2001

As Duffy turned the key in her front door lock she knew that there was something wrong. If anyone had ever asked her to explain it, to explain the cold sense of dread that flowed through her as she stood on her door step she wouldn't have been able to. She just knew deep inside her that things weren't as she had left them, as she expected them to be.

She pushed through into the hallway from the darkness of the road and slipped off her overcoat, hanging in on the first empty peg. It didn't register at first that there was a coat missing, but as soon as it did the icy feeling that tingled down her spine got ten times worse. She could hear the television coming from the living room, but no lights were on.

"Holly!" She called nervously. She should have listened, she thought as she broke into a trot and examined each of the downstairs rooms for her. She should have listened to all the people who told her that she shouldn't leave her children with the poor unfortunate Holly Miles. The woman who still couldn't face coming back to work when she her self had returned several weeks earlier after both maternity and bereavement leave.

"Holly!!" She called again, louder and more insistent. She found her self at the foot of the stairs and was about to launch herself up them when she noticed a long shadow being cast almost to her feet. Heavy footsteps made their way down the stairs until Patrick Spiller was standing in front of her, a crumpled piece of paper in one hand, and what appeared to be a sodden tissue in the other.

"Patrick?" There were a hundred questions filtering through her mind, none of them pleasant enough to give voice to as her imagination got the better of her.

"She's gone." Was all he could manage, trying hard not to betray in his voice the emotions that were written across his face.

"What, what d'you mean she's gone! Where are the kids, Patrick what the hell is going on?!" Duffy cried, trying to push past him, to get up the stairs, to see for herself.

Patrick grabbed at the tops of her arms and restrained her, the contents of his hands being crushed into her jumper.

"They're fine. Asleep upstairs." She didn't look convinced, "Duffy, Duffy they're all OK, I made sure." She relaxed a little, but Patrick still held tightly onto her, more to support himself than the other way around.

"Patrick I don't understand. Holly should be here; she should be minding the kids, not you. You shouldn't be here!" The panic was rising in her voice again. Patrick released his grip on her arm and held out the mangled piece of writing paper.

Even in it's present state Duffy recognised it. It was her favourite note paper, used for corresponding with old friends and kept locked in the bureau drawer so the kids didn't use it for drawing on.

"What...?"

"Just read it."

She did. And looked up into the eyes of a man desperately trying not to cry.

"Oh my God. Patrick... Oh my God." Was all she was capable of uttering. His resolve was fading and his bottom lip was trembling violently. She pulled him towards her as his emotions took over the usually stoic registrar and he sobbed loudly into the crook of her neck. She rubbed his back and muttered things that might perhaps have helped pacify him, if he had been able to hear them over the sound of his thoughts.

Holly was gone. His Holly was gone. And she was never coming back.

*******************

2019

Trish flung herself through the front door and stormed into the living room. It was a nice room, bright and airy but also still full of packing crates from her and her mother's recent arrival in Holby. Trish negotiated the huge boxes and made her way to where her mother was sitting cross-legged on the floor, the medical journal that she'd been re-reading over and over again, open across her knees. As her daughter approached she snapped the book shut and thrust it back into the nearest crate. Trish didn't notice; she was in too bad a mood.

"Do you know how far I had to go to get this?" She held the bottle of milk at arms length as if it repulsed her.

"No darling" Her mother replied taking the milk and walking with it into the disorganised mess that was the kitchen. She was used to her daughter's outbursts by now, they'd been having the same argument for nearly three months and she was bored of it.

"All the way to the main road. Or what passes as the main road in this dump. Fifteen minutes each way!"

"The exercise will do you good." Trish slumped into the nearest chair.

"Why'd we have to move here anyway. It's not fair!"

Here we go again, thought her mother. She tried to tell herself that Trish was only seventeen and that seventeen year olds were prone to sulking and eventually it would pass. But this had been going on for so long now that she was starting to wonder if uprooting them both from London really had been such a good idea.

"Because," she started in a bored tone of voice, " we could both do with a fresh start, because you were falling in with a bad crowd..."

