The characters and situations associated with the TV program Doc Martin are the property of Buffalo Pictures. All I own is an overactive imagination.
I appreciate any feedback and advice from readers willing to share.
It's the white police uniform shirt tied like a halter-top that first attracts him to her. With a black lacy bra underneath, black skin-tight shorts with the famous London Met checkerboard up the side, shapely bare midriff, and the Met police cap, it's a rather attention-getting outfit. Add the very loosely knotted black tie, knee high black boots, mirrored sunglasses and high-visibility safety jacket with The Metropolitan Police patch on the back, she's impossible not to notice. The fact she's just marched on to the pub's stage to a chorus of whoops, hollers and shrill whistles, makes her positively mesmerizing.
Joe thinks he may be in some kind of law enforcement heaven.
"I told you. I told you," says the man standing next to him, grabbing him by the shoulders and giving him a vigorous shake.
Yes, Sam had told him all about the "dishy" singer he had talked to several weeks ago at this "bobby" bar in Bristol.
Fresh out of prison, Joe's brother is following the straight and narrow, snagging a job with an interior decorating contractor willing to overlook his criminal record and give him a chance. He'd been gainfully employed for about two months before he gave Joe a call. The conversation had been strained at first - Joe isn't one to forgive and forget, especially given his job as a police constable. But he's always looked up to his big brother and, after a few weekly chin wags on the telephone, Sam was urging him to come visit.
"I'll show you the sites; we'll catch up and have a pint or two," he'd said.
It took a few weeks for Joe to arrange the time off - just a three-day weekend really - and during that time, Sam had entertained him with stories about the posh woman he had been chatting up. She sang at the local pub, which just happened to be where most of the Bristol police force larked about after work.
"If I want to follow the law, I should hang out with the law," Sam had joked.
During their last conversation, he had promised Joe that, during his visit, they would visit the police hangout so he could see the magnificent Stirling - that apparently was her name - in the flesh.
Flesh indeed, he thinks.
She's as beautiful as Sam bragged - long, muscular legs; a thin but shapely torso; a well-proportioned chest, and a firm-looking bum. It's hard to tell how tall she is as she dances around the small, raised stage but Joe estimates her at about 1.7 metres or five feet, seven inches. Her face is a perfect oval with a cute, snub nose and full lips. He can't tell what colour her eyes or hair are from where he stands - the spotlights are too bright, her hair pulled back in a severe bun and shoved under her hat - but they appear to be dark. She wears no jewellery.
The fact she can actually sing well is apparently lost on the inebriated Bristol bobbies who crowd around the raised stage, mad for her to notice them.
She's currently performing a rocking cover of Cheap Trick's I Want You to Want Me, which every man in the place seems to be taking to heart. Her back-up band - comprised of a lead guitarist, bass guitar player and drummer - are pretty talented as well, especially at keeping the braver patrons off the stage and away from their singer.
You have to be a pretty gifted musician to be able to keep playing while bouncing a drunk constable off the stage, Joe thinks, watching the bizarre spectacle. And this is just the first song in the set.
"Is it always like this?" he shouts into his brother's ear.
Sam shakes his head.
"Only on the nights she's here," he says, gesturing to the svelte singer who is currently having one of her boots licked by a very inebriated middle-aged man in a rumpled suit.
"And how often is that?"
"Every Friday and Saturday night."
"What's she do the rest of the week?"
"I have no idea," says Sam, snagging them a small raised table. "She's not exactly talkative. All I know is her name is Stirling and she sings two nights a week with this band. The lead guitarist is the nephew of one of her friends or something. What'll you have?"
Joe orders a pint of cider and sits back to watch the show. The band is eclectic and the singer seems to be capable of singing anything, from cheesy country requests to modern rock and pop plus classics from the 1960s to the 1990s. And the crowd loves her.
Sam soon returns with the drinks.
"Another thing," he says, pausing to take a long drink. He nods toward the stage. "She doesn't drink. No alcohol. Only ice water."
"I think that's what's running through her veins," he adds with a laugh. "I can get nowhere with her. She's nice, polite, laughs at my jokes and then shuts me down."
"Maybe she has a boyfriend or a husband," Joe suggests.
"Barkeep says no; says she's single, straight and available."
"She just must have really good taste in men," Joe says, waiting for the reaction.
Sam slaps him on the shoulder.
"Just wait," he says. "She'll slam the door in your face too. Guaranteed."
Joe doesn't doubt it. When it comes to the opposite sex, his life is a ghost town of despair. Of course, it's hard to meet women when you're the police constable of a small fishing village along the north shore of Cornwall. Well, women who aren't too young, too old, aren't already married, or still have all their original teeth.
He's finished about two pints to Sam's four and is feeling a little happy by the time the band finishes its first set. The musicians manage to find a table and order a round of beers plus a jug of ice water. The female singer is nowhere to be seen.
About five minutes later, Joe sees her appear from the women's washroom. She's still wearing her police costume but she's traded the high-visibility jacket for a long cardigan. She's also restyled her long, curly auburn-coloured hair into a ponytail and freshened what little makeup she's wearing. As she walks over to the band's table, Sam calls her name. She looks over, smiles and waves, pouring herself a glass of water from the jug before sauntering over.
