty – weʼre not having another drink, are we? Or do you want another?ʼ

She wanted to get away from the seriousness of the conversation. She had learned an awful lot about him, and she needed time to think about what she had learned.

ʻWeʼre both working tomorrow,ʼ he said, ‘and this evening has been a full one – no, I donʼt want another drink. Letʼs walk back.ʼ

This time he didnʼt take her arm as they walked, he held her hand, and she liked it. She felt they had made progress, that theyʼd got to know each other a little better.

ʻWould you like to come to my room for a quick cocoa?ʼ she asked when they reached their little block of flats. ʻYou could make free of my biscuit barrel as well if you wanted.ʼ

ʻAn invitation few could resist. Yes, Iʼd love a cocoa. And itʼll have to be a quick one.ʼ

Good, he understood the unspoken rules. He was to come for a drink, no more. She sat him on her bed again, and on her player put a CD by an American singer she had come to like – Crystal Gayle. ʻBe right back,ʼ she told him, and dashed off to the kitchen.

 ʻYouʼre a romantic,ʼ he told her when she returned with the two steaming mugs. ʻAnd youʼre not looking forward to a happy love life. Iʼve been listening to the words of her songs – poor old Crystal doesnʼt seem to be having much luck.ʼ

ʻCountry and western,ʼ she told him, ‘always the same themes. Your wifeʼs left you, your dogʼs died and your truck needs a new engine. When things get tough on the ward I listen to country and western music, and I realise things could be worse.ʼ

ʻTrue.ʼ He accepted the mug of cocoa from her, wriggled along the bed so she could slouch by his side. ʻBut sheʼs got a lovely voice.ʼ

They didnʼt speak much more then, but sipped the cocoa and ate chocolate biscuits. When he had finished the drink, he stood. ʻWeʼre both tired,ʼ he said. ʻIʼd better go.ʼ

She stood too, and he reached out, pulled her to him. She could feel the length of his body, the leanness, the sense of poised strength being held back.

His lips tasted of cocoa – she supposed hers did too.

Never mind, it was rather nice. She guessed that he felt the same as she did – this was not the time to push things forward. But now there was definitely something between them. They both knew it. Then for a moment his kiss became more passionate, and she was ready to respond to it. But he eased her away, and sighed. ʻIʼd better go back to my room.ʼ