Up Close and Personal (10 page)

‘Could I interview you for my piece?’

‘Me?’ Nicole said. ‘But I don’t know the first thing about environmental issues.’

‘Maybe not, but you live locally and you’d be able to give me a useful insight into the way local people are feeling. The dinner-party gossip you mentioned … that’s exactly the sort of stuff I’m after.’

Seeing her hesitation, Bear reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out a battered leather wallet. ‘Look, I don’t want to put you on the spot. Why don’t I give you my number and, if you’re up for it, you can give me a call?’

‘Oh … okay,’ Nicole said as she accepted his business card.

Bear stepped aside so she could wheel the buggy off the verge. ‘It was nice talking to you, Nicole.’

‘You too,’ she said. ‘Enjoy your walk.’

Halfway along the drive, she looked over her shoulder, but disappointingly Bear had disappeared from view.

Half a mile away, the Willows Surgery, a modern, low-rise building just off Loxwood’s historic market square, was preparing to close for lunch. As receptionist Carol McCarthy began bolting the entrance doors, an attractive brunette in her late twenties appeared. She was wearing a smart double-breasted trench coat and carrying an expensive-looking tote bag in the crook of her arm.

Carol smiled pleasantly. ‘I’m sorry, dear, the surgery’s closed.’

‘I just wanted to ask Dr Swift a question about my prescription,’ the woman said in a breathy voice.

‘The surgery’s closed now,’ Carol replied. ‘Perhaps you could pop back this afternoon.’

The woman’s eyes grew larger. ‘Oh, but please … it’ll only take a minute.’

Carol shook her head. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again. ‘I really can’t.’

The woman wrinkled her nose in annoyance and half turned as if she were about to go. Then, all at once, Carol heard the distinctive rich voice that always made her nether regions tingle.

‘It’s okay, Carol. I’ll see Mrs Tripp.’

The receptionist looked over her shoulder. Dr Swift was standing by the reception desk. His hair was rumpled and there was a red patch on his cheek as if he’d been leaning his face on his hand. It was all Carol could do to stop from pressing him to her sagging, fifty-four-year-old bosom. ‘Are you sure, Doctor?’ she said.

‘Yes, you get off home,’ Connor replied. ‘I’ll lock up behind you.’ He patted her on the shoulder. ‘And thanks for all your hard work this morning.’

The receptionist gave him an adoring smile. ‘You’re more than welcome, Doctor.’ She gave him a little wave. ‘See you at two.’

As she set off down the pathway in her sensible shoes, the brunette stepped into the surgery.

‘Hello, Zoe,’ Connor said. ‘This is an unexpected pleasure.’

His patient shot him a haughty look. ‘Follow me,’ she commanded as she swept past him. ‘And do hurry up. I haven’t got all day.’

Connor’s pulse was racing as he quickly locked the entrance doors and followed her to his office. The minute he was inside, Zoe tossed her bag on the desk and began
unbuttoning her trench coat. When it fell to the floor, Connor saw to his astonishment that she was wearing a vintage army uniform: a figure-hugging pencil skirt in lovat green wool and a matching jacket, cinched at the waist. On her shoulder were three gold stars signifying a rank – unless he was very much mistaken – of captain. Beneath the jacket was a starched khaki shirt and tie. Completing the look were old-fashioned seamed stockings and three-inch patent-leather stilettos. It was all Connor could do to stop himself groaning out loud.

As the doctor gazed at his patient admiringly, she reached into her bag and removed a green wool cap, decorated with a red band and an impressive silver badge. She placed it on her head and gave the peak a businesslike tug. Suddenly, her top lip curled in a contemptuous sneer. ‘Do you know why I’m here, Private Swift?’ she snapped.

Connor shook his head.

‘I performed a surprise inspection of your barracks today.’

‘Did you?’ said Connor, feeling a familiar frisson of excitement.

‘Yes, and I was quite horrified by what I found.’

Connor licked his lips. ‘What
did
you find?’

‘Dirty boots and an unmade bed.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Connor.

‘And that’s not all.’ Zoe folded her arms across her chest. ‘Your weapon hadn’t been polished.’ She began walking back and forth in front of the doctor. ‘You know what this means, don’t you?’

Connor bit his lip. ‘Some sort of punishment?’ he ventured.

‘Got it in one, Private Swift.’ A cruel smile formed on Zoe’s pink-glossed lips. ‘Now drop down and give me twenty.’

Connor hesitated. ‘Twenty what?’

