She’d been anxious to make sure I replaced my blood-splattered coat before seeing my next patient. ‘I realise you’re just finding your feet,’ she’d said. And hamsters just finding my fingers, I thought, my bitten index finger still throbbing. ‘Don’t hesitate to change coats whenever you need to,’ she went on. ‘Mandy will always oblige.’ She gave the sweetest of smiles. Oh, that smile. Then, as in the future, I found myself zooming up an Austrian mountain as those coral pink lips curved and those soft, apple cheeks dimpled. ‘Do … re … mi … fah …’ – a long, long way to run? Yes. But definitely worth it. Crystal could light up my life any time. My ray … my drop of golden sun. As for Mandy: doe … a dear? No way. I soon found out she was the Mother Superior of Prospect House. No novice nun was she. No Maria. ‘Another coat … so soon?’ she’d queried when I’d nipped down to the laundry room to ask for a replacement. Her spotless, crisp, creaseless habit (uniform) positively crackled with displeasure.
