actions. That farm is the filthiest . . .”
Kate stopped him speaking by placing her finger on his mouth, which he swiftly took the opportunity to kiss as she said softly, “Not in front of the clients, please.”
Looking suitably chastened, Scott ambled out. He closed the glass door behind him and turned to press his face, contorted into an alarming grimace, against the glass. Kate waved her hand at him and then ignored him. He came back in to make another remark but thought better of it and left when he saw Joy taking over the reception desk.
“Accounts, Kate. You’d better get on.”
“Right, I will. Scott didn’t want to go to Applegate Farm.”
“He never does, but he must.”
“Why doesn’t he like it?”
“Because,” Stephie said, “he always makes mistakes there.”
“Mistakes?”
Joy denied this. “For some reason, things always go wrong for him there and he’s got a thing about it now. But he can’t pick and choose.”
So the clients couldn’t hear, Stephie whispered, “Nasty man is Mr. Parsons. Very rude. You should hear him on the phone. Disgusting!”
“Only because Mr. Parsons thinks Mungo is the one vet capable of attending to his animals.”
Stephie muttered, “Some animals! Well, we’ll see what he has to say when he gets back.”
“That won’t be for ages. I’ve given him a list long enough to keep him busy all day.”
“So you should, Kate; he has to earn his money. He gets paid enough, believe me. Off you go and you too, Stephie, and take a break. Please.”
S COTT flung himself into the Land Rover, opened the windows wide, turned on the radio, checked he had his laptop with him, swung into gear and charged out of the car park in despair. Sure, he’d played the fool in his attempt to avoid this call, but underneath it all he seriously—oh, so seriously—didn’t want to go. Most especially on a wet day. If only there’d been a nurse free to go with him, that might have helped, but with Bunty still away . . . He had a suspicion that her absence would be put down to him. How could she expect a young, virile man to resist her charms? She was round and cuddly and blond and tanned, and had what his ma would have called come-hither eyes. It had all happened so quickly—she eager, he hungry—and those sexy legs and the swing of her slender hips as she walked across the farmyard to the Land Rover for his drug box . . . well, what with the dark and everything, what else could she expect, having spent the evening egging him on?
But he hadn’t meant for this to happen . . . just the once, as Pa would say if he were here, it only needs once, just once and she’s up the spout. He brushed aside the thought that a little Spencer had most assuredly had his life snuffed out this week, signaled left onto the Applegate Farm track and thought about the thick mud that always covered the yard, be it drought or flood, and planned his precautionary strategy. Scott took off his precious Timberland boots and changed into his Wellingtons before he got out. As his feet touched the ground, a voice shouted, “Taken long enough. Come on, then. Be sharp. It’s Zinnia.”
“Morning, Phil. Wet day.”
Phil Parsons was a short, stocky man with a rotund waistline and massive red, swollen hands and an overlarge head. He was never without, summer or winter, a black balaclava, which entirely covered his face and head except for a slit where his mouth and nose were, and two holes through which his eyes could barely be seen, as the holes didn’t quite match where his eyes came. Consequently, one never quite saw both eyes at once, which was disconcerting and affected one’s relationship with him. Added to which, if one got too close, he smelled strongly of the all-pervading odor of someone whose program of personal hygiene had been severely neglected.
From the back of the Land Rover, Scott pulled out some equipment he thought he would need, and slid and slithered his way to the cow barn.
Kate stopped him speaking by placing her finger on his mouth, which he swiftly took the opportunity to kiss as she said softly, “Not in front of the clients, please.”
Looking suitably chastened, Scott ambled out. He closed the glass door behind him and turned to press his face, contorted into an alarming grimace, against the glass. Kate waved her hand at him and then ignored him. He came back in to make another remark but thought better of it and left when he saw Joy taking over the reception desk.
“Accounts, Kate. You’d better get on.”
“Right, I will. Scott didn’t want to go to Applegate Farm.”
“He never does, but he must.”
“Why doesn’t he like it?”
“Because,” Stephie said, “he always makes mistakes there.”
“Mistakes?”
Joy denied this. “For some reason, things always go wrong for him there and he’s got a thing about it now. But he can’t pick and choose.”
So the clients couldn’t hear, Stephie whispered, “Nasty man is Mr. Parsons. Very rude. You should hear him on the phone. Disgusting!”
“Only because Mr. Parsons thinks Mungo is the one vet capable of attending to his animals.”
Stephie muttered, “Some animals! Well, we’ll see what he has to say when he gets back.”
“That won’t be for ages. I’ve given him a list long enough to keep him busy all day.”
“So you should, Kate; he has to earn his money. He gets paid enough, believe me. Off you go and you too, Stephie, and take a break. Please.”
S COTT flung himself into the Land Rover, opened the windows wide, turned on the radio, checked he had his laptop with him, swung into gear and charged out of the car park in despair. Sure, he’d played the fool in his attempt to avoid this call, but underneath it all he seriously—oh, so seriously—didn’t want to go. Most especially on a wet day. If only there’d been a nurse free to go with him, that might have helped, but with Bunty still away . . . He had a suspicion that her absence would be put down to him. How could she expect a young, virile man to resist her charms? She was round and cuddly and blond and tanned, and had what his ma would have called come-hither eyes. It had all happened so quickly—she eager, he hungry—and those sexy legs and the swing of her slender hips as she walked across the farmyard to the Land Rover for his drug box . . . well, what with the dark and everything, what else could she expect, having spent the evening egging him on?
But he hadn’t meant for this to happen . . . just the once, as Pa would say if he were here, it only needs once, just once and she’s up the spout. He brushed aside the thought that a little Spencer had most assuredly had his life snuffed out this week, signaled left onto the Applegate Farm track and thought about the thick mud that always covered the yard, be it drought or flood, and planned his precautionary strategy. Scott took off his precious Timberland boots and changed into his Wellingtons before he got out. As his feet touched the ground, a voice shouted, “Taken long enough. Come on, then. Be sharp. It’s Zinnia.”
“Morning, Phil. Wet day.”
Phil Parsons was a short, stocky man with a rotund waistline and massive red, swollen hands and an overlarge head. He was never without, summer or winter, a black balaclava, which entirely covered his face and head except for a slit where his mouth and nose were, and two holes through which his eyes could barely be seen, as the holes didn’t quite match where his eyes came. Consequently, one never quite saw both eyes at once, which was disconcerting and affected one’s relationship with him. Added to which, if one got too close, he smelled strongly of the all-pervading odor of someone whose program of personal hygiene had been severely neglected.
From the back of the Land Rover, Scott pulled out some equipment he thought he would need, and slid and slithered his way to the cow barn.
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