“That’s very observant of you.”
“But I’m afraid Dr. McBride’s—”
“Busy? Yes, I’ll bet he is.” Ignoring the receptionist’s protests, he barged his way into the doctor’s office.
The room was empty. Or so Jeff thought, until he heard voices, a man and a woman’s. They were coming from behind a green curtain that had been drawn around an examination table at the back of the room. Marching over, Jeff ripped back the curtain.
He saw three things in quick succession.
The first was a woman’s vagina.
The second was the same woman’s face, propped up on a pillow, her expression slowly transitioning from surprise to embarrassment to outrage.
And the third was a doctor.
The doctor was about sixty-five, heavyset and, Jeff guessed, Persian. He did not look happy. More importantly, he was not Dr. Alan McBride.
“I’m so sorry,” he said smoothly. “Wrong room.”
Back in the waiting room, the receptionist glared at him.
“As I was saying, I’m afraid Dr. McBride’s on holiday.”
“Where?”
“I don’t think that’s any of your business.”
“WHERE?” Jeff bellowed.
The girl crumbled. “Morocco. With his family.”
So he has a family, does he? Bastard.
“When will he be back?”
The receptionist regained her composure. “I must ask you to leave now, sir. This is a doctor’s office, and you’re upsetting our patients.”
“Tell McBride I’ll be back,” said Jeff. “This isn’t over.”
Outside, he walked along Harley Street in a daze. Where are you, Tracy? Where in God’s name are you? He took a cab to Eaton Square as he did every day, just in case Tracy had decided to return to the house. His heart soared when he saw a woman standing in the front garden, bending low over the rosebushes, but as he approached he saw that it wasn’t Tracy.
“Can I help you?”
The woman turned around. She was in her early forties, blond and had the sort of hard, overly made-up face and heavily lacquered hair that Jeff usually associated with newscasters.
“Who are you?” she asked him rudely.
“I’m Jeff Stevens. This is my house. Who are you?”
Newscaster lady handed him a business card. It read: Helen Flint. Partner, Foxtons.
“You’re a real estate agent?”
“That’s right. A Mrs. Tracy Stevens has instructed me to put this property on the market. My understanding was that she is the sole legal owner. Is that not correct?”
“No. It’s correct,” said Jeff, his heart beating faster. “The house is in Tracy’s name. When did she instruct you to sell it, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“This morning,” Helen Flint replied briskly. Pulling out a house key from her Anya Hindmarch handbag, she began unlocking the front door. Now that Jeff had confirmed the fact that he wasn’t a co-owner, he’d become an irritation.