‘Press-ups!’ Zoe shrieked impatiently.

Instantly, Connor dropped to the floor. He was in good shape for a man of his age and he managed the first ten press-ups easily but, as he attempted the eleventh, he felt Zoe’s spiked heel in the small of his back. As he moved upwards, she dug the heel in hard, sending a flood of endorphins surging through his body. Gritting his teeth, Connor struggled through the remaining ten press-ups, before collapsing onto his stomach.

‘I hope you’ve learned your lesson,’ Zoe said, as she removed her foot from his back.

Connor grinned. ‘You bet.’ He raised himself onto his forearms and looked up at her. ‘Is there anything else I can do for you, Captain?’

‘Yes, actually, there is.’ Zoe went over to her tote bag and removed a cardboard cake box. ‘I’m feeling rather peckish,’ she said as she sat down on Connor’s Eames chair, purchased at vast expense, despite his wife’s protestations that the money could be better spent elsewhere. She gave him a meaningful look. ‘All I need now is an occasional table.’

Connor knew exactly what was required. During previous encounters with Zoe, he’d assumed the role of footstool, chaise longue and even, on one memorable occasion, a coat stand. Picking himself up off the floor, he went over to Zoe and positioned himself on all fours in front of her.

Smiling approvingly, she placed the cake box on his back.
‘You don’t know how much I’m going to enjoy this,’ she said, lifting the lid.

For the next ten minutes, Connor remained perfectly motionless while Zoe ate. She selected a chocolate éclair first, pulling it apart and licking off the cream, before gobbling the buttery pastry. Next, she attacked a scone filled with jam and clotted cream, smacking her lips at regular intervals to convey just how delicious it was, and finally a rich custard slice. When she’d finished eating, she extended a foot and pointed out some crumbs on the dark wool carpet. ‘Look at this terrible mess,’ she said, as if Connor were somehow to blame. ‘I need a vacuum cleaner.’

Smiling, Connor bowed his head to the ground and began licking up the crumbs, chasing them with his tongue. When the carpet was perfectly clean, he looked up at Zoe, eagerly waiting for her next whim to be communicated.

‘Excellent work, Private Swift,’ she said. ‘You can get up now.’

Connor rose to his feet and began wiggling his toes to try and relieve the pins and needles in his feet.

Meanwhile, Zoe was strutting over to his examination couch. ‘What shall we do now?’ she said, sitting down and crossing her legs, so that her skirt rode up, exposing a tantalizing glimpse of stocking top.

Connor swallowed. ‘How about I give you a good hard seeing to?’

Zoe gave a throaty laugh. ‘I think I’d like that, Private.’

Connor Swift was faithful to his wife, make no mistake about it. It was simply that his definition of monogamy differed from most other people’s. In Connor’s book,
becoming emotionally attached to another woman constituted infidelity. Sex for sex’s sake, on the other hand, was perfectly acceptable … just so long as his wife didn’t find out about it. During the five and a half years he’d been with Nicole, Connor had slept with three other women. The first was a one-night stand with a fellow GP he’d met at a resuscitation refresher course in the Midlands. Sturdy and bespectacled with short, mannish hair, she wasn’t really his type. But she was frighteningly clever and when, after a few drinks on the last night, she’d asked him to pleasure her anally, he thought it rude to refuse. His second conquest was a blonde, waifish thing, who served him cappuccino every morning at the coffee shop next door to the surgery. For several weeks they’d flirted outrageously, and then one day Connor had impulsively scrawled his mobile number on a paper napkin and passed it across the counter to her. ‘Call me,’ he said, ‘if you ever fancy hooking up.’ Half an hour later they were fucking like mink in the coffee-shop staff toilet. It was a scenario that was destined to be repeated many times and in various locations over the next few months, until the waitress found herself a proper boyfriend.

Connor’s third and final lover was Zoe Tripp. They’d met five months ago, not long after Tilly’s birth. Zoe had just moved to Loxwood with her husband, a high-flying city lawyer who worked long hours. One day, she’d come to the Willows complaining of watery eyes and an itchy rash. Connor had diagnosed an animal-hair allergy and sent her away with a prescription for anti-histamines. The following week she was back again, apparently concerned about a small mole beneath her left breast. As Connor examined the blemish – which turned out to be perfectly
normal – Zoe had propositioned him. Ordinarily, patients were strictly off-limits for Connor. Such a liaison would be awkward, not to mention highly unethical. But Zoe was very insistent – and stunningly beautiful to boot. In the end, Connor had been powerless to resist, and he hadn’t regretted it for a minute. Zoe was quite the most exciting lover he’d ever had, regularly eschewing vanilla sex in favour of intricate role play and light bondage. Sexually speaking, she liked to be in charge and, much to his surprise, Connor discovered he liked being dominated. So much of his daily life involved being strong and assertive that it was nice being told what to do for a change. His new lover was very imaginative and he never knew who she was going to be from one session to the next – sometimes she played the part of a sexy schoolteacher in angora sweater and horn rims, administering discipline to her recalcitrant pupil; other times she was a smart-suited executive and he her hopeless subordinate.

