Except when it came to it she didn’t, because he’d said call if she needed to talk about the donor thing, and that wasn’t it at all. She just wanted to hear his voice.
So she didn’t call him.
And then she was in Majors on Saturday night and a patient came in with sudden acute abdominal pain, and was crippled by it. Appendix was the obvious, but she’d had it removed some years before, and she was post-menopausal so it wasn’t an ectopic pregnancy, and when Iona had listened to her heart, the beat had been slightly irregular. Atrial fibrillation? Maybe, which meant she might have a clot that had been thrown out of the heart and lodged in her mesenteric artery, and that could be fatal.
She was about to arrange an urgent CT when she heard Joe’s voice outside Resus, and stuck her head round the door.
‘Hi. I don’t suppose you’ve got a minute to chat about a patient, have you?’
‘Sure. What’s up?’
She ran through the symptoms, and he nodded. ‘So what are you thinking? Acute mesenteric ischaemia from a thrombosis?’
‘Maybe, and if it is I don’t want to miss it.’
‘No, absolutely not,’ he murmured. ‘CT?’
‘I was about to call them when I heard your voice.’
‘Let’s do that now, then, if the scanner’s free, and I’ll take her straight to IR and sort it if you’re right.’
‘Call me when you have the answer.’
He grinned. ‘That would be easier if I had your number,’ he said, and so she rang him and heard his phone buzz in his pocket.
‘OK, got it. Phone CT and tell them I’m on my way.’
‘I’ll get you a porter.’
‘I’m sure I can manage. I’m not too posh to push,’ he said with another wry grin.
‘I thought that was elective Caesareans?’ she retorted, and he chuckled and wheeled the patient out, taking the nurse and the notes with him.
* * *
‘Good spot,’ he said when he rang her twenty-five minutes later. ‘She’s just being wheeled into the IR suite. What time do you finish?’
‘Seven thirty.’
‘Me, too, technically speaking, although we both know how that goes. How do you fancy breakfast? I had a food delivery on Friday, including dry-cured bacon and massively squashy bread rolls.’
‘Ooh, now... Are you offering me a bacon buttie?’ she asked, her heart beating just a little faster.
‘Of course.’
‘Well, it’s a rhetorical question then, isn’t it?’ she said with a laugh. ‘Call me when you’re done. I’ll drive over.’
‘I will,’ he promised, and she could hear the smile in his voice and feel its echo in her lips.
* * *
‘Wow. I had no idea the doors opened onto a veranda. That’s fabulous!’
‘It is. I love it. I sit out here whenever I can—which isn’t nearly often enough, because I’m normally shut away in the study, working.’
‘Can’t you work out here?’ she asked, peering through the doors, but he shook his head.
‘Look at it. Would you do any work if you were out there?’
She laughed and turned away. ‘I guess the view would be a bit of a distraction.’
‘Not to mention the wildlife. The hazel tree’s covered in nuts and the other day a squirrel carrying one ran from end to end of the veranda, practically over my feet. Then it dug up the lawn to bury it.’
She smiled. ‘How cheeky. How are the muntjacs?’
‘Noisy,’ he said drily, ‘but I prefer them to endless traffic noise and screaming sirens on emergency vehicles.’
She pulled out a chair and sat down at the table to watch him while he cooked. ‘I’m guessing that was London?’
‘And Manchester, where I was last week. The hotel was triple glazed but I could still hear it, just a dull roar in the background. Not to mention the doors slamming all night on the corridor. I don’t know why people can’t shut them quietly.’
He flipped the bacon under the grill and grabbed a couple of mugs from the shelf over the cooker. ‘Tea or coffee?’
‘Oh—tea, please. I’ve had so much coffee overnight I’m wired.’
‘Am I keeping you up?’
She shook her head. ‘No, I need to wind down. This is perfect. So, how was the course, apart from noisy?’
