‘Men like Mark Lorimer don’t need encouragement,’ Annie sighed. ‘In fact, I think they positively thrive on discouragement.’
‘Annie—’
‘Helen, I’m not prying, and I know it’s none of my business, but I’ve seen the way he looks at you—the way you look at him—and…’ The junior doctor shook her head. ‘Jamie’s father was the same—handsome, charming and…Look, I guess what I’m trying to say is be careful.’
How could the girl know—how could she possibly know what Mark had said on Thursday night? She couldn’t. There was no way she could.
‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,’ she said as evenly as her thudding heart would allow. ‘Mark…He’s just a colleague, and even if he wasn’t, I’m married. Happily married.’
It was Annie’s turn to redden. ‘I didn’t mean that you—I wasn’t suggesting that you would ever, but—Helen, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything, and I’m sorry.’
Not half as sorry as I am, Helen groaned silently as Annie made her excuses and shot out of the staffroom. If Annie had noticed Mark was paying her a lot of attention, did that mean other people had seen it, too? They couldn’t have, or surely she would have noticed the sly looks, the winks and nudges, and she hadn’t seen anything. At least, not yet.
Angrily she took a sip of her coffee. The quicker Mark Lorimer left the Belfield the better, but he’d only been here three weeks. Three weeks—another three to go. She’d be lucky if she got through them without killing him.
Or falling into his arms, a little voice whispered, and she shook her head vehemently.
‘Never,’ she muttered out loud. ‘Never.’
‘It’s the first signs, you know—talking to yourself.’
She glanced round to see Tom smiling at her, and managed a small smile in return. ‘If that’s the case, I should have been committed years ago. How’s Rhona?’
‘Good. The blockage hadn’t extended into her uterus, so we cut and rejoined.’ He sank down into the chair beside her, his eyes weary. ‘Only time will tell if the op’s been successful, but I hope it is. I really don’t want to tell her that her only hope of getting pregnant is through IVF.’
Helen nodded. So many women thought IVF was the quick and easy answer to their infertility problems, but in reality it could often turn out to be a devastating disappointment.
‘Do you want a coffee?’ she asked, seeing him rotate his neck, clearly trying to ease the tension there.
‘I could murder one,’ he admitted. ‘It was a long op, though it would have been even longer if Mark hadn’t been there to help me.’
‘It’s about time he pulled his weight,’ she muttered under her breath as she switched on the kettle, but Tom heard her.
‘Look, what is it with you and Mark?’ he demanded. ‘Ever since he arrived you’ve been antagonistic towards him, and it’s so unfair. He didn’t have to fill in for Rachel. He could have swanned around Europe before going to Canada, instead of helping us out. He’s a great bloke, Helen. Everybody likes him—’
‘I didn’t realise it was compulsory to become a member of the Mark Lorimer fan club,’ she retorted, and he thrust his fingers through his hair impatiently.
‘There you go again—being snide, snippy. He’s a good doctor, and he likes you—I know he does—so couldn’t you at least try to be a little friendlier towards him?’
Was he out of his mind? No, of course he wasn’t. Tom was honest, and decent, and it would never occur to him for a second that his friend might be showing more than a purely friendly interest in his wife.
Then tell him, her mind argued. Tell him what Mark said. What he implied, suggested.
But she couldn’t. She’d only ever seen Tom in a blazing temper once, and that had been when the twins had been three, and a young man had sideswiped their car when he’d overtaken them. Tom had dragged the young man out of his car, and for one awful, dreadful moment she’d thought he might actually kill him. No, she couldn’t tell Tom what Mark had said, and awkwardly she held out a cup of coffee to him.
‘I just…I don’t like his attitude. He’s too casual, too laid back.’
‘You mean he flirts too much. Oh, come on, Helen. It’s harmless. It would be different if he was harassing somebody.’ She flushed despite all her best efforts not to, and his eyes shot to hers, weary no longer. ‘He’s not, is he? Look, if he’s bothering somebody at the hospital…’
‘Of course he’s not,’ she said quickly, fighting down her mounting colour. ‘I think—I suppose—I’ve just sort of got used to working with just you, Gideon, Annie and Rachel. Mark does things differently, that’s all.’
