Shelagh hadn't planned on visiting her colleague at New Year's Eve unannounced, but she hadn't planned on her apartment being damaged due to a fire started by her neighbours, either. Now, she stood in front of Doctor Turner's door, willing herself to ring the bell. She had somehow expected him to live in a bigger house, maybe Victorian or Edwardian. Instead, he lived in a modern apartment.
"He doesn't need much, it just being him and Timothy," she told herself. "Not since his wife died in a car crash years ago. Like my mother." She shifted her bag from one hand to the other, inhaled deeply, and rang. It took roughly two minutes before the door opened. Doctor Turner's eyes – those delightful hazel eyes that she could surely drown in, would she let herself- widened in surprise as he took her in.
"Nurse Mannion," he said, "Is something wrong? Am I needed at the hospital?" His hair was delightfully ruffled. He wore a smart button-down shirt that matched his navy jeans. There was a stain on the collar. The sleeves were rolled up, showing off his arms dusted with dark hair.
Shelagh blushed and lowered her eyes, trying not to get distracted by the bit of hair that was visible on his chest; he hadn't done up all buttons. "No, Doctor Turner. It's just that… There was a fire in my apartment block. Nothing too serious," she added as his eyes grew big, "but there was a lot of smoke. None of the tenants are allowed to go back tonight, and I had nowhere else to go, with my family living in Scotland, and all the trains already departed… and I suppose I could've gone to one of the nurses, but I don't expect they're home, not at New Year's Eve…"
"Of course. Come in," he said, stepping aside to admit her entrance.
"Thank you," she murmured. Her glasses fogged over in the hallway. Her cold fingers struggled with the buttons on her coat.
"Are you all right? Nothing damaged?" Doctor Turner asked.
"No, I'm perfectly fine. I don't know about the apartment, though."
"Here, let me take that," the doctor said, taking the bag from her. His work-roughened thumb brushed her knuckles. She shivered.
"This doesn't weigh anything," he said.
"I didn't have time to pack anything much," she said. "I just took my phone, my toothbrush, and some clothes. Oh, and my Bible." It had her name embossed in gold on the cover. Her mother had given it to her when she turned five. She took her glasses from her nose and wiped them on her scarf.
"Wise choices, Nurse," he said. She couldn't be sure, not without her glasses, but he seemed to wink at her. "Let me put the kettle on," he said, and disappeared into the house.
"I'm really awfully sorry. I'm sure this isn't how you planned on spending your evening," Shelagh said as she trailed after him.
"I was going to spend it watching awful films, drinking alcohol, and eating too much chocolate and Turkish Delight," he said from the kitchen, "so your visit is a most welcome distraction, really."
"What about Timothy?" Sometimes, the doctor took his six year-old son with him to the hospital, when there was no one who could mind the child. Shelagh loved sitting with Timothy. She had a set of coloured pencils and crayons in her locker just for him.
"He's in bed. Poor mite was tired as you won't believe. I promised to wake him just before the new year starts. He wants to see the fireworks," Doctor Turner said. "We can wake him as I show you the guest bedroom." He fiddled with his sleeves, pushing them up further. He had a band aid on one of his hands, those big hands that had brushed hers just a moment ago, that would probably fit perfectly over…
Stop it.
"Can I help?" Shelagh asked, dawdling on the threshold into the kitchen.
The electric kettle had started humming. The counter was full of dirty dishes; plates with half-eaten slices of pizza, mugs with coffee that looked like it had solidified, forks that stuck to pans…
"I haven't had time to clean that yet," Doctor Turner murmured, turning away from her. She still saw the flash of crimson that shot into his face, though. He stacked some plates together, looked at some of the cups to see if there were two that he could still use.
"It's a job for two, anyway," she said. She pulled her jumper over her head, threw it on one of the kitchen chairs, and filled the sink with hot water. "Better not get that plaster of yours wet," she said. She opened one of the cabinets, found a pair of rubber gloves, and put them on.
"You don't have to," he said as she tried to prise some spaghetti off a plate.
"Nonsense. I feel bad enough for coming here in the first place," she said.
"Don't," he replied.
She looked up, her eyes locking with his. Another shiver climbed up her spine. Doctor Turner – she could've looked up his first name on Facebook, but she'd felt that it was something he should offer her herself, as if it was a gift- swallowed. There was a wrinkle next to his mouth. She wanted to reach out and smooth it with her thumb, but she was holding a plate. Besides, she was wearing yellow rubber gloves.
She dunked the plate in the hot, soapy water. "The sooner we get this done, the sooner you can get back to your couch and chocolates," she quipped, praying he'd think her red cheeks were due to the steaming water.
