She was forty-five, and looked even younger. Reddish-blonde straightened hair and with perhaps a touch of Botox, or else a very lucky sun-deprived complexion. She wore suits all the time – skirt suits with well-matched shirts and jackets – and wedges. She was beautiful. Large blue eyes with a hint of sadness, a full well-glossed mouth and a slim physique. Her patients and her colleagues fancied her – men and women.Bridget was about to take another sip of her orange juice when the phone rang.‘Oh my God, Bridge, she’s here!’ her mother screeched.‘What?’ said Bridget, bemused.‘Sit down sit down,’ came her mother’s booming, over-excited voice. ‘I am sitting down. You sit down. Are you okay?’ ‘Bridge, you’re not going to believe this. Your first daughter just walked up to the front door and she’s sitting at the kitchen ta–’Bridget left the phone dangling, her orange juice half drunk, a bite of crustless salami and humus sandwich on her desk, and ran out of her office, down the corridor, out into the hospital car park, fumbled with her keys, started the engine, and drove as fast as she could around the infuriating one-way system in Stirling.
