Thanks to all of you who take the time to review, it's always heartening to get feedback. Many thanks again to 'da bomb' beta reader Kimberley.
Hunting High and Low
Part 2: London Calling
Robert sat in his office staring out of the window at the night sky. He leaned back into the soft comfort of his leather chair and swivelled back round to face his desk. Reaching up he clasped his hands behind his stiff neck and let his eyes drift over the mountain of paperwork that grew daily. He hadn't realised until lately just how much admin crap Elizabeth had taken off his shoulders. He closed his eyes and tried to shut out the image of her face that instantly appeared before him, as it always did now when he thought of her. It had been weeks since the funeral and he'd heard nothing at all from her. He guessed she was going for a clean break all round in an attempt to move on. After all he'd made it clear she should call if she needed anything – and she hadn't.
'Stop doing this to yourself Rob,' he thought.
He glanced at the clock on his desk and cursed as he registered the time, eight-thirty. He'd started his first surgery at seven that morning and finished his last not less than an hour ago. Now he had to battle his way through all this monotonous paperwork. Reaching for the bottom drawer, he opened it and drew out the bottle of scotch he kept there. He poured himself a generous amount, took a swig and leaned back into his chair. Casting his eyes over the open document at the top of the mountain, he lifted the glass back up to his mouth. When the phone rang suddenly, he nearly spilt the scotch he'd been absently swirling around the glass.
"Doctor Romano," he snapped down the offending receiver.
"Just the man I wanted," a drunken female slurred back at him.
He recognized the voice instantly and placed the glass down on the desk.
"Elizabeth?" he said softly, surprised pleasure evident in his voice.
"Yes," came the huffed reply.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
"Absolutely fucking brilliant, Robert!"
That made him smile.
"Lizzie, are you drunk? And what the hell time is it there?" he asked with a mixture of worry and amusement.
There was a pause down the line, and Robert thought briefly she'd gone.
"Two-thirty Robert – it's two-thirty in the fucking morning," she snapped, obviously spoiling for a fight.
"Lizzie, you're drunk, go to bed and I'll call you tomorrow," he said neutrally.
"No, you fucking won't, Robert. I don't want you to ever call. I don't want to ever see you again – do you hear me!"
"What the hell did I do?" he spluttered.
"You know fully well what. You came to me and took advantage of me that night. My husband was dying and you took advantage of me you bastard, and now I have to live with that guilt for the rest of my life.... I hate you Robert!"
He heard the click as the line went dead and stared at the receiver stunned.
"What the hell was that?" he said, replacing the phone back in its cradle.
Okay she was angry with him that much was obvious, but why now?
What had happened between them had not been sordid and it had most certainly not been planned as she was accusing him. Guilt transference in the wake of Mark's death, then. He'd be happy to take the blame if he thought for one minute it would help her. But it was 2:30 in the morning in England and she was drunk and making angry phone calls. Not the behaviour of someone who was handling things. She was hurting and lashing out.
Robert rubbed a tired hand over his eyes and rubbed his temple as her face appeared to him again - there was no way he could concentrate on work or even think about sleep now.
Making a decision he reached for the phone again and pulled out his wallet...
The following evening Robert found himself climbing out of a cab outside his terminal at O'Hare International Airport. He paid the driver and went off in search of the British Airways check in desk, bound for Heathrow England.
TBC
R&R