‘You’re sure that’s all?’ he demanded.
Oh, Lord, she hated lying to him, but lying was better than the truth, infinitely better. ‘Of course I’m sure,’ she declared.
For a second she thought he was going to question her further, but to her relief he didn’t. Instead, he took a sip of his coffee, then said something that threw her even more.
‘Helen, you know when the children were born—how you put your career on hold to look after them. Did you resent it?’
She stared at him in confusion. ‘Why on earth would I have resented it? They’re our children, and I wanted to look after them.’
‘Yes, but did you ever think, Why can’t Tom do the looking after, why does it have to me whose career gets shelved?’
She thought back to when they’d brought the children home from the hospital. How tiny they’d been, how very vulnerable.
‘No, I never thought that. It’s probably very old-fashioned of me, and anti-feminist or something, but I just thought that as I was their mum I should stay home with them.’
‘But now they’re older,’ he pressed. ‘Would you like to get your career back on track—maybe start applying for some specialist registrar posts? I’ll support you all the way if that’s what you want,’ he continued, as she gazed at him, even more bewildered. ‘If you’ve heard of a job at a different hospital, don’t let any worries about me stand in your way. I’ll just up sticks and follow you.’
‘But I thought you liked working here at the Belfield?’ she said.
‘We’re not talking about me, we’re talking about you, and as Mark said—’
‘Mark said what?’ she interrupted, her voice ice-cold.
He looked uncomfortable. ‘He just happened to mention how much you’d given up for me.’
‘Oh, he did, did he?’ she snapped. ‘Well, Mark Lorimer knows nothing about me, and what I want.’
‘But he’s got a point.’
‘I don’t care if he’s got a million points,’ she flared. ‘He has no right to interfere in our lives.’
Tom shook his head impatiently. ‘He wasn’t interfering. He just happened to point out what I should have been aware of myself.’
She all but ground her teeth.
‘Tom, listen to me, and listen good. The day I live my life according to what Mark Lorimer thinks I should do is the day you can have me committed!’
Or gagged, she thought with a groan when she heard the sound of a throat being cleared and turned to see the man himself standing in the doorway of the staffroom.
How much had Mark heard? Too much, from the way his eyes were gleaming, and she didn’t know whose cheeks were redder—hers or Tom’s.
‘Something I can help you with?’ Tom said tightly.
‘Gideon would like a word if you’ve got a minute.’
Tom didn’t reply. He simply strode out of the staffroom, leaving Helen gazing unhappily after him, and Mark cleared his throat again.
‘I’m sorry about that. Walking in on a disagreement, I mean.’
He didn’t look sorry. He didn’t look one bit sorry, and she headed for the door, only to have him block her way.
‘Helen, how long are you going to keep running away from me?’
She met his gaze with a cold, hard stare. ‘I am not running away. I simply have work to do, so
if you’d stand aside, please?’
He didn’t. ‘You’re running, Helen. Running from what you and I could have together.’
She didn’t let her gaze slip—wouldn’t allow it to, even though his eyes were making her heart do those unwelcome and uncomfortable back flips again. ‘You have a good opinion of yourself, don’t you?’
‘I’m just being honest, and you’re not. I’ve never met anybody like you—’
‘Then you should get out more.’
‘Helen…’ He reached out and touched her cheek, and she jumped back as though she’d been stung.
‘Don’t do that!’
‘Why?’ he demanded. ‘If you don’t feel anything for me, why should you care if I touch you?’
His voice was rough, uneven. Hers didn’t sound any steadier when she whispered, ‘Stop it, Mark. Please…please, stop it. I’m married—’
‘You keep saying that,’ he said irritably. ‘Like it was a life sentence or something. Marriages should only last when they’re fun, not because they’ve become a comfortable routine.’
