Page 40 of Love Letters on Hazel Lane

He wasn’t down on himself; he was realistic. He had his good points; he knew that. He was a great listener – his patients were always telling him that – and was easy to talk to. He liked helping people and making others feel good about themselves. But those weren’t the kinds of things you generally wrote on your internet dating profile. They were underrated qualities, he thought. The women he’d encountered in life so far seemed to be looking for more alpha male traits and Rasmus knew he was probably a beta. If not a gamma or a delta.

Could you buy Scrabble with Greek letter tiles? he wondered as he folded up the legs of the last of the trestle tables. Presumably you could. Was the scoring different?

Scrabble. Jo liked Scrabble.

And Rasmus liked Jo.

He still couldn’t quite get his head around the fact that she liked Scrabble too. And not only liked it in the sense that she enjoyed the occasional game, but really liked it. He’d noticed how focused she’d been as they played, how she’d watched everyone’s moves, studied her letter tiles intently, never once distracted by her mobile phone or what else was happening in the hall. Rasmus rather suspected that Scrabble was as much of a passion for her as it was for him.

He’d been obsessed with Scrabble since he was seven, when one of his aunts had gifted it to him for Christmas. He’d loved it from the minute he opened the box and saw all the little letter tiles; in fact, it had been his favourite present that year, much to his parents’ consternation as they’d bought him a rather fancy bicycle. He’d felt bad for disappointing them, but he couldn’t hide his fascination with his new game.

‘What was it Florence meant earlier?’ Jo said, as she put the last chair on top of a stack.

Rasmus cast his mind back to what Florence had said.

Think you might have found the perfect person.

Honestly. He loved Florence, he really did. The constant arguments between her and Mr B over illegal words and proper nouns were hilarious, but why had she had to say that?

Jo was bound to have assumed that Florence meant ‘the perfect person’ in a romantic sense.

And now he knew she loved Scrabble, well, he had to admit he thought that too.

But their first date had gone so badly, he couldn’t allow himself to think like that. He’d better explain to Jo what Florence had meant, though it seemed a little forward to ask for her help when this was the first time she’d come along to the group. He didn’t want to appear pushy.

‘Oh that,’ he said, trying to sound casual. ‘Tell you what. I’ll explain over a drink.’

To his surprise, she agreed immediately. In fact, she’d sounded keen, but as they walked to the pub together, he told himself not to read anything into that. Jo was out of his league; why had he ever thought otherwise? He’d never stood a chance. He’d been silly to ask her out in the first place. She was gorgeous, with that red hair and those green eyes. A little curvy. As a doctor, he should probably have advised her that her BMI might be slightly on the high side, but as a man, he thought her figure was just perfect.

Yes, he’d been silly to ask her out. And even sillier to take her on a date that involved heights. What the hell had he been thinking?

He’d had hypnotherapy to overcome his fear and he’d thought it had worked, but it clearly hadn’t. Or not enough anyway for him to go plunging down an enormous hole in the ground. He’d chosen to take Jo to Gaping Gill because he thought she’d really love it. And okay, he had to admit, he’d also thought it would impress her. Then he’d ended up doing the complete opposite, showing her what a complete wuss he was. God, that had been embarrassing. Mortifying, even.

He’d tried to put her out of his mind, but he had thought about her a lot since that date. He’d often looked at the photo he’d taken, of Jo sitting strapped into that chair with the helmet on her head, about to descend into that enormous hole in the ground. During the car journey to North Yorkshire, and the walk up to Gaping Gill, he’d really enjoyed her company. They’d clicked, hadn’t they? After an awkward start, the conversation had begun to flow and he’d felt so relaxed with her. Things had been going well. But then afterwards? Well, he could barely bring himself to speak to her as he was so embarrassed about his phobia.

But they were here now, he thought, pushing open the door of the George.

He was sure he had blown any chance he had with her romantically – if he’d ever had a chance at all – but since they shared a hobby and since she was by her own admission someone who loved organising, well, it wouldn’t do any harm to run his idea past her and perhaps enlist her help. She could say no if she didn’t want to get involved.

And they could be friends, couldn’t they? Rasmus needed to make more friends in the area; he hadn’t lived in Hebbleswick long. He’d come to work at the Essendale and Hebbleswick Group Practice as a locum initially, when one of the other GPs, Ludek, had been in an accident. When Ludek came back to work, he’d decided to go part-time so he could help his partner Emily with her new business, the (Not So) Little Board Game Café in Essendale. (Rasmus had been there a few times and it was a wonderful place, but he had never seen the point of playing games other than Scrabble.) So with Ludek working part-time, Rasmus had stayed on, doing three days a week initially, which had now been increased to four.

‘Do you fancy grabbing a table and I’ll get you a drink?’ he said to Jo, gesturing towards the bar. ‘What would you like?’

‘Just a white wine, please,’ she said.

‘Any particular type?’

‘Sauvignon Blanc or Pinot Grigio. I’m not fussy.’

He nodded. ‘There’s a table over there.’

Jo headed over to the last unoccupied table in the place, which was tucked into a corner. He watched as she sat down on one of the stools. She looked uncomfortable, he thought, and hoped that was the stool rather than the fact she was with him. She’d seemed happy during the Scrabble evening, though. Very happy.

He went over to the bar and waited to be served.

‘Doctor,’ said the landlord as soon as he saw him. ‘The very man! I have this rash and was wondering if you could take a look. Save me a trip to the surgery.’

Before Rasmus could stop him, the man had rolled up his sleeve and was holding out his forearm. The skin looked red and angry, but it was hard to see properly, given that the lighting in the pub was designed for cosiness rather than medical examinations. Rasmus leaned over, standing on his tiptoes, trying to get a better look.