Love’s Mirror: A Tragic Romance Novel – Sarah got home earlier than expected. There, in the bed, lay her boyfriend Andrew and Helen, their bodies entwined in a post-coital slumber. The room was in disarray, their underclothes strewn haphazardly across the floor, a blatant testament to their indiscretion. Andrew’s undressed torso was half-covered by Helen’s left arm, which draped across his waist, and her face was nestled contentedly against his hairy chest, a picture of blissful ignorance. At first Sarah could not believe her eyes. Then, she started taking pictures of the scene before her with a steady hand.
“Come in, Andrew. Do sit down,” Dr. Gordon-Smith, the medical director, said calmly. Mr. Andrew Wellington was not at all pleased to leave his busy orthopaedic out-patient clinic to see the medical director in the Trust Board offices. Sitting next to Dr. Gordon-Smith was Mr. Peter Bruce, the orthopaedic clinical director. Dr. Gordon-Smith continued. “The Head of the Patient and Public Relations Department, Ms. Jane Collins, has received correspondence from solicitors acting on behalf of Ms. Sarah Hopkins and her aunt Mrs. Ruth Drabble. It appears they wish the Trust to investigate a claim against you for improper conduct and for medical negligence. Here is a copy of the letter.” Mr. Peter Bruce, the Orthopaedic Clinical Director, then joined in.
“Unfortunately, the allegations are not as yet terribly specific; however, we would appreciate it if you could give us a factual account detailing your take on the allegations. This will assist our solicitors in defence of the case should it be pursued.” Dr. Gordon-Smith then said, “We may need to instruct an independent expert and would be grateful if you have any recommendations. We understand how busy you are. It would be most helpful, however if you could give this your early attention.” Mr. Andrew Wellington, an ambitious and driven young surgeon, was known for speaking his mind, even when not politically correct. An Oxford graduate, he was a good rugby player in his time. He was over six-feet tall and had dashing good looks. He often let it be known that he was no lover of what he called “bonehead” authority, though in his late thirties, he had already established an international reputation as a foot and ankle surgeon.
He recently returned from a well-subscribed European Foot and Ankle Surgeons (EFAS) conference in Geneva, where he had presented a paper called “Video Photogrammatic Foot Function after Failed Bunion Surgery,” which was well received. Before going to Oxford, Mr. Wellington had been to Downside Public School near Bath on a scholarship. There he was head of Powell House and captain of the school’s rugby, hockey, and cricket teams, as well as a member of their renowned Slaughterhouse Seven Jazz Band. His father was a retired army brigadier living near Warminster. While at Downside, he had briefly considered a career in the army after his experience in the school cadet corp. Mr. Wellington had lost his temper a couple of times on discovering that referrals to him, nationally and internationally, who were not within the catchment area of the Trust had been suppressed by medical records apparently on instructions from high up management to ensure that the Trust met their targets for the department first. He had made his views on the situation known, quite forcibly, to both the clinical director and the medical director.
Ms. Sarah Hopkins was a sales manager for an international medical equipment company based in the U.S.A., where she met Mr. Wellington when he went there for an orthopaedic conference. They instantly fell for each other. Ms. Hopkins decided to move in with Mr. Wellington at his luxurious flat in Hampshire when she returned to her native Britain. On their first outing, Mr. Wellington took Ms. Hopkins to a posh restaurant near Winchester Cathedral. As they drove across a humpback bridge over a local canal near the city central square, Sarah somehow began to muse about the unbreakable midnight curfew her father had put on her evenings out until she turned eighteen. And then he applied the rule with her first proper boyfriend in Durham, Steve Kershaw, as soon as she turned eighteen. She had met Steve twice in the local pub and spent hours chatting with him.
Outside in the yard of the pub, it was fairly dark, dark enough, evidently, for Steve to see nothing against putting his arm carelessly ’round her waist and pulling her half toward him as they stopped by Steve’s car. “You and I are going to get along just fine,” he said, all in one low tone. “I can feel it where it matters!” he said. With his hand still at her waist, or perhaps her hip, Steve got into the car, which had looked big and dignified at first glance but had turned out to be big and lively. The heavy door creaked and bonked shut. As they backed ’round, the headlights picked out, apart from a great many other cars, some brick walls topped by iron railings. Then, with a sound like a felled tree beginning to fall over, Steve put the car in gear and almost at once started going very fast. Sarah thought she enjoyed going very fast in cars, even though on the way out she had had to close her eyes once and had reopened them to find they had just missed mounting a pavement.