"You make me wish I'd actually gotten something decent to eat, like olives and cheese, or those little sausages they always seem to have at cocktail parties," Doctor Turner said. She handed him the cleaned plate so he could dry it.
"I'm a vegetarian," she said.
"Oh." He put the dried plate away, then walked to the fridge and opened it. "How do you feel about… half a jar of pickles, some onions in vinegar, and half a bell pepper?" He took the bell pepper out of the fridge and grimaced. "Scratch the bell pepper," he said, and dropped it in the trash.
"I like pickles," she reassured him. She put another wet mug on the rack to dry.
"I've also got milk and cereal, or some stale biscuits."
"And chocolates and a box of Turkish Delight," she said.
"Half a box, but yes. Praise my patients." He grinned. "And a bottle of very good red wine, if you're feeling up to it, Nurse Mannion. What do you say? Is it a night to imbibe?"
"Unless you propose we become completely decadent and drink it straight from the bottle, we really need to get these dishes done."
"We're not that naughty yet, I suppose," he said. He took up the towel and started drying.
"Naughty Nurse Mannion and Devious Doctor Turner," she joked.
He winked, which turned her insides liquid. She blushed some more, and wished she'd put on something else than her scuffed boots, a pair of faded jeans, and a ratty jumper. The T-shirt she wore under it had a permanent ketchup stain at the bottom, but she'd tucked her shirt into her jeans, so she was pretty sure the doctor wouldn't see.
Do stop it, she told herself. It was one thing to have a massive crush on her colleague, to have it for months and months, and to go to him because there was nowhere else to go, but quite another to go breathless and giggly and ridiculous any time he did something nice. Like touching her hand. Or winking. Or pushing those sleeves a little higher. Some nights when she woke up and felt alone, she'd think of his face, of his pleasant voice and big hands, till a tiny throb started between her legs and she was quite breathless.
"I prefer pickles over onions," she stammered.
"And chocolate over Turkish Delight?"
She nodded.
"What a perfect pair we make," he said, and smiled.
I know, she thought.
After the dishes were clean and gleaming and returned to their proper places, Shelagh and Doctor Turner crashed on the couch. It was a leather one –"leather is a lot more forgiving with spilled juice"- in a rich blue. Doctor Turner had put some pickles on a plate, and chocolates and Turkish Delight on another. Shelagh chose one shaped like a Christmas stocking and ate it slowly as she nursed her cup of tea.
"What do you want to watch? There's plenty of films on the telly tonight, but we can always go to Netflix and pick another one."
"Which ones are on right now?"
Doctor Turner took out his phone. "Come and have a look," he said. She had to scoot over and sit next to him to do it. Her hair brushed his face. She pushed a tendril behind her ear, stubbornly training her eyes on the small screen of his smartphone. She could feel his breath gently ghosting past her cheek, though, could feel the heat of his jean-clad leg as it almost pressed against hers. He wore some spicy aftershave that had almost worn off during the day; only the base note lingered now. It had mixed with the detergent they used in the hospital, and with something else that Shelagh couldn't name.
"There's a romantic comedy you might like," he said, voice hushed since she was so near him.
We sound like conspirators, or lovers.
"Would you like that?" he murmured.
He could put his arm around me. I could turn my face to his, and kiss him and kiss him and kiss him…
"Kiss me," she said.
He blinked, his long lashes throwing feathered shadows on his cheekbones. "What?"
"Kiss me, Kate. It's one of the films that's on tonight," she stammered, blushing. "See?" She pointed to his phone.
"Ah. Well, let's watch that, then." He stood up to grab the remote control. Shelagh felt the loss of his warmth and scent keenly. She kicked her boots off, tucked her feet under her, and hugged herself.
Doctor Turner sat down farther from her than before. She thought she saw his fists uncurl then tighten again from the corner of her eye, as if he wanted to do something with them, as if he wanted to touch her. She might have been wrong, though.
The film ended at half past eleven. Doctor Turner stretched as soon as the credits started to roll. His joints popped. He winced and rubbed his shoulders. "Don't ever get old, Nurse Mannion. It wreaks havoc on your joints."
"You're not old," she softly scolded him.
"Older than you, at any rate."
"A lot of the doctors at the hospital are. Now, I'll go and use the ladies' room, if you don't mind," she said, getting up from the couch with joints that didn't creak.
"The bathroom is up the stairs, first door on your left."
"I'll deposit my toothbrush there for later, then. Thanks." She zipped her bag open, took out her toothbrush and deodorant, and made for the bathroom.