‘Good. Here, slit these open and butter them, the bacon’s nearly done,’ he added, sliding the rolls and a knife across the table. ‘It was about advances in IR procedures for stroke patients. Direct access thrombolisation of the clots.’
‘I had a stroke patient last week. A thirty-seven-year-old. Your course would have come in handy.’
‘It would. I could have thrombolised him in IR, which I probably wouldn’t have done before this week.’
‘I’ll bear you in mind if I have another one. This guy nearly slipped through the net, but I rescued him from Tim, who was about to send him home on codeine.’
‘Oh, dear,’ he sighed, pulling a face. ‘Well done, you, though. Another good spot.’
‘Yes. This diagnosis thing is almost getting to be a habit,’ she said lightly, and he winced.
‘Was I patronising again?’
‘Only slightly. I’ll forgive you.’
He gave a wry laugh and stirred the tea. ‘Is he OK, your patient?’
‘I hope so, because we caught it within the hour so hopefully he’ll be fine. No long-lasting neurological deficit, with any luck. You ought to look up his notes, see if you could have done anything.’
‘Yes, I will. Good idea.’ He put two mugs of tea and a plate piled with bacon down on the dining table and eyed the doors. ‘Outside or in? It’s chilly, but it’s going to be a gorgeous day.’
‘Out,’ she said promptly. ‘I want to meet your cheeky squirrel.’
* * *
They ate their bacon rolls on the wicker sofa outside, but the squirrel didn’t show. It was still worth it, worth grabbing every moment before the Indian summer ended, and he loved it. Loved the veranda, loved the garden, loved the tranquillity after the chaos of London and his divorce.
And sharing it with Iona just made it better.
‘This weather’s just gorgeous,’ she murmured from beside him, her feet propped on the edge of the coffee table next to his, nursing her tea in her hands. ‘I can’t believe it’s mid-September.’
‘I know, it’s crazy. July and August were awful, but on the plus side I got the wall down and the doors in and the bedrooms decorated in July before the new carpets went down and I started my job.’
She turned her head and studied his face, her eyes thoughtful as if she was trying to read his mind. ‘So how come you’re doing all this work to your aunt’s house?’
He shrugged. ‘Good question. I suppose because it’ll make it easier for her to let when I get a consultancy elsewhere, and ultimately it’ll come to me, anyway, so I don’t mind the investment. I’m her only surviving relative apart from my father, and she doesn’t think he needs it. They’re in a purpose-built house and he had hefty compensation for the accident, so she’s probably right. And anyway, after Natalie’s asset-stripping efforts, I think she feels sorry for me.’
She laughed. ‘Lucky you. I’m struggling to save a deposit so I’m sharing a two-bedroomed rented flat in that converted Victorian heap. And I don’t have a garden, so I’m jealous.’
He frowned. ‘No access to it, or a balcony or anything?’
‘No. It’s the top floor, so technically I could say I live in a penthouse flat, but in reality it’s an attic,’ she said, her eyes crinkling in a rueful smile. ‘I do have roof lights that open up to make a kind of balcony, but it’s not big enough to sit there really. You ought to come and see it. I should cook for you—make a change from supermarket ready meals or the pub. Assuming we’re still friends, tha
t is?’
Her eyes were wary now, and he shook his head slowly and sighed, the memory of their argument still all too fresh in his mind. ‘That’s down to you, Iona, I was the one out of order, but I really hope so. Am I forgiven yet?’
A slow, teasing smile dawned on her face, lighting her eyes and bringing him an element of relief. ‘Oh, I think so. You’ve made me bacon butties, so it would be churlish not to. And anyway,’ she added, the smile fading, ‘I’m blaming it on your ex.’
‘Yeah, and I still do, but I’m nearly thirty-five, Iona. It’s time I got over myself and stopped using her as an excuse for being suspicious about everyone’s motives.’
‘That’s easy to say, not so easy to do. I don’t want a relationship ever again, not one built on false promises and lies at any rate, and how can you possibly know until it happens? And how can you trust anyone after that? I thought Dan loved me in the way I loved him, but clearly he didn’t, or he wouldn’t have been shagging the stripper right before our wedding.’
