Peony Place. Jules Wake

that bombshell. Conscious that she was missing the best years of her life, my parents became surrogate parents themselves rather than grandparents. A huge mistake, in my opinion. Somehow Alice managed to get pregnant a second time with Ava, just four years after Poppy.

      In recent years, my parents had bought her a small terraced house in Churchstone. It was pure chance I’d moved to the same small market town six months ago. The gorgeous perfection of the house more than made up for its proximity to my sister.

      Amazingly, on first viewing, it had ticked every box on my extremely detailed – I overhead the estate agent use the word ‘demanding’ – list and instantly I knew it was my Instagram perfect I’ve-made-it home. Or rather, it would be when I got round to finding the right workmen to do the renovations and chose some decent furniture. Bizarrely, it had been the one and only time I’d gone with my gut and it had been the biggest purchase of my life.

      I winced and woke up my computer. The last thing I had time for right now was daydreaming how my house might look one day. If I didn’t get this blasted report done, I could kiss goodbye to a partnership and then buying the house would have been a complete waste of time.

      But I did have one thing to do. I picked up my phone, smiling again at Ash’s earlier text and sent one back.

       I have been known to compromise but don’t get used to it. x

      Chapter Four

      I checked my emails and my palms turned clammy. Twelve already and it was only ten past nine. I studied the busy receptionist and prayed that the doctor was running to time. I was going to be an hour late into work. If the festering wound on my arm from trimming Alice’s hedge hadn’t started leaking greenish stuff I probably would have cancelled today’s appointment.

      I typed a couple of quick responses to my emails, although it was like a game of whack-a-mole. No sooner had I answered five, another six had popped up.

      With a heavy sigh, out of habit rather than any real hope, I checked my text messages.

      Nothing. The familiar lump in my throat rose. Not one text from Ashwin Laghari in over two weeks.

      Whatever had happened with him had burned fast and furious and like a firework. It had clearly been a one-time-only deal but it still left this odd, hollow pain in my chest.

      I reread, for what must have been the hundred millionth time, the last text he’d sent. What had made him change his mind?

      Hadn’t that brief, sizzling connection meant anything to him? I’d shared with him a glimpse of my fears because I’d thought he understood. The rejection hit hard. I’d even cried again at work one day but that had probably had as much to do with realising I was going to miss the Ashdown report deadline. It was the one and only deadline I’d ever missed and it felt like a huge great blot on my career. And the more I worried about it, the more I struggled to meet the next deadline and the one after that. It was as if I was caught upside down in some whirlwind and I couldn’t right myself.

      ‘Let’s have a look then,’ said Dr Boulter with a kind smile.

      I rolled up my sleeve to show him the gash – thanks, Alice’s hedge – which had not healed properly and had been looking decidedly manky for weeks and this morning had reached a whole new level of manky. Around the wound my skin was red and inflamed and had acquired a furnace-level heat. My whole forearm was now tender to the touch.

      ‘Ouch.’ With gentle gloved fingers he prodded my arm and a glistening gob of greenish yellow pus welled up and oozed from the jagged edges. I flinched.

      ‘This is nasty. How long has it been like that?’

      ‘Er… a couple of weeks,’ I admitted, shamefaced.

      He raised an eyebrow. ‘Why haven’t you been to see me before now? You’ve got a nasty infection. This needs antibiotics.’

      For some stupid reason, tears filled my eyes and I had to swallow back the lump that had, if I was honest, taken up permanent residence in my throat.

      ‘Claire?’

      That was the problem when your GP was an old golf buddy of your dad’s and had known you from when you were in ankle socks. No, I certainly didn’t come to see him about women’s things, instead opting for one of the female doctors in the practice, but I did come for minor things like stupid, flipping scratches that refused to heal.

      Ashwin Laghari – bugger his gorgeous, indifferent soul – had probably been right about the Savlon but in that glorious immediate-post-date haze I’d completely forgotten about applying antibiotic cream. Yeah, I was holding him personally responsible for my infected arm. The bastard.

      ‘Claire?’ Dr Boulter’s voice broke into my thoughts. Damn, he was being kind. I didn’t want kind. I wanted brusque and curt.

      ‘Claire?’ he asked again gently as I struggled to stem the rising flood of tears. Shit, this was embarrassing. But it was no good. They were on a roll, and I knew I’d lost it when the sob burst free.

      Suddenly I was in floods of tears and I had no idea why, and he was handing over tissues from the box on his desk. Snuffly and snotty, I grabbed them like a life belt but as fast as I mopped up, a fresh burst of sobs thrust their way out

      Finally I was able to stutter, ‘Oh God, I’m… I don’t know w-what’s w-wrong with m-me.’

      He gave me a kind but stern look. ‘Want to tell me what’s going on?’

      ‘It’s… nothing. Just… ev-everything. Just a lot on at work. It’s quite full-on at the moment.’ I found myself taking the step off the cliff. ‘I’ve got this horrible feeling that something bad is going to happen all the time and I didn’t get much sleep last night.’

      ‘Last night?’

      I pulled a face as I acknowledged the truth. ‘Well, actually, I haven’t slept properly for weeks. I’m just so tired.’ Since missing my deadline, my confidence seemed to have crumbled. My anxiety levels were through the roof and I didn’t seem to be able to get them under control. Making the slightest decision at work suddenly had me tied up in knots. It terrified me. I’d always known what to do.

      ‘Are you eating properly?’ He eyed my face and I knew he was taking in the dark shadows under my eyes and the gaunt hollows under my cheekbones.

      The gallic shrug didn’t fool him.

      Five minutes later, while I was still feeling light-headed from the aftermath of the emotional outburst, he weighed me, took my blood pressure, shone a light in my eyes and asked lots of searching questions, especially about work.

      After releasing the cuff on my arm, he sat heavily in his chair and pulled the lid from his fountain pen, holding it poised over a white pad he’d pulled out from the top drawer of his desk.

      ‘I think you’re suffering from stress, Claire. Your blood pressure is 180/100.’

      I shrugged. ‘Everyone gets stressed at work. It’s okay, I just need to catch up on some sleep.’

      ‘No, Claire.’ Now Dr Boulter was brusque and curt. ‘You need to take a complete break.’

      I laughed defensively. ‘I can’t do that. I’ve got far too much to do.’

      He studied me through narrowed eyes and then began writing on the pad. ‘I’m going to sign you off from work for a month and give you some medication to reduce your blood pressure.’

      ‘What? No. I’m… I’m not that stressed. I mean, I’m a bit on edge and over-tired.’

      He sat back in his chair, lifted his chin and then pointed to the framed certificate on the wall. ‘Do you have one of those?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Exactly,