Sun and Candlelight. Бетти Нилс

rest…’

      She plunged into a quick account of what had happened since Sue had gone off duty at dinner time, put her desk tidy and stood up to go off duty herself. It had been a horrid day, thank heaven it was over. Not quite over, though; she still had the evening to get through, but perhaps in Mr van Diederijk’s restful company it would go swiftly. She sighed as she made her way through the hospital; she was sure that he was a very nice man, but he wasn’t Nick. Nick—whom she ought to hate and despise instead of loving.

      CHAPTER TWO

      ALETHEA INSPECTED her wardrobe in a dispirited fashion, only too conscious of the fact that on the previous evening she had been wild with excitement at the idea of dining with Nick. She wondered what kind of a place they would go to and played safe with a silk jersey dress under the rather nice mohair coat she had treated herself to only a few weeks ago. She was such a pretty girl that even her miserable feelings couldn’t do more than dim her beauty. Just as she was ready she very nearly decided not to go; she wasn’t being quite fair, for she would be dull company and Mr van Diederijk was too nice to treat badly. Then she remembered that she still owed him the money for last night’s dinner; Nick wasn’t going to pay, so she would have to. She popped her cheque book into her bag and went downstairs.

      Mr van Diederijk, standing with his back to her by the big glass doors of the hospital entrance, looked enormous. He would have to have everything made for him, she reflected foolishly as she crossed the hall, and what a frightful expense! He was wearing a grey suit, beautifully tailored, and his shoes were the sort that one didn’t notice, but when one did, one could see that they were wildly expensive, too. He turned as she reached him and she realised that he had seen her reflected in the glass of the doors. His greeting was pleasantly matter-of-fact and his glance friendly but quite impersonal. ‘Delightfully punctual,’ he murmured, and opened the door for her to go through.

      There was a car parked close by, a Jaguar XJ-S, gun-metal grey and upholstered in a pearl grey leather. He ushered her into it, got in beside her and drove out of the hospital forecourt. ‘Do you know Le Français?’ he asked as he turned the car’s elegant nose into the evening traffic. ‘I had wondered if we might go out of town, but you look tired—it’s been rather a day, hasn’t it? Perhaps another time—You like French cooking?’

      He rambled on in his quiet deep voice so that all she had to do was murmur from time to time. Alethea felt herself relaxing; she had been right, he was a delightful, undemanding companion. She found herself wondering if she was dressed to suit the occasion; she hadn’t taken very great pains and he had said that she looked tired, which meant, in all probability, that she looked plain. He cleared up the little problem for her by observing: ‘You look very nice, but then of course you are a beautiful girl, even when you’re tired.’

      He spoke in such a matter-of-fact way that she wasn’t sure if it was a compliment or a statement of fact. She said ‘Thank you,’ and then: ‘It has been a busy day.’

      They discussed it easily and at some length without being too serious about it until he parked and walked her across the pavement into the restaurant. It seemed that he was known there; they were greeted with a warm civility and when she had left her coat and taken a dissatisfied look at herself in the cloakroom, she found him waiting for her in the tiny foyer, talking with a man who she guessed might be the proprietor.

      The bar was small but cosy and she was given time to choose her drink; she had become so accustomed to Nick ordering a dry sherry that for a moment she had to think. ‘I don’t really care for dry sherry,’ she told her companion. ‘What else is there?’

      ‘Dubonnet?’ he enquired placidly, ‘or how about a Madeira?’

      She chose the latter and when the barman had served Mr van Diederijk with a gin and tonic, she took a sip of her own drink. It was nice, and even nicer because she had been asked what she would like and not just had a glass handed to her. They sat side by side, talking about nothing much and deciding what they should eat; soup with garlic, Barquettes Girondines for Alethea and Entrecote Bordelais for her companion. She sat back feeling more peaceful than she had done since the previous evening, while he chose the wines.

      Getting ready for bed, much later, she found herself unable to remember just what they had talked about; they hadn’t hurried over their meal, and she paused in her hairbrushing to drool a little over the memory of the zabaglione and then worried because the memory of its deliciousness was so much sharper than their conversation. It was just as she was on the edge of sleep that she realised that she hadn’t thought about Nick at all, not once they had started their meal. Simultaneously she remembered that Mr van Diederijk had suggested that they might go to a theatre one evening. She had accepted, too, with the sudden thought that perhaps if Nick heard about it, he might feel jealous enough to discover that he was in love with her after all. She woke in the night with the clear recollection of the understanding in Mr van Diederijk’s face when she had accepted his invitation.

      Alethea was half way through her breakfast the next morning when she paused, a fork half way to her mouth. How could she possibly have forgotten to pay Mr van Diederijk the money she, or rather, Nick, owed him?

      Her friends stared at her. ‘Alethea, what’s up? You look as though you’ve remembered something simply frightful,’ and someone said cheerfully: ‘She’s left the weights off someone’s Balkan Beam…’

      There was a little ripple of laughter and Alethea laughed with them. ‘Much worse!’ but she didn’t say more, and they, who had guessed that something had happened between her and Nick, carefully didn’t ask what it was.

      She would be bound to see him within the next day or so, perhaps even this very day, Alethea decided as she set about the business of allocating the day’s work, but she didn’t. There was no sign of him. Sir Walter came surrounded by his posse of assistants, talking to Nick, discussing his cases, but of Mr van Diederijk there was no sign. Alethea, with a half day she didn’t want, took herself off duty and spent it washing her hair, writing letters and going for a brisk walk through the rather dingy streets around the hospital. She might just as well have taken a bus and gone up to Oxford Street and at least gone out to tea, but she had no heart for doing anything. Nick hadn’t bothered to look at her during the round, and it dawned on her painfully that he really had finished with her, that he had meant it when he had declared that he wasn’t going to waste time on her. He had called her prissy too. The thought roused her to anger, so that she glared at a perfectly blameless housewife, loaded with shopping, coming towards her on the pavement.

      She walked herself tired and returned in time for supper at the hospital, and her friends, seeing her bleak face, talked about everything under the sun excepting herself.

      ‘That charmer’s gone,’ observed Philly Chambers, a small dark girl who was junior sister in the orthopaedic theatre. ‘Much in demand he was too, and I’m not surprised—he should have been a film star.’

      ‘You mean that giant who was wandering round with Sir Walter?’ asked Patty Cox, senior sister on Women’s Surgical. ‘Very self-effacing despite his size, never used two words when one would do. I hear he’s in charge of some new hospital in Holland where they combine orthopaedics with osteopathy; surgeons and osteopaths work hand in glove, as it were. Sir Walter’s interested, that’s why he’s been over here. He’s coming back…’

      ‘You know an awful lot about him,’ commented Philly, and looked across at Alethea. ‘You’re the one who ought to know all the gen, Alethea,’ she cried, and went on unthinkingly: ‘Nick must know all about him…’ She stopped, muttered: ‘Oh, lord, I’m sorry,’ and then: ‘I’ll fetch the pudding, shall I?’

      Alethea had gone rather pale, so that her already pale face looked quite pinched. She said in an expressionless voice: ‘I don’t know anything about him,’ and realised that she only spoke the truth; he had told her nothing of himself, indeed, she could remember nothing of their conversations, perhaps she hadn’t been listening… She added: ‘He seemed very nice, though.’

      There was a little burst of talk with everyone doing their best