The engine made a lot of noise when Steve was accelerating, and that was what he was usually doing. Sarah accused Steve of being speed mad. They stopped by a row of terraced houses and got out. Sarah did that on her own before Steve could work up to half-carrying her wherever they might go. But in no time at all, there he was again with his arm diagonally across her back, as if they were in a crowd coming out of a football match and was pressing and nudging her into a gateway. In the small front garden, she could make out a fair number of artificial ducks, rabbits, and toads, and such exhibits among the imitation crazy paving and the rock plants looked rather grand and interesting in the bright moonlight. “Don’t they look cute!” Steve said, indicating them with one hand while he found his key with the other.
This meant he had no hand free with which to touch Sarah, which made a change. He was looking at her frequently, perhaps to make sure of catching her if she decided to make a break for it. The ride had sobered her up after the gins and tonics and the wine and the cherry brandy, and that was probably just as well, but now that it was coming to a point, she felt a little uneasy. They went up the stairs softly, and Steve opened a door and put on the light. Sarah just had time to notice the room they entered held far more than its fair share of books and magazines before she was grabbed by Steve and passionately pecked. That was all right, in fact, very much better than all right, but it did not go on being all right for very long. It was gentle and great. Sarah began to feel warm and dreamy.
Then Steve said, “I’m sorry. This is hellishly uncomfortable. I wonder… I can’t really reach you there. Do you think you could come and sit on my lap?” I don’t know,” Sarah said. “I’m not much of a one for bottoming on men’s laps.” “I’m not men, you silly darling. Come on. It’ll be all right. Honestly. Just you see.” If Sarah had not had at the back of her mind the feeling that a man who had bought her drinks on that night’s scale was entitled to some return and a bit further back still the fear of being thought high and mighty, she would not have hoisted and edged her way with the awkwardness of a tourist mounting a camel in Gaza, on to Steve’s lap. But she did. Ages seemed to go by. As well as the actual kissings, there were the strokings, neck and ears to begin with, which were very rousing. Sarah felt dreamier and more abstracted than ever.
Then he took his mouth away, but not far. She was becoming a bit more assertive and rubbed her cheek against his. “You’re a nice kisser,” she said. He evidently did not hear this. At any rate, he made no reply, just said, “Darling,” with a breathy sigh and started pecking her again. Soon his hand slid ’round under her armpit and climbed on to her left chest. This time she let it stay there. She always welcomed a decent build-up first. She let him play with her papilla. Before long Steve slipped his left hand under her dress in the non-important places: back, shoulder, upper arms. Soon his hand, moving sort of sleepily, began trying it on at the front. Very slowly he moved from her tummy button to between her thighs but shied away from her thong knickers. After this they went the rounds again from the scratch, this time with Steve trying less routine things like ear-nibbling and neck-nuzzling and small-of-the-back massaging. Suddenly Sarah went all soft and yielding, lifting up the hem of her dress considerably and parting her thighs widely, then crossing and uncrossing her legs provocatively.
But then he tentatively tried to stroke her luxuriant ebony bush under her skimpy thong, she shifted her position, took his wrist, and said in a coughly bass and magisterial voice, “Enough! When I say no, I mean no.” Steve sat up with his arm still ’round her but differently. “Are we going to go on like this all night?” he asked in a conversational voice. “I don’t know about all night. I’ll have to be getting back soon.” “Why wouldn’t you let me do what I was trying to do just then? It wasn’t anything very serious, was it? It wasn’t as if I was asking you to strip or do table dancing, was it?” “Of course not, but you know how one thing leads to another.” “But there wasn’t going to be another, I told you that.” “So you say. There always is another.
And with this kind of thing, it gets harder and harder as you go on to tell where one leaves off and the next begins. And there is no game to beat this for changing minds.” “A fine piece of feminine double think and arcane logic, that.” “Call it what you like.” “All right, I’ll take you home. We’ve both had enough for one night.” As they left and got into the car, no pulling and pushing to and fro this time, Sarah felt mildly depressed. They eventually drew up outside Sarah’s place. She darted out of the car and gave him a wave as he drove deafeningly away.
Andrew and Sarah’s meal at the Winchester restaurant went very well. They went back to Andrew’s flat, rather pleased with themselves, and slept with tendresse and abandon. For months they seemed to live in a world of their own until Sarah had to fly back to New York for the launch of a new surgical laser “knife” product. Andrew missed Sarah badly. He had a reputation, however, for a winning way with good-looking women, especially young daring ones like Helen, a newly appointed radiographer at one of the peripheral hospitals where he had a weekly Thursday afternoon clinic session.