Prince Charming of Harley Street / The Heart Doctor and the Baby by Anne Fraser / Lynne Marshall Page A

was swiping at an object with a long stick. Dressed in a white shirt and light-coloured trousers, his hair flopping over his eyes as he concentrated on his task, he looked like someone out of a regency romance. No wonder women seemed to find him irresistible.
    She had managed to get in touch with Jenny, who had been delighted at the offer of some short-term work.
    ‘I’m going mad having nothing to do,’ Jenny had confided in Rose. ‘I’ve sent out hundreds of applications but no luck yet. A bit of actual work experience can do me no harm. Especially if Dr Cavendish likes what I do and is prepared to put a word in for me.’
    Rose had met Jenny the day she had gone to sign on with the agency. She was nineteen, having just finished her secretarial course, and full of boundless enthusiasm.
    ‘Could you just tone down the hair?’ Rose asked, remembering the spiky haircut. ‘And perhaps remove the piercings, especially the ones from your nose and lip? Somehow I don’t think it would be appropriate for the practice.’ Even if quite a few of the patients had tattoos and piercings themselves.
    ‘No problem,’ Jenny said. ‘I promise you you won’t recognise me when you see me next.’
    And true to her word, Jenny had turned up with hair neatly slicked into a bob, piercings removed and wearing a skirt that, while short, was just on the right side of decent.
    She had regarded the consulting rooms with undisguised glee.
    ‘This is a bit of all right,’ she said. ‘Now, where is this Honourable Dr Cavendish? And what do I call him? My Lord? Sir?’
    Rose laughed. ‘I think Dr Cavendish is just fine. Come on, I’ll take you in to meet him.’
    Happily, Jonathan seemed to take to Jenny. And the young girl, being smart and quick on the uptake, was soon ensconced behind the desk.
    ‘He’s a bit of all right,’ Jenny confided. ‘If he wasn’t so old I could go for him myself.’
    Rose laughed. ‘He’s hardly old. Twenty-seven.’
    Jenny sent her a look that suggested that anyone over twenty-five was middle-aged in her opinion. Then she scrutinised Rose. ‘But he’s the right age for you.’
    Rose smiled uncomfortably. ‘I don’t think I’m his type. Or he mine, for that matter,’ she added quickly.
    Jenny was still studying her critically. ‘You know if you lost the glasses, maybe got some contacts, got a more modern hairstyle and some decent clothes, you’d be quite pretty.’
    Rose couldn’t make up her mind whether she was insulted or flattered. Get some new clothes and haircut indeed. Jenny watched too many films. Whatever, she knew Jenny didn’t mean to be offensive.
    ‘I appreciate your…’ she searched for the right word ‘…opinion. But I’m happy the way I am. I like my clothes—they’re comfortable. And I don’t fancy poking my fingers into my eyes every morning and evening.Besides…’ she glanced behind her just in case Jonathan was within earshot ‘…I’m not looking for a boyfriend. And if I were, Dr Cavendish wouldn’t be him.’
    ‘But…’ Jenny started to protest.
    ‘No buts.’ Rose cut her off. ‘Whatever thoughts are in that head of yours, get rid of them. I’m here to do a job. That’s it.’
    But after Jenny had returned to her work, she thought about what she had said. It was true she wasn’t looking for a boyfriend, and even if she were, Jonathan wasn’t for her, or she for him. Although he made her pulse race uncomfortably, she doubted whether he took anything in life seriously. And even if he were her type or she his, she had far more important things on her mind than the dishy Jonathan Cavendish.
    One morning, towards the end of the week, a well-known footballer came to the surgery, accompanied by his wife. Rose vaguely remembered reading about their wedding in a magazine she had picked up on the train. The footballer was even better looking in real life, his wife petite next to his six-foot frame. Whereas he was dressed simply in a pair of jeans and