Page 12 of Fundamentals in Flirting

When I’d left my research position at the referral practice in the vet school at Bristol, I’d thought it would be easy to step into general practice – less pressure, less stress, and the perfect antidote to get over my failed love life and doomed academic aspirations.

Seems I was wrong.

“You’re sometimes a bit, well, prickly. Perhaps you could work on that side of things?” he added, cringing even more.

“Right,” I said again.

Giles scratched his head, his go-to gesture in times of extreme awkwardness, and tapped his fingers on the top of his hair absently. He shot me an uneasy tight-lipped smile. “Excellent. Ok, good to have had such a productive chat. Excellent. Brilliant. Thanks.”

And with that, he practically ran from the consulting room as if being chased by a marauding stampede of bullocks, while I stared after him trying to compute my way through the thinly veiled verbal warning with which I had just been issued.

Betsy came bustling in from the dispensary, wiping down the table and raising her large dark brown eyes to look at me, a mixture of apology and amusement in her expression. I wondered if she’d overheard Giles’s comments.

“Do you think I’m prickly?” I asked her.

“Noooo. No,” she said, not quite meeting my gaze. “Perhaps a bit?”

“Tell me the truth. I can handle it.”

“Truthfully? You’re about as prickly as a hedgehog in a blackberry bush.”

“Oh.”

Dammit.

The best thing about returning to Chipping-on-the-Water had been reconnecting with Betsy Okoro, the only true friend I’d ever had at school. Her personality was the exact opposite of mine. She was always smiling and joking. A force to be reckoned with, a soul so beautiful and vibrant that she immediately swept you up with her zest for life. Growing up in a small Cotswolds town had not been easy for her, and she’d worked hard to overcome the kind of prejudice and difficulties that I would never know, yet she was the most positive person I’d ever met. We’d kept in touch over social media since leaving school, and it was a Facebook post that she’d shared that had alerted me to the position here at the practice, and she’d encouraged me to apply. And, if I’m being honest, probably strong-armed Giles into giving me the job.

Today, her hair was styled in corn rows and bleached at the ends, and her trendy make-up and oversized glasses made her appear effortlessly cool and glamorous, even in her nurse’s tunic and shapeless uniform trousers. Compassionate and excellent with the clients, while clinically capable and caring with the variety of animals we dealt with on a daily basis, she was the best veterinary nurse that I’d ever worked with, and my most loyal and trusted confidante. I knew I could always rely on her in every way, especially her ability to tell me the absolute truth.

“By the way, there’s an emergency in the waiting room and Giles has said you’ll deal with it.” As she went out to call the emergency in, she turned and added, conspiratorially, “And you’ll never believe who it is, Hannah.”

“Who is it?”

“I’ll let it be a little surprise for you.”

“Er, thanks. I hate surprises.”

“I know,” she laughed evilly.

“Are you heading out now?”

“Yes, unless you need anything?”

“No, I’ll manage. See you tomorrow.”

She gave a little wave and headed down the corridor to the waiting room. A few moments later I heard the door open again, just as the computer finished booting back up.

“Ah, thank God you’re here, Hannah.”

Nope, absolutely bloody no.Nope, crapping-well bloody nope.

I didn’t even turn around. It had been almost a week since the bike incident, and I’d only just managed to find my inner equilibrium again.

“Teddy,” I said with a sigh, finally glancing in his direction.

“I just found it like this, stuck in the outside loo.” He sounded breathless and desperate.

Teddy was covered in dust and dirt, only the impression of having worn some goggles leaving any hint of his normal skin colour visible around his panic-stricken eyes. He was wearing a tight grey T-shirt and ripped jeans that were also caked in dust.

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