The Rebel Doc. Susan Carlisle

a time like this, in the dark, late at night, with worry hovering around the edges, maybe it was the best time to talk about these things. The things that really mattered.

      He shrugged, sucking in the cool fresh northern air. ‘My mum could only be described as wanting to love us all to death. She’s your typical Italian mother—overfeeding, over-smothering and over-loving us.’

      ‘And your father?’

      He shrugged. Opening the car door, his demeanour changed, his voice took on a forced jolly tone. ‘Now, we need to eat something half-decent that isn’t wrapped in plastic packaging and sold for a fortune in a motorway service station, and you need to get some serious sleep. It has been a long day.’

      ‘Matteo …’ She wanted him to continue talking about his family. This was the guy who believed in openness and honesty. But only, it seemed, when he felt like it.

      ‘No, Ivy. It’s too late for talking. Now, show me the way to your house.’

      The emotions didn’t wane as she shakily put the key in the lock of her mum’s central York Georgian townhouse. It had been a long time since she’d been here—too long. And that last time they’d argued—but that was nothing new. Ivy couldn’t even remember what it had been about. It didn’t matter, it could have been one of a zillion things, as there’d always been an undercurrent of dissatisfaction between them. But she did remember that she’d left in a storm. And now she was back because her mum had nearly died.

      They were immediately greeted by the smell of coffee—that was one thing she had inherited from her mum, a love of decent coffee. Then the warm press of Hugo, the fat ginger cat, who purred as he rubbed himself against her legs, preventing a step forward or backwards.

      ‘Hey, cat.’ Matteo took a sidestep through the front door, carrying Ivy’s suitcase, a small overnight bag of his own and two large brown paper carriers. He walked through to the kitchen, knowing exactly where to go as if he had homing radar, and plonked them all on the floor. Looking around at the modern granite surfaces and white cupboards in a house that was over two hundred years old, he smiled. ‘Very English. Nice. My mum would be green with envy if she saw this place. She’s been talking about having a new kitchen since I was born.’

      It felt strange, having him here in her space—her old space. It wasn’t as if it felt like home any more and yet it was filled with so many familiar things and smells that gave her strange sensations of hurt and loss and loneliness. She’d always envied her friends who’d had happy chaos at home, whereas hers had been all bound up with suffering of one kind or another.

      ‘So what’s your home like, Matteo?’

      ‘I guess you’d call it quaint. Old. Small. Traditional. Stone walls, dark wooden cupboards, terracotta tiles, in a village where everyone knows everyone and everyone tries to outdo each other. That’s why I like London, you don’t have to live in each other’s pockets.’ He nodded to the bags. ‘Okay, so I got what I could from the little supermarket next to the hospital after I parked. It wasn’t great, but it had the basics. I have some chicken breasts, pesto sauce and mozzarella cheese. A plastic bag of something the label refers to as salad but which appears to be just leaves. Olives. Bread. And red wine.’

      ‘I thought you said you preferred beer.’

      Not hiding his smile, he started to unpack the carriers. ‘So you were listening? I thought you were nodding your head in time to the music as you stared out of the window at something no one else could see.’

      ‘I was listening.’ It wasn’t a lie. She’d been half occupied with dreary thoughts, and half enthralled by the thought of being with him for the next few hours. Alone. ‘Well, thank you. I like red wine.’

      ‘I know.’ He rustled in the cupboards and fished out a frying pan, some bowls, a chopping board, two glasses and a knife. Then he opened the wine, filled two glasses and handed her one, gently pushing her to sit at the breakfast bar. ‘Drink this while I cook.’

      She did as she was told, enjoying having someone to look after her for a change but simultaneously feeling a little ill at ease. ‘Why are you being like this? So kind and helpful?’

      Slicing the chicken, he threw it into the pan and tossed it around in garlic-infused oil, then emptied the leaves into a bowl. ‘Because you looked like you needed a helping hand.’

      She thought about that. With his explanation it all seemed so obvious and easy. It wasn’t. ‘You once said, too, that I looked like I needed kissing. Do you always presume things, Matteo? Make up your own reality to suit yourself?’

      He stopped chopping for a moment, the knife held in mid-air. ‘As you appear not to be able to express your wants and needs, but to repress them and create barriers instead, in some sort of stiff-upper-lip thing, I have to go by gut instinct. Women! You should say what you want. Be honest. Ask and we’ll help. Hinting and hiding stuff just confuses us. Pretending to be okay when you’re not doesn’t help anyone in the end. And definitely not men …’ He pushed the olives towards her. ‘We’re easily confused.’

      ‘Poor men.’ She shot him a sympathetic grimace. ‘How did you get so knowledgeable about women?’

      ‘I have two sisters, remember? You learn a lot rubbing shoulders with them twenty-four hours a day.’

      ‘And girlfriends?’

      His forehead creased into a little frown and he paused, this time the hand in mid-air holding a bowl of olives. ‘Of course. I’m a man. We have few desires, but some of them do involve having a woman around.’

      Oh, yes, she could see that he was man, thank you very much. In dangerous proximity. And she had no idea why she was taking the conversation down this particular track. ‘Anyone … serious … ever?’

      ‘Not really …’ He shook his head, eyes guarded. ‘No. I’m an emotional Neanderthal, apparently. Selfish. Unfeeling. Because I like to put work first, because I devote myself to my patients.’

      ‘Poor you.’ She leaned forward and gave him a kiss. A gentle one, on the cheek.

      He rubbed the spot her lips had touched. ‘What was that for?’

      Shrugging, she threw him a smile. ‘You looked like you needed kissing.’

      His eyebrows rose and he laughed, full and heartily. ‘Round three to Miss Ivy.’

      She hardly knew him—and yet there was something soul deep that attracted her to him, a peace and yet a disturbing excitement. It felt natural to talk to him, and the silences were comfortable. She couldn’t remember having had that before with a man. She’d spent a lot of time in previous relationships trying to be perfect, to make up for her leg and her limp and her over-officious use of words, her weird sense of humour, trying to give a little of what she held so precious. In the end it had all been hugely disappointing and not worth the trouble.

      But Matteo wasn’t like that. He was fun to be around. Plus he was pretty damned useful in the kitchen. With a nice bum. Or maybe he was just Mr Too Good To Be True? She flashed him a smile. ‘Round three? Are we battling again? Why, when you know you won’t win?’

      ‘I will win. Just wait and see.’

      She took an olive and popped it into her mouth. Swallowed. Thought a little more about Matteo, who was stir-frying with gusto. ‘I suspect this “not really” woman broke your heart?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Come on.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘I thought you were all about being honest and open.’

      His frown stuck in place as he emptied the frying-pan contents onto a plate, which he pushed into the centre of the breakfast bar. With a swirl of salt and a crackle of black pepper he finished the presentation with flair. Then carved a few thick slices of fresh white bread and loaded them onto side plates with the mozzarella, handing one to Ivy. ‘In truth, she broke my trust and that’s worse.’

      ‘Oh,