‘My marriage isn’t like that,’ she retorted.
‘No? Then when was the last time you and Tom made love?’
Crimson colour darkened her cheeks. ‘I don’t think that’s any of your business.’
‘I think it is. I think it’s very much my business if your marriage is over, and you’re just hanging in there out of habit.’
‘Mark—’
‘Think about it, Helen. Think long and hard.’
He’d gone before she could think of anything cutting to say, and she desperately wanted to think of something cutting. Wanted to chop him down to size, to make him see once and for all that his attentions were as unwelcome as he was.
Hell’s bells, it shouldn’t be that hard to do, she told herself as she walked along to the ward, all too aware that her legs were none too steady. If it was anybody else hassling her like this, she’d be able to do it in a minute.
And that was the trouble, she realised as she pushed open the door of Obs and Gynae. It wasn’t anybody else. It was Mark Lorimer and, try as she might to deny it, she was attracted to him. He made her feel feminine, and attractive, and if she hadn’t been married…
But you are married, she reminded herself. You’re married, and you love Tom, even if he does irritate the hell out of you at times. Good grief, you probably irritate Tom, too, but that doesn’t mean you don’t love each other, so get a grip, woman, and pull yourself together.
Rhona Scott didn’t want to pull herself together. She wanted to apologise for having fallen apart earlier.
‘You must think I’m such a wimp, Doctor,’ she murmured unhappily when Helen stopped by her bed. ‘Needing you to hold my hand before I went into the theatre.’
‘Of course I don’t think you’re a wimp,’ Helen insisted. ‘Everybody’s nervous before they have an operation.’
‘It wasn’t just the operation. I just don’t like hospitals. The needles, the smells, being surrounded by ill people…’ Rhona bit her lip. ‘That sounds awful, doesn’t it? Awful, and dumb.’
‘You’d be surprised to learn how many people feel the same.’ Helen smiled. ‘I hated being in hospital myself when I had my twins.’
‘But you’re a doctor,’ Rhona protested. ‘You can’t have been frightened.’
‘Don’t you believe it,’ Helen said, her eyes dancing. ‘Doctors make the worst patients of all. We know too much, you see. So stop feeling guilty and embarrassed. You’ve got nothing to apologise for.’
But I do, she thought as she noticed Tom going into Liz’s small office. I’ve been so crabby and crotchety with him, and it’s not his fault. OK, so maybe I’ve felt taken for granted, but I’m not blameless either.
I change into a pair of tatty old jeans and a sweatshirt when I get home from work because I can’t be bothered to do anything else. I slump in front of the TV with the kids after dinner, then go to bed and sleep because it’s too much effort to do anything else.
Mark said that marriages worked only when they were fun, but he was wrong. Marriages worked when you worked at them. When you made an effort for each other no matter how tired you felt. And she hadn’t been making any more effort than Tom had.
Well, it was time for a change, and as she caught sight of herself in the ward mirror she knew exactly what the first change was going to be.
Her hair.
For the past ten years she’d kept it shoulder length because it was easy to manage, but she had an appointment this evening at the hairdresser’s for her usual six-weekly trim, and she was going to tell Jason she wanted something different. Something different, and pretty, and sexy.
‘Everything OK, Helen?’ Annie asked as she hurried by in answer to Liz’s call.
‘Not yet, Annie.’ Helen smiled. ‘But after tonight…after tonight, it’s going to be.’
‘Wow,’ Helen’s daily help exclaimed when she finally arrived home that evening carrying two shopping bags. ‘You look sensational, Doctor.’
‘Jason at the Rainbow Salon said he thought I’d suit it shorter, feathered into a cap,’ Helen replied, her hand going self-consciously up to her hair. ‘He’s put in some gold highlights, too, and I’m not a hundred per cent certain about them, or the style.’
‘Has Dr Brooke seen you yet?’
Helen shook her head, and it felt odd to have no ponytail bouncing on her shoulders, no hair escaping from a scrunchy. ‘He’s not due home for another half-hour. My hair—you really think it looks OK?’
