Chapter 1
Friday nights at the STD clinic are a lot of fun.
Not necessarily for the patients, but for the staff it’s the quietest night of the week because most people who suspect they have a sexually transmitted disease decide that Friday is head-in-the-sand time and put off dealing with it till Monday.
We’re usually in the pub by six.
I don’t work on the medical side of things. I rent a room here as a therapist specialising in relationships and couples’ counselling. The private sexual health clinic, kitted out with plush carpets and polished brass fittings, is discreetly located in a basement in Harley Street. It was set up by Charles Clarence-Webb, my boyfriend’s godfather, who made oodles of cash as a private GP. Rich is a therapist too and it was his nepo-baby suggestion to include a suite of therapy rooms. A safe place to patch up your relationship after – oops! – giving your partner chlamydia.
At five to six, there’s a loud knock on the door, and before I can respond, Charles comes strolling in.
‘Ah, Nella, my dear, alone at last.’
Charles has that old English gentleman charm that makes him impossible not to like. If I’d met him when he was in his twenties, his cheesy lines would have made him insufferable, but now he’s sixty, the twinkle in his eye lets him get away with murder.
‘I could have been with a patient.’
He smiles. ‘I’m your boss. I know your schedule. I know everything about everyone.’
I roll my eyes. ‘You’re not my boss, Charles. We’ve been through this. What can I help you with? I was just about to head out.’
‘Of course. Chopper’s whisking you off to Paris for a naughty weekend.’
I have no idea why Charles calls RichChopper– all his family does, for no discernible reason. Everyone calls his brotherSnotand he doesn’t even mind. Honestly, posh people and their nicknames.
‘I wanted to give you this,’ he says, holding out his arm and looking pleased with himself.
In his hand is an engraved brass desk plate that reads:Dr Nella Praxitelis.
It’s taken me until the age of thirty-one to get my PhD, fitting my studies around full-time work, so seeing my name with ‘Doctor’ in front of it for the first time makes me quite emotional.
I swallow the lump in my throat. ‘That’s very sweet, thank you.’
‘I know it’s not official yet, but I couldn’t wait.’ He grins again and turns the plaque round.
The other side says:The Heart Doctor.
‘Do you get it?’ he asks, enthusiastic as a puppy. ‘You’re our relationship expert, and you’ve got a PhD now.’
I walk around my desk and give him a hug. ‘Thanks, Charles.’
He looks embarrassed for a second but quickly recovers. ‘Now, mind Rich doesn’t get you pregnant. I don’t want to lose my prettiest employee.’
‘You can’t say things like that. Andonce again, I rent a room here. I’m not an employee.’
Charles is an incorrigible flirt but mostly harmless. Except he keeps hiring very young and very good-looking women towork on reception even though it probably breaks a dozen employment laws and also, more practically, rattles the blokes who sneak in on their lunch break and don’t want a hot young thing imagining their penis encrusted with pustules. A school-marmish sixty-year-old would bewaybetter for business.
When I first told my parents I was working at the clinic, Mum took me aside and whispered, ‘Put toilet paper on the seat before you sit down, or better yet, just hover.’
I know it’s daft, but she got into my head. On the plus side, my quads have never looked better.
‘Anyway, enjoy Paris,’ says Charles. ‘And tell Rich to try to relax. He’s been very tense recently. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was planning something. How long have you been together now – five years?’
His question is left hanging, my attention caught on the words ‘planning something’.
‘Charles, what do you know?’
‘Hmm?’ He affects an air of innocence. ‘I know nothing.’ He makes a zipping gesture across his mouth. ‘Lips are sealed and all that, old girl.’
