Page 6 of Knotting Hill
The main area of the doctor's office is a spacious and luxurious space. A large mahogany counter is situated at the back of the office.
The waiting room chairs and small sofas are upholstered in white leather, which are kept immaculate. On the wall to the right is a large, antique gilded mirror. The warm, golden frame isaccented with intricate carvings and seems to lighten the mood of the room.
An oval coffee table is placed in the centre. Art magazines, a selection of books, and a few health leaflets are arranged on the table.
The floor of the office is covered in soft, white carpet, which is steam cleaned twice a day.
The lighting in the room is subdued, yet bright enough to create a warm and comfortable atmosphere. A few lamps are arranged around the room, primarily for ambience. The natural light that reaches the office comes from the tall, frosted windows.
It eases my anger almost immediately. It’s such a peaceful and calming atmosphere where the wealthy come to discuss their health issues with some of the best doctors in the city.
I slip through the concealed door to the left of the reception area and grimace at my clothes. I’m going to have to sit here until lunchtime when I can race home to change.
As luck would have it, which pretty much sums up my day so far, Dr Angela Robb is there, looking through a folder, her glasses perched on her nose. She is middle-aged, pretty and well-made-up. She is basically my mum but with blonde hair instead of dark.
“Storm,” she says, looking up and removing her specs, her face horrified when she sees my coffee-stained top. “What on earth happened?”
“A wayward Cockapoo,” I murmur, embarrassed.
“Oh my,” she says, snapping the folder closed and crossing over to me. “Are you okay?”
“My ankle hurts a bit, but otherwise, I just smell like the inside of a coffee maker.” I attempt humour, but I’m not feeling it.
I drop my bag and half-eaten muffin on the table and the squished cup in the bin.
“Sit,” she says, indicating the chair. “Which ankle?”
I sit down and gesture to my right ankle. “It’s fine.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” she says sternly and crouches down next to me, taking my shoe off. I expect some sarccy remark about the height of my heel, but she doesn’t say a word as she pokes and prods, turning it left and right. I grimace, but it really doesn’t feel that bad now that I’m sitting down.
“Not broken, but rest, yes,” she says, standing up again.
Angela is so nice. Not at all the rancid cowbag that my mother calls her. Never let it be said that Gloria Rivers didn’t know how to hand out an insult.
“Thanks.” Thinking we are done, I slip my shoe back on and swivel in the office chair to face my desk.
She sits on the desk, scrutinising me.
“Everything okay?” I ask, meeting her blue-eyed gaze.
“Do you remember Mrs Johnson?” she asks, dropping her voice to a whisper.
I nod.
“Well, we’ve lost her,” Angela huffs.
“What?” I squeak, placing my hand on my heart in shock. “Oh, my God, that’s terrible. She seemed so sprightly last week. What happened?”
She gives me a puzzled stare. “Oh, wait, sorry, I mean, she left the practice, not that she died,” she corrects herself with an apologetic twist to her lips.
“Oh! Wow, okay, good, that’s good. I mean, not good, but good…” Mrs Johnson is ninety, but she is a well-preserved ninety that only money can buy. She is fabulous. I love her visits. She always entertains with stories of who she hung out with in her youth, and the gorgeous men she datedandmarried. I will be very sad when the day does arrive that she departs this earth.However, it wouldn’t surprise me if she lived forever. She has that eternal vibe working for her.
She pats my hand. “Sorry for scaring you, dear. I know you’re fond of her as she is of you.”
I smile and nod.
“Why did she leave?” I ask curiously. Clearly, Angela is going somewhere with this.