It wasn’t long before Connor became hopelessly addicted. The more sex he had with Zoe, the more he wanted. In stark contrast, his marital relations had dwindled to practically nothing – though this was only partly due to the affair. A large part of Connor’s lack of sexual interest in his wife stemmed from her new status as mother. Since Tilly’s birth, Nicole had swapped the figure-hugging jeans and G-strings she knew he loved for rather less attractive drawstring trousers and granny knickers. To make his home life even more unappealing, Connor found his new domestic responsibilities unspeakably tedious. Not that he didn’t love his daughter; far from it. It was just that he found the practical aspects of parenthood – the bathing, the night-time feeds,
the endless nappy changing – boring in the extreme. His wife, by contrast, seemed to revel in the most mundane of tasks. Only that morning, she phoned him on his mobile, triumphant because she’d found a new hypo-allergenic brand of baby wipe that didn’t irritate Tilly’s sensitive skin. Fatherhood made Connor feel boring, predictable. He craved excitement in a way he had never done before – and excitement was precisely what he got from Zoe.

Now, as he lay on his examination couch with her, their limbs damply intertwined after a particularly frenzied bout of lovemaking, his thoughts turned once again to his responsibilities. ‘I’d better nip out and grab a sandwich,’ he said, glancing at the funky retro wall clock he’d had imported from Italy. ‘Afternoon surgery starts in half an hour.’ He reached for his trousers. ‘We must do this again soon, but it’s probably best if you don’t drop into the surgery unannounced again, or Carol will start to get suspicious.’

Zoe rose up onto her elbows and arched her back, thrusting her impressive breasts ceilingwards. ‘Actually, I did have another location in mind,’ she said provocatively. ‘And a rather unusual activity.’

‘Oh yes?’ Connor said eagerly.

‘It might be a bit kinky for you.’

Connor grinned. ‘You know me – I’m always open to new experiences.’

‘Okay, then, how are you fixed for next Thursday evening?’

Connor scratched his head. He and Nicole had tickets for the theatre that night. ‘I’m pretty sure I can get away,’ he said.

‘Great, I’ll let the others know we’re coming.’

Connor flinched. ‘You mean there are other people involved?’

‘Yeah – why, is that a problem?’

‘Of course it is,’ Connor said impatiently. ‘A man in my position … It could be very embarrassing.’

Zoe laughed softly. ‘Trust me, Dr Swift, no one’s going to recognize you.’

Connor mugged at her. ‘Huh?’

‘Don’t worry, all will be revealed on Thursday. I’ll make the arrangements and let you know where to meet me.’

‘Well, okay,’ Connor replied warily. ‘But I reserve the right to back out if it gets too weird.’

Zoe swung her legs over the side of the couch. ‘It’s a deal.’

They finished getting dressed in silence. Both had got what they’d come for; there was no need for small talk.

Connor was smiling as he tidied his room in readiness for afternoon surgery. He wasn’t the only one in a good mood. Several miles away, in the offices of the
Sunday Post
, Yasmin had just emerged from an editorial meeting. A couple of days earlier she’d interviewed a hot young singer-songwriter who owned a luxurious country retreat in one of Loxwood’s satellite villages. She’d been in negotiations with his agent for weeks, and was thrilled when she’d eventually been granted an hour-long audience with the notoriously reclusive star. The interview had gone brilliantly and, thanks to a combination of flattery and flirtation, she’d got the singer-songwriter to go on record about his recent marriage split for the first time. The story was so good it might even be picked up by the nationals. With this in mind, the
Post
’s
editor had decided the interview should have pride of place on the front cover of the paper’s colour supplement. Yasmin’s victory was another journalist’s loss, however, and, as she collected a celebratory cup of coffee from the vending machine and carried it back to her desk, sports editor Rob Pritchard barged past her with a face like thunder.