Therapy

by Robspace54

The characters, places and situations of Doc Martin, are owned by Buffalo Pictures. This story makes no claim of remuneration or ownership, nor do I make any attempt to infringe upon any rights of the owners or producers.

Thank you for reading and reviews are much appreciated.

I looked at my patient and knew, just knew, that this would be my most challenging case. Lord, I thought, not another one.

"So," I began, "Since we both have medical degrees, perhaps I ought to ask you if using first names would make you feel more?"

"More what?" the woman snapped, then she continued to twist the short hair over her right ear, but seeing me notice the motion, she dropped her hand to her lap. "Do you think that I want to be here? Do you? And first names would make this process all soft and warm? Squishy and comfy? I do not think that first names would be… suitable."

"Of course not." I looked at the pad in my lap, where I had jotted a few notes based on her answers on the standard patient form. "And you are at St Thomas."

She nodded slowly. "It was the Head of Staff who suggested you to me. Claimed you were… useful."

I gave her a small smile. "I try to be."

"As do I." She peered around my exam room. "A lot of books." A large bookcase covered the longest wall and the shelves were packed full of books. The other three walls held in order, two windows, a door to my inner office next to a side table with a fake fern and an antique lamp on it, and then the door to my waiting room.

I followed her gaze. "Most came with the rooms. I haven't actually had much time to sort them."

She stood, went to the largest and inspected a shelve at her eye level, then she ran a finger over the bindings. "No dust at least."

I wondered if she was germophobic, or perhaps had OCD. "My cleaners do a good job."

She peered at some of the bindings. "Seaweed of the Southern Ocean," she read aloud. "Constellations of the Zodiac. Tenzing and Hillary on Everest." She moved a few feet to her left. "Ah, here are the medical books."

"Those are mine."

She turned and smirked at me. "Since you have a medical degree you must have books. Unless you have explored the world and are doing psychiatry as a side-line."

I put my pad down on the table at my side, placed my pen on it just so, then primly crossed my legs, and leaned forward. "Let's not start off sparring."

She came back to my visitor's chair, sat down, and then placed her black leather pumps, with the rhinestone buckles close together. "Yes. That would be a waste of my time." She tipped her head to one side. "How old are you?"

"Thirty-two." Why does everyone ask me how old I am?

"And new to London."

"I was away for a time, but I have returned to resume my practice here, yes."

"Climbing Mt. Everest, no doubt."

"Not quite," I said, but at times it had felt like it. I took a small breath and examined her more carefully. Her dress was demure, well groomed; the only flamboyant bit might be her shoe buckles. She wore makeup not to excess, but there just enough so you knew she wore it. Her nails were finely shaped and well-polished.

She blinked her blue eyes once and then she stared straight at me. "You have an impressive CV."

"Thank you. But this session is about you." And yes, you do as well. Google and Wikipedia are the banes of doctors but technology can be useful and I had done my homework on you.

I glanced at my notebook, then back at her. "Gynaecology at St. Thomas."

"Infertility mostly. Plus, research."

One of the four words she spoke set my alarm bells ringing, and it wasn't 'mostly', 'plus' or 'research'. I felt a dull ache begin behind my left eye. "Are you good at it?"

"Oh yes; quite good. Very good I must say. My pregnant patients don't complain – that is after I and my team are able to pull off virtual miracles in some of their cases. You know – career women in their late 40's or older who then decide they want to experience the joys of motherhood." She shook her head and smiled. "Most are well past their sell-by date but we do what we can for them." Her hand rose and she patted her hair. "And I must say that we do a lot."

"And you are clearly very proud of your medical accomplishments?" I asked. I picked up my notebook and made a quick note.

"Quite right."

I tried to smile at her. "Successful career then."

Her eyes flashed. "Oh yes."

"Personal life as well?"

Her head flipped into a ninety-degree left turn and I saw her hands clutch one another. "Certainly," she hissed.

I wrote a small note, looking away to give a moment. When I looked back at her she was staring at me. Her lips quivered. "I…"

"Why have you come to see me?"

Her face screwed itself into a strange contortion and then reasserted itself into a normal human face. "Right."

I held my words and was rewarded when she told me, "I was rejected, it seems. I think."

"By?"

Dr. Edith Montgomery sighed before she answered. "You see Dr. Timoney long ago I was engaged, well almost, and then I wasn't for I went to Canada for my training, and then I returned to England. Worked in London, then York, and then," she took a deep breath. "And then quite by accident I saw him."

"And it did not go well."

She began to chew her lip and for a moment I thought I saw a tear form in one perfect eye, but she blinked it away. "What do you do when that happens?"

I leaned forward. "And you are not coping well."

"No. I can't think, I can't work, and I can't eat or sleep. It's been bloody awful! And now he won't take my calls." Her hand nervously touched her ginger locks.

I kept a blank expression. "That can be difficult." Yes, it can be bloody awful I thought, and for a moment the face of Ben Sizemore flashed into my mind. I picked up my notebook. "Tell me about it."

She stared at a point somewhere above my right shoulder and began to speak.