"Hello Sam," she says, grabbing an empty chair from the table beside them. "I haven't seen you in more than a fortnight. Where have you been hiding?"
Her accent is proper upper crust London; not what Joe is expecting. As she settles into her chair, he sees her eyes are a hazel colour, her cute nose sprinkled with a dusting of light freckles. She's gorgeous.
"I've been busy getting some overtime hours," Sam explains. "I'd like you to meet my kid brother, Joe. Joe, this is Stirling."
"Nice to meet you Joe," she says, offering him her hand to shake. He does so, clasping her long, regal fingers in his, suddenly feeling shy.
"Joe's visiting for the weekend from Cornwall," Sam says. "He's a constable with the Devon and Cornwall force."
Stirling gives him an appraising look.
He's kind of cute, she thinks.
"You must feel right at home with this lot," she says with a smile, nodding her head toward the rowdier officers singing and leaning against the bar.
"Actually, we're a bit more common in Cornwall," Joe says. "Police don't have their own exclusive pubs there. We have to hangout and drink with all the locals, fishermen mostly."
Stirling laughs.
What a beautiful sound, thinks Joe.
"That's too bad," she says, playing with her half empty glass of water. "These Bristol boys have all the perks. Jammy bastards."
Joe laughs. He likes her.
For the next half-hour, he watches his brother try every smooth, practiced chat-up line in the playbook of the pull to get Stirling to open up. He strikes out every time.
She's happy enough to talk about current events, sports, politics, police ethics, gun control, music, movies, books, but nothing that might actually provide some hint about her personal life. And the closest Joe gets occurs as he's describing Portwenn and some of the people who live there.
"It sounds like a wonderful place," she says taking a sip of her water, her long fingers clasping the glass. "It's probably very peaceful."
"It might sound that way but we have our moments," Joe says, proceeding to tell her about the time the village's headmaster went loopy and kidnapped a classroom of primary children, forcing them to clean the beach rocks with scrub brushes.
"Next thing you know, he decides to walk into the sea," he says.
Stirling is listening to him intently, the most interest she's shown in any conversation they've had that evening.
"What were his symptoms?" she asks, interrupting Joe in mid-story.
He thinks for a moment.
"You know, I can't recall. But I remember Paul - she was the surgery receptionist at the time - when Pauline came to get me at the station, she mentioned his wee sample had turned blue."
"Porphyria," Stirling whispers.
Joe looks at her in amazement.
"That's exactly what the Doc said he had," he says, shocked she knew what it was based on so little information.
"Sounds like an intelligent GP," she says.
"He is," enthuses Joe. "Dr. Ellingham's probably one of the smartest people in Portwenn. He's been great for the village."
"Dr. Ellingham?" she asks, surprised. "Dr. Martin Ellingham?"
Joe and Stirling stare at one another in silence for a moment.
"Why? Do you know him?" asks Joe, suddenly suspicious.
"I've heard of him," she admits. "But I've never actually met him. A friend of mine told me he used to be a great surgeon."
"He still is," says Joe. "He's been taking on some cases at the hospital in Truro part-time."
"I heard he had haemophobia," Stirling says.
"Homo-what?" asks Sam.
"Haemophobia," she says patiently. "A fear of blood."
"Oh, the blood thing," says Joe. "He got over it. Don't know how but one week he's honking all over my shoes, the next he's performing surgery to save his wife's life."
Stirling is quiet for a moment, rubbing her finger along the top edge of her empty water glass.
"What about his medical practice?" she asks. "He can't possibly be able to do both."
Joe hadn't thought about that.
"I don't know what's going to happen there," he admits, feeling a shiver of worry.
What is going to happen to the surgery if the Doc continues doing surgeries in Truro? he wonders.
He forgets everything as he looks across the table at Stirling, mesmerized. Her face has spread into the most beautiful smile Joe thinks he has ever seen in his life, actually overshadowing that of his ex-wife, Maggie.
"Aces!" she shouts, startling Sam, Joe and half the pub patrons. She leans across the table, grabs Joe's face in both her hands and gives him a big, long, sensuous kiss on the lips that he feels all the way down to his groin.
She tastes of sugary peppermint and smells like heaven.
Stirling is surprised to feel his lips responding to hers. She gives in to the moment, feeling an ache of desire in the pit of her stomach.
Not good, she thinks, pulling away.
"Thank you!" she says earnestly into Joe's eyes, inadvertently providing him an amazing view down her halter-top.
"Thank-thank-thank you," he stutters, completely flustered and a little in love.
She hops down from her chair and practically skips to the women's washroom, digging her mobile out of the back pocket of her tight shorts.
Joe is suddenly feeling extremely cocky. He leans back in his chair with his hands behind his head and smiles.
Sam looks over at him in disbelief.
"You jammy bastard," his brother says.
"You just have to know how to talk to women," Joe says in a patronizing tone, wondering what on Earth he'd done or said to deserve that level of appreciation.
Who the hell cares, he thinks, just as his chair falls over backward, taking him with it.
"Smooth," says Sam, looking down at him and laughing. "Really smooth."