The Turner household had and old-fashioned tub on gilded legs. The spout had the shape of a lion's head. Shelagh stroked it, then applied some fresh deodorant and studied herself in the mirror. Her cheeks were flushed. She touched them with her fingertips, feeling the warmth seep from skin to skin. She'd have to wish the doctor a happy new year in less than half an hour. If they'd already woken Timothy, that might mean she would not get carried away by her own romantic feelings. Afterwards, she would slip into the guestroom, put on her pyjamas, and try to sleep in an unfamiliar bed. Hopefully, she would be able to move back into her apartment tomorrow. She didn't want to put the doctor out, and hotels were rather expensive at this time of year. She could always ask one of the nurses if she could stay with them, she supposed.
"It's just one night," she told her reflection. Good thing, too; she hadn't brought much clothes with her. There was only what she wore now, and clean underwear, another T-shirt, and her pyjamas. She could hardly let the doctor see her in those, though. Just thinking of the lacey nightdress made her blush. It had been a bit of a lark when she'd bought it, egged on by Trixie and the other nurses. Her real pyjamas had been in need of a wash, though, and there had been so little time to pick what to bring and what to leave behind…
She took care of her bursting bladder, washed her hands, and went back to the living room. She stopped dead on the threshold.
Doctor Turner was holding up her rather daring nightgown and staring at it with knit eyebrows, his mouth a little 'o'. Blood shot to her cheeks. She marched in and snatched it from his hands, stuffing it in her bag. The silk slithered over her hands. It refused to be put out of sight completely. "It was in the bag for a reason," Shelagh said, not looking at the doctor. She was blushing so fiercely that tears stood in her eyes.
"I'm sorry," Doctor Turner said, voice thick. "Your bag fell over. I didn't mean to look at your possessions."
"Maybe I can still go to a hotel. I'm sorry I came here. We're only colleagues, after all, and…"
He took her hand. She stilled, but couldn't bring herself to face him.
"Please look at me," he whispered.
Helpless, she obeyed.
"I'm sorry," he repeated. "I'm sorry I looked into your bag. I shouldn't have. And I'm sorry for what I'm about to do."
"What are you about…" she started, but then, he kissed her, and she couldn't talk anymore. He had cupped her face with two hands, but one now slid down her throat and shoulder and came to rest in the small of her back. She slung her arms around his neck, her knees far weaker than she could have imagined. He tasted of Turkish Delight and wine.
I could get drunk on him and him alone, she thought.
He slipped the tip of his tongue between her lips and curled it upwards. The tiny throb that she sometimes stilled when she was alone in her bed came alive purringly. Something in her belly coiled. She sighed into his mouth, one hand at the nape of his neck, brushing the little hairs that grew there. "Don't be sorry," she said when they broke their kiss.
He walked her back till she fell on the couch, her head hitting the pillow propped in one of its corner. "I've imagined doing this for a very long time," Doctor Turner said, sitting down in the space between her legs.
"How long?" she asked.
"For months. Maybe longer," he confessed. He took her face between his hands again and nipped her bottom lip.
The throb was pain now. She pulled him closer, moaning as she felt his weight on her. "I've loved you from the moment I knew you," she admitted, her voice tremulous and breathy.
"It sometimes feels to me I've loved you even longer than that." With the hand he wasn't using to keep himself propped up he caressed her breast. Her back arched. She shivered, even though she was burning.
"Doctor Turner," she moaned.
"Do call me Patrick, Nurse Mannion." Offered like a gift, like she imagined.
"Patrick," she said, rolling the 'r' like a pebble in her mouth, breath catching on the 'k'. "Only if you call me Shelagh."
"Shelagh," he promised, kissing her before she could say anything more, every kiss punctuated by fireworks outside. Their light painted the living room yellow and orange and red and green.
"Is that why you came here tonight?" he whispered between kisses. "Because you imagined doing this too?"
"I've never done this before," she said.
His hands stilled. She opened her eyes, studying him between her lashes. He was smiling, the wrinkle beside his mouth more prominent than ever. She touched it with a trembling finger, following its course from his cheek to his chin. "What's wrong?" she whispered.
He took her hand and kissed every fingertip. "Nothing, my darling, my Shelagh. It's just… It's a rather big thing to take from you. Maybe we should save it for another time, when I haven't had too much to drink." He winked. "Maybe we should do this when you're wearing that rather daring nightgown."
She smiled. "Do you think so?"
"Yes. There's no hurry, is there?"
"Well, I've no idea when I'm allowed back into my apartment…"
He laughed at that, pulled her up, and took her in his arms. "Have you seen the time?" he murmured in her ear.
"No."
"The new year has started. Happy new year, Shelagh."
"Happy new year, Patrick. Shouldn't we wake Timothy? He'll be so disappointed if he won't see the fireworks," Shelagh said, resting her forehead against Patrick's.
"We should," he agreed, but they stood in each other's embrace for a good while yet, reluctant to let the other go now that they had found each other.