"Was not!"

"Because this is a good job in a very progressive department, because the cost of living is less here and because I'm your mother and until you're a bit older I make the decisions in this family."

"It's not fair, you don't care about me at all" Her mother dropped her head into her hands. It hurt to hear her daughter say such things. She did love her, more than she loved anyone else. Her and Trish, just the two of them, no one else mattered.

Seeing that she wasn't going to get a rise from her mum Trish stalked to the door, grabbed her mock leather jacket and stepped into the street.

"I going out!" She called defiantly.

"Trish! Trish Milton, you get back here right now!" She called out after her, but with no real enthusiasm. Maybe a few hours peace and quiet wasn't such a bad thing.

****************

Duffy pulled into an empty parking space at the side of the restaurant. It had been a long time since anyone had invited her out to dinner. Well, anyone except one of her children, but they didn't really count. She twisted the rear view mirror so she could check her make-up in it. She had spent hours agonising over getting ready. Trying to get the balance between looking businesslike and looking attractive.

She swore under her breath, she'd been listening to her daughter for too long, this was most certainly not a date. In truth she didn't suppose it really mattered as long as she was basically presentable. She carefully swivelled out of the car so as not to crease her new dress, shut the door and pressed the little button on the key fob to put the alarm on. Then she tried to stand in such a position that she could see her reflection in the wing mirror to check that she still looked OK.

The restaurant was practically full when Duffy arrived. A large room, elegantly decorated in cream and gold, and frankly not the sort of place she would have expected to be invited to to talk business. But then if he wanted to waste his money on her that was perfectly all right as far as she was concerned. Mind you, it wasn't like he was poor. She wondered where he took women that he actually liked.

"Can I help you madam?" A man in a stiff looking suit asked her from behind his lectern.

"I hope so or I'm in the wrong place!" She smiled. He didn't. "I'm here to meet Mr Spiller."

He didn't even bother to check his reservations book, simply asked her to follow him, and informed her that the good doctor was already seated. He led her right to the back of the restaurant, to a cosy little corner where a man of about fifty was staring appalled at a menu. He looked up as they approached, and smiled rather awkwardly. The maitre 'd helped Duffy into her seat with Patrick hovering in a half standing position out of courtesy. As soon as the maitre 'd had left, he slumped back down onto his chair.

"Duffy." He nodded.

"Patrick." She nodded back, doing a passable impression of him. He rolled his eyes at her and she grinned broadly.

"You look...well." He almost found himself saying 'nice' but he didn't want her to get the wrong idea by bringing out the big compliments.

"Thanks. You don't look so bad yourself!"

"Hmm. Good journey?"

"It was OK. I suppose I should thank you for agreeing to meet me, and in such a lovely place."

"Yeah well, what you said on the phone intrigued me, and it's been a while since I had a good excuse to eat in a decent restaurant."

"Glad to be of service." There was a pause as Patrick tried to work out if he'd hurt her feelings or not, eventually he decided that she was probably joking and asked the question that had been playing on his mind ever since her unexpected phone call the previous week.

"Why me?"

"You're famous. Who better?" She countered immediately.

"Max?"

"Max Gallagher? Haven't heard from him in years. Besides he must be... what, pushing seventy by now? He'll be retired somewhere, and won't draw half the publicity you will."

"I still don't think I'd be any good. I'm a doctor not an author."

"All I want is about a thousand words for a forward. Charlie and I have done the rest, it's just my publisher reckons more people would be interested if you were involved. Oh go on Patrick, don't make me beg..."

"You make it sound like he's still alive."

"What?"

"Charlie, you talk about him like he's still here."

"I've been submerged in the life and times of Charlie Fairhead for over a year. I feel like he is still here." She answered softly.

"Sorry."

"What for?"

"I don't know. That he died. That you're upset." He shrugged.

There was a brief pause before Duffy continued. "I tell myself I'm over him, but I suppose you never quite get over the great loves of your life. Do you?"

"He was a 'great love'?" An eyebrow raised to question her.