‘Or the umpteenth lover eighteen months after the wedding, in your own bed,’ he said grimly. ‘Believe me, I know exactly where you’re coming from. I have no urge to get myself tied down to anyone ever again—despite my aunt’s best efforts.’
She blinked at that, and laughed. ‘Is she trying to set you up with one of the carers in the home?’
He chuckled and shook his head. ‘No. But she wants to meet you.’
Her eyes widened. ‘She knows about me?’
‘Yes. I told her about you,’ he admitted, ‘about you wanting to have a baby for Isla. And, yes, I know I said I’d keep it to myself, but I was worried about you, and she’s a doctor. She understands confidentiality, she understands childlessness, and anyway, who would she tell?’
‘That’s OK, I’m fine with that,’ she said, to his relief. ‘So what did she say?’
‘She said she thought you were immensely brave. So do I, or I would if I wasn’t afraid you’d get badly hurt.’
She sighed and rolled her eyes. ‘Joe, I know what I’m doing, and why I’m doing it. I’m not stupid, I understand the implications, but it really won’t be my baby. It’ll be exactly the same as carrying Isla’s embryo and a donor’s. If I can ever find one, that is. I did what you said, by the way. I looked again at all the sites, read all the profiles, scoured the information given.’
‘And?’
She looked back at him, then looked away again. ‘There’s nobody who springs out. Nobody who sounds right.’
‘Isn’t that for Isla and Steve to decide?’
She nodded slowly. ‘Yes, I suppose it is, but they’ve got the same problem I have, they can’t seem to find anyone that fits what they’re looking for, nobody who shouts “Me!” regardless of what they look like. They’ve even talked about going to one of the sites where you get to meet the donors, but they’re unregulated so that’s not a goer, and—I know I’m dragging my heels on this, but I have so many reservations about it. Just the idea of a stranger’s baby growing in my body unsettles me,’ she confessed.
‘If it was Steve’s, it would have been a bit weird, but he’s a lovely guy and I could have coped with it because it would have been giving them essentially their own baby, but that didn’t work and—I don’t know. Some random stranger’s semen, regardless of how well screened, just makes me shudder,’ she added, pulling a face, and he gave a wry laugh.
‘Yeah, I can understand that it might, but if you’re going to do this, there isn’t really any other way apart from IVF. Have you considered trying that with Steve’s sperm as the AI didn’t work?’
She shook her head. ‘No. I think Isla found it quite gruelling and all the embryos failed anyway, so they decided it wouldn’t be fair to put me through IVF, and when the AI failed with me as well, the clinic thought it must be something to do with Steve so they suggested a sperm donor. And I hit a brick wall, and I don’t know what to do or how to tell them.’
‘I’m not surprised, it’s a big decision.’
‘I know. I just need to get over myself. Or find a donor I like the sound of, but there’s only so much that information can tell you and they never seem to say enough.’
‘No, I’m sure, but the profiles are hard to write. What on earth do you say about yourself that doesn’t make you sound arrogant?’
‘What did you say about yourself, when you did it?’
‘Oh—I can’t remember, I just know it was difficult.’ He stood up. ‘I’ve got a copy of it somewhere, I’ll find it for you.’
He scooped up the plates and mugs, refilled the kettle and went into the study, rummaging through the filing cabinet.
‘So is this where you hide out?’ she asked from right behind him, making him jump.
‘Are you trying to scare the pants off me?’ he said with a laugh. ‘Yes, it’s where I hide out. I keep the blind down so I’m not distracted, and it turns it into a gloomy hole but it helps me concentrate. Here we go.’
He pulled the profile out of the file and handed it to her. ‘Bear in mind I was only twenty and probably fairly full of myself.’
She took it from his hand, headed outside onto the veranda and sat down to read it, and he made more tea and went back to her.
‘Well?’
