‘It probably sounds familiar because of the Brontë sisters,’ she said quickly. ‘As in Charlotte—’
‘Emily, and Anne,’ he finished for her, then grinned as she blinked. ‘And there was you thinking the only books I would read would be ones with big, colourful pictures, and three words across the bottom of every page.’
It was so exactly what she’d been thinking that she could feel her cheeks darkening still further, but no way was she going to let him get away with it.
‘Of course I didn’t,’ she lied. ‘I just didn’t take you for a fan of Victorian literature.’
‘Ah, but you see that’s where a lot of people make a mistake,’ he observed. ‘Taking me solely at face value.’
And it was a mistake she wouldn’t make again, she decided. He might still be smiling at her, but all trace of warmth had gone from his blue eyes, and a shiver ran down her back which had nothing to do with the icy November wind blowing across the open forecourt.
‘Which of these vehicles is our ambulance?’ she asked, deliberately changing the subject, but, when he pointed to the one they were standing beside, her mouth fell open. ‘But that’s…’
‘Ancient—clapped out—dilapidated.’ He nodded. ‘Yup.’
‘But…’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t understand. The ambulance I passed my LGV C1 driving test on…It was state of the art, with a hydraulic lift—’
‘We had seven of those,’ he interrupted. ‘Unfortunately, five are currently off the road because the hydraulic taillifts keep jamming and, believe me, the last thing you want on a wet and windy night in Edinburgh is your patient stuck halfway in, and halfway out, of your ambulance.’
‘Right,’ she said faintly, and saw his lips twist into a cynical smile.
‘Welcome to the realities of the ambulance service, Brontë.’
Welcome indeed, she thought, but she point-blank refused to believe all those ambulances could have been faulty. She’d read the documentation, the glowing reports. Not once had the hydraulic system failed on the ambulance she had been given to prepare her for her driving test, which meant either ED7 had received five faulty vehicles—which she didn’t think was likely—or the crews were running them into the ground.
‘Top left, breast pocket.’
‘Sorry?’ she said in confusion, and he pointed at her chest.
‘Your notebook—the notebook you’re just itching to get out to report this station for trashing their ambulances—it’s in your top left, breast pocket. Your pen is, too.’
Damn, he was smart. Too smart.
‘Can I take a look round your cab?’ she said tightly. ‘As I’m going to be driving you, I’d like to see if the layout is any different to what I passed my test on.’
‘Be my guest,’ he said, but, as she put one foot inside the driver’s door, she saw him frown. ‘You’ll need to change those boots.’
‘Why?’ she protested, following his gaze down to her feet. ‘I’m wearing regulation, as supplied, boots.’
‘And they’re rubbish. None of us wear governmentissue boots. These boots,’ he continued, pointing at his own feet, ‘have stepped in stuff you wouldn’t even want to think about, had drunks vomit all over them, been run over by trolleys and, on one memorable occasion, my driver accidentally reversed over my feet, and the boots—and my feet—survived. Take a tip. Buy yourself some boots from Harper & Stolins in Cockburn Street. Their Safari brand is the best.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ she replied, but she wouldn’t.
What she would do, however, was make a note of the fact that none of the paramedics at ED7 were obeying health and safety rules if they were all refusing to wear the boots they had been issued with.
‘Your notebook and pen are still in the same pocket,’ he said with a grin which annoyed the hell out of her. ‘Want to note that down, too, while it’s fresh in your mind?’
What she wanted to say was, And how would you like my pen shoved straight up your nose? but she doubted that would be professional. Instead, she clambered into the driving seat of his ambulance, and glanced at the instrument panel.
‘I see you have an MDT—a mobile display terminal—to give you details of each job you’re sent on?’
‘Yup,’ he replied, getting into the passenger seat beside her. ‘It’s a useful bit of kit, when it’s working, but it crashes a lot, which is why this baby—’ he patted the radio on the dashboard fondly ‘—is much more important. Just remember to switch it off when you’ve finished making or receiving a call because it’s an open transmitter which means everything you say is broadcast not only to EMDC but also to every ambulance on the station which can be…interesting.’
It could get a lot more interesting if he didn’t back off, and back off soon, she thought grimly.
‘All your calls come from the Emergency Medical Dispatch Centre at Oxgangs, don’t they?’ she said, trying and failing to keep the edge out of her voice.
He nodded. ‘Seven years ago the powers that be decided to close all the operations rooms, and replace them with one centralised, coordinating organisation.’
‘Which makes sense,’ she said. ‘Why scatter your controllers about Edinburgh when they can all be in one central place, ensuring the ambulance resources are deployed effectively and efficiently while also maintaining the highest standards of patient care.’
‘Well done,’ he said, his lips curving into what even the most charitable would have described as a patronising smile. ‘That must be word for word from the press cuttings.’
‘Which doesn’t make it any the less true,’ she retorted, and saw his patronising smile deepen.
‘Unless, of course, you happened to be one of the unfortunate callers they decided were surplus to requirement,’ he observed, and she gritted her teeth until they hurt.
So much for her being worried she would fall for his charm. The only thing worrying her at the moment was how long she was going to be able to remain in his company without slapping him.
‘What’s our call sign?’ she asked, determinedly changing the conversation.
‘A38.’ He smiled. ‘My age, actually.’
‘Really?’ she said sweetly. ‘I would have said you were much younger.’ Like around twelve, given the way you’re behaving. ‘According to government guidelines, you should reach a code red patient in eight minutes, an amber patient in fourteen minutes and a code green in just under an hour. How often—on average—would you say you hit that target?’
‘How on earth should I know?’ he retorted, then bit his lip as though he had suddenly remembered something. ‘Look, can we talk frankly? I mean, not as an employee of the ambulance service and an employee of a government body,’ he continued, ‘but as two ordinary people?’
She was pretty sure there was an unexploded bomb in his question. In fact, she was one hundred per cent certain there was but, having got off to such a bad start, the next seven nights were going to seem like an eternity if they didn’t at least try to come to some sort of understanding.
‘Okay,’ she said.
He let out a huff of air.
‘I don’t want you in my cab. I don’t mean you, as in you personally,’ he added as she frowned. ‘I don’t want any time-and-motion expert sitting beside me, noting down a load of old hogwash. There are things wrong with the ambulance service—we all know that—but what it needs can’t be fixed by number crunching. We need more money, more personnel, and more awareness from