"Yes." She answered simply. It had taken a long time for her to feel comfortable admitting that, even to herself, let alone to anyone else, but she realised that it felt good to say it aloud. It was partly what the book she'd written with the aid of Charlie's diary was for; to show the world how much she cared for and admired him, as well as raising awareness for the successes and failures of the NHS.

"Well, I wouldn't know about that sort of thing." Patrick said, avoiding her gaze and suddenly becoming fascinated by the hem of the tablecloth. He didn't want to think about great loves. It was hard enough sitting opposite from Duffy, she was a painful reminder of losing the only woman he'd ever really loved. It was only in those few weeks afterwards that he had become close to Duffy, and he didn't expect that he'd ever be able to look at her without thinking of Holly.

Once upon a time Duffy would have pulled Patrick up on his sorrowful expression. She would have bullied him into telling her what the matter was and not let it rest until she was satisfied that he was all right. But she'd learnt a long time ago that there was only one subject that ever really got to Patrick and discussing it brought them around and around in circles and only succeeded in getting them both upset. So she avoided the obvious line of conversation and went back to her book.

"...It's only a thousand words Patrick." He looked up, grateful for her tact if nothing else.

"You don't give up do you?"

"No."

"Spent too long in management, that's your problem. Making unreasonable demands on us poor doctors while you sit in your ivory tower telling us we're spending too much money..."

"Don't you think I've heard it all before? How could I leave nursing, how could I join the enemy? I do what has to be done, that's all. We can't all development and implement new life saving procedures, win awards, get our name in all the journals, get recognised up and down the country..."

"OK, OK point taken. I'll do it. Happy?"

"Very, let's eat."

****************

The streets of Holby were too dark and too scary for Trish to venture very far. Her new shoes, the ones that her mother had bought her in an effort to buy her approval of the move were pinching her heels and causing blisters to appear. She slumped against a low wall. It wasn't fair. Non of it.

Why did her mother always do these things? It felt like every time they started to feel at home anywhere she made them up and leave for no reason. It was just the two of them. Always had been. Trish's father had never been in the picture, she didn't have any grandparents, aunts or uncles, cousins, anything, and whenever she made friends she always had to leave them.

They had stayed longer in London than they had anywhere previously, nearly six years in total. They both liked London; Trish because everything she could want was no more than ten minutes away and her mother because it provided the sort of anonymity that smaller cities couldn't. It had all been going so well, so why did they have to leave? It wasn't fair.

****************

"So how are the family?" Patrick enquired as the main course's arrived. The initial difficulty in speaking to someone face to face that you haven't seen in many years had vanished and they were now enjoying a light hearted banter and general catch up.

"Great. Andie's starting university in the autumn, Jake's getting married in February, Peter's passed his MRCP2 and hopes that his new consultant will put him forward for a registrars course. Oh and of course there are the grandchildren, Lisa and Christina, they're both Peter's and they are so gorgeous, hang on I've got some photos here..." Patrick groaned, deliberately loudly enough for Duffy to hear.

"You are a very rude man Patrick Spiller." She said putting her handbag back under the table.

"That was one of the first things you ever said to me."

"Was it?"

"Oh yes, I remember it fondly." He joked.

"I never knew you cared." Patrick shovelled another forkful of food into his mouth and Duffy wondered if she really could see him blush. However they might really feel they made a point of never actually saying it, it saved the embarrassment, and it saved them from feeling as hurt when inevitably they went their separate ways.

****************

Still sitting amongst the boxes and packages, Trish's mum glanced from the journal to her watch and back again. It was getting late. She felt she should go out and search for her only daughter but she couldn't quite tear herself away from the book.

It had startled her so much when she'd first seen that article that she'd literally screamed out. What had actually caused the scream she couldn't quite be sure, shock definitely, the pain of remembrance probably, a little skip in her heart at seeing his name? Perhaps, but she wouldn't admit it.

Patrick Spiller wasn't a part of her life. Patrick Spiller had never even met Holly Milton, nor she him, and if she had any say in it, he never would.