‘Well, you’d definitely make the short list. You give good, decent reasons for wanting to do it, you share lots of information about yourself, you aren’t arrogant about your academic success or stunning good looks or physical attributes—’
‘Stunning good looks? Physical attributes?’ he said, preening himself a little, and she shot him a dirty look that would have worked better if she hadn’t been laughing.
‘Stop fishing. I didn’t mean it like that. I meant some of them are, and you aren’t. You almost don’t say enough to sell yourself.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment,’ he said with a chuckle, and took it away from her. ‘Drink your tea, and then I’m going to take you home. I need sleep.’
* * *
He didn’t sleep.
He couldn’t, because still, as it had been all week, Iona’s dilemma was playing on his mind, and so was the fact that Isla had asked her about him and said he’d be perfect.
Not that she really knew anything about him, of course, so he was sure it hadn’t in any way been a serious suggestion, but—what if it had been? What if she really did mean it?
He didn’t want to do it again, but as Elizabeth had said, this was different, because he’d met Steve and Isla and could maybe even have a relationship with the child. And that was tugging at him in a way he hadn’t expected.
Then there was the question of Iona, who’d made it quite clear what she thought of his sperm—although she’d said he’d be on the short list. Would she baulk at carrying his child?
He shut his eyes and turned over, thumping the pillow. Not his child. Just as none of the others out there were his child.
Which reminded him exactly why he wasn’t going to do it again. Ever.
Not even for Iona. Assuming she’d have him.
He gave up trying to sleep, pulled on his clothes and went down to the study, and there on the desk waiting to be filed was his donor profile.
He went back upstairs, changed into shorts and trainers, plugged his ear buds into his phone and went for a ten mile run.
* * *
She didn’t see him again for over a week, and then on Tuesday he sent her a text and asked if she was busy after her shift, because he wanted to discuss something. And he had food in his fridge. The last was a PS, and made her smile.
She rang him, got his answer-machine and left a message saying she’d come at seven and supper would be lovely, and then she spent the rest of her shift wondering what he wanted to talk about. Not the sperm donor thing, she knew that with absolute certainty, but what?
Was he going to suggest the
y have a relationship? No, he’d been clear about that. Never again. So—a no-strings affair?
No, she thought, squashing the little leap of hope. Not even he would be that premeditated. Pity...
Maybe it was work related? Something about referrals, perhaps? But then he’d do it at work. So—what, then?
She left work late, had the fastest shower on record and got to his house just after seven. He gave her a hug, then led her into the kitchen and opened the fridge.
‘What do you want to drink? I’ve got juice, squash, cola, sparkling water, pomegranate and elderflower cordial, or I can make tea or coffee?’
‘Fizzy water with a splash of cordial,’ she said, dropping her bag on the table and propping herself up against the sink. ‘Got any nibbles? I’m starving.’
He handed her a bag of olive breadsticks and a pot of hummus, then picked up their drinks and went out to the veranda to watch the last rays of the sunset.
‘So what is it, then?’ she asked, settling herself at the table and ripping the top off the hummus, and he gave a wry laugh.
‘Am I that transparent?’
She crunched on a breadstick. ‘Well, I haven’t heard anything from you for days, and then you text me and say you want to discuss something—not did I fancy supper or you’d had an interesting case or anything like that. So it must be something else—or am I reading you wrong?’ she added, studying his face.
He sighed, turned to meet her eyes and shook his head. ‘Not really. I just wondered how you were getting on with the donor sites.’
‘Oh, that.’ She stifled her disappointment and blew on her coffee, watching the way the froth moved, creasing the pattern in the chocolate sprinkles. ‘I don’t know, Joe,’ she sighed. ‘I’ve still got this mental block about the stranger thing, and I’m going to have to tell Isla and Steve because I just don’t think I can do it this way.’
‘What if it was a friend?’ he asked, his voice low, measured. Laden with meaning?
Their Own Little Miracle Page 7