‘Doctor, when your husband gets home I guarantee he won’t be able to keep his hands off you.’
Helen chuckled, and blushed. That’s what she was hoping, but she’d taken out some extra insurance just in case. In one of her carrier bags was everything she needed to make Tom’s favourite meal of steak, mushrooms and salad, and in the other bag was a scarlet—and quite indecently sheer—nightdress she’d bought on impulse from the lingerie shop on the corner of Byres Road.
‘Where are the children?’ she asked, quickly slipping the steak under the grill.
‘In the sitting room, watching TV.’
They watched too much TV. Normally, she’d have gone in as soon as her daily left and told them to get up to their bedrooms and make a start on their homework, but not tonight. Tonight she wanted a little time to herself.
Time to investigate the contents of her wardrobe, and sigh over the singularly uninspiring selection that met her gaze.
‘Shopping,’ she told herself as she pulled out the pale blue blouse Tom had given her last Christmas and the soft tartan skirt she’d bought two years ago and had never worn. ‘It’s high time you went shopping.’
And then you’d better sign yourself into the psychiatric unit and get your head examined, she thought with a shaky laugh as she pulled on the blouse and skirt, because you’re actually following all the suggestions in those dreadful articles in women’s magazines. The ones entitled ‘Ten Ways to Rekindle the Desire in Your Man’s Heart’.
But, Lord, she did look different, she thought when she stood back to examine herself in the dressing-table mirror. Younger, she thought, and totally, totally different.
Emma and John clearly thought she looked different, too, when she went into the sitting room and switched off the TV.
‘I didn’t know you were going out,’ her daughter said, her brown eyes critical.
Yikes, but that shows when I last made an effort in the evening, Helen thought ruefully. ‘I’m not going out. I just thought I’d put these on as I haven’t worn them before.’
Emma digested that for a second, then obviously decided it wasn’t worth pursuing. ‘You’ve had your hair cut.’
‘And?’ Helen prompted.
‘It’s OK.’
She supposed that was child-speak for a big improvement. She hoped it was.
‘What do you think, John?’ she asked, turning to her son.
He shrugged. ‘Yeah, you look OK.’
‘Mum, Dad’s home!’ Emma yelled down from her bedroom.
She’d already heard the car. Would he come into the kitchen, or go straight through to the sitting room?
The sitting room. He’d be tired—probably want to sit down, put his feet up.
Well, he wouldn’t be tired or angry soon, she thought with a secret smile.
A quick check of the grill revealed the steak was done to perfection, and she headed for the sitting room to find her husband sifting impatiently through the comics strewn on the sofa.
‘Helen, where’s the morning paper?’ he demanded. ‘Gideon said there’s an article in it on foetal distress syndrome—’
‘It’s on the coffee-table.’
Nervousness made her voice sound deeper, huskier than usual, and he must have heard it because he glanced over his shoulder, then straightened up slowly and stared at her. ‘You…you’ve had your hair cut.’
Did he mean he liked it, or he didn’t? She couldn’t tell.
‘What do you think?’ she asked, turning round so he could see the back. ‘I thought I’d go for a new look.’
‘It’s…different.’
Different? Where was the ‘Wow’ and the ‘Helen, you look stunning’ she’d been expecting? ‘Different’ didn’t come close—not anywhere near close.
‘You don’t like it,’ she said, feeling a quite ridiculous impulse to burst into tears.
‘I didn’t say that,’ he declared quickly. ‘It’s…nice.’
‘Nice’ wasn’t any better than ‘different’.
‘In other words, you don’t like it,’ she exclaimed, and he gazed at her with exasperation.
‘I do like it. I just said so, didn’t I?’
‘No, you didn’t. You said it was nice, different.’
‘Well, there you go, then.’
‘That doesn’t mean you like it.’
‘Of course it does. Hell’s bells, Helen…’ He came to a halt, and sniffed. ‘Is something burning?’
The Surgeon's Marriage Page 7
