Being in a huff wasn’t exactly working either, she thought with a deep sigh. In fact, being in a huff was distinctly childish and immature.
So why don’t you make the first move? her mind suggested. Apologise, say you’re sorry.
Why should I apologise? she argued back. I’m not the one who’s stupid and blind. I’m not the one who’s got about as much romance in my soul as a block of wood, so why should I apologise? It’s up to Tom to say something first, not me, and if that’s childish, too, then so be it.
Rhona Scott wasn’t being childish and immature, but something was clearly worrying her as she packed her suitcase, and it didn’t take Helen long to find out what.
‘Dr Brooke’s already warned me about not lifting anything too heavy or getting constipated,’ she replied when Helen repeated Tom’s instructions. ‘He also said that if I wasn’t pregnant by Christmas he’d think about recommending IVF treatment.’
‘And you’re not happy about that,’ Helen observed, seeing the woman sigh. ‘Look, I know you have a phobia about hospitals, and IVF treatment involves spending a lot of time in one—’
‘It’s not that, Doctor. It’s…’ Rhona sat down on the edge of her bed. ‘I want to start the IVF treatment right away. I’ll be thirty-seven in June, and to wait until Christmas…Why can’t I start the IVF treatment sooner?’
‘Because now that Dr Brooke has cut out the blocked sections of one Fallopian tube you’ve a sixty per cent chance of becoming pregnant without assistance. Rhona, no matter what the newspapers say, IVF isn’t the answer to every woman’s prayer,’ Helen continued as the woman looked unconvinced. ‘The success rates are still very low—no more than one in six—whereas now you have a three out of five chance of doing it naturally.’
Rhona didn’t look happy, and Helen shook her head as she watched her leave. How many times had she heard women demand IVF as though it was the quick-fix answer to everything? She wished it was, but all too often it brought nothing but pain and heartbreak.
‘A penny for them?’
She turned to see Mark standing behind her, and sighed.
‘I’m just thinking of all the women in the world who want babies and yet can’t have them, and all the babies who are born to women who don’t want them.’
‘And then there are people like Mr and Mrs Dukakis,’ he said. ‘I had to tell them this morning that they’re both carriers of the thalassaemia gene, so the odds are stacked pretty high that their baby will have the condition.’
‘How did they take it?’
His mouth twisted. ‘How do you think?’
He looked tired, defeated—nothing like his usual smiling flippant self—and instinctively she put her hand on his arm.
‘We can only do what we can, Mark.’
‘I know, but…’ He rubbed his hand over his face. ‘Do you ever wish you had a magic wand which would erase all the illnesses and inherited conditions in the world?’
‘I think every doctor does,’ she replied, ‘but when I get down—wonder why the hell I’m doing this job—I think of all the lives modern medicine has saved, the lives it will go on saving as new treatments become available, and then I think maybe the magic wand isn’t too far away.’
His lips twisted into not quite a smile. ‘I’ve said it before, and I’m going to say it again. Tom is one very lucky man. I mean it, Helen,’ he continued as she backed up a step, her cheeks darkening. ‘Straight up, no flattery, no bullshit.’
‘I’m lucky, too,’ she said quickly. ‘Tom’s a good husband—’
‘Do you want to hear something really crazy?’ he interrupted. ‘I like you, Helen Brooke, and that’s a whole new experience for me. Oh, I know all about wanting a woman, but liking one?’ He looked bewildered, then a broad grin lit up his face and he looked like the old Mark again. ‘Said it was crazy, didn’t I?’
She didn’t know what to say—couldn’t think of anything to say.
Did he realise how devastating his admission was? No, she didn’t think he did. He hadn’t said it for effect or as another form of flattery. He’d meant it, and somehow—crazily—his confession was infinitely more appealing than all his previous compliments had been, and much more dangerous.
‘Mark—’
‘I’d like to take you out to dinner one evening.’
‘I’m afraid Tom and I hardly ever get the same night off,’ she replied, and he smiled.
‘Don’t be disingenuous, Helen. You know very well that I wasn’t including Tom in my invitation. It’s you I want to take out to dinner.’
She shook her head. ‘I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘You know very well why not,’ she protested.
‘Look, all I’m talking about is dinner here,’ he continued, his green eyes fixed on her. ‘Dinner in any smart restaurant you care to name. Dinner in a restaurant that would cut up rough if I dragged you under the table halfway through the hors d’oeuvres and main course and made love to you. A simple dinner for two.’
Who was being disingenuous now? she thought. They could never go out together for a simple dinner for two. If she accepted his invitation she’d also be accepting—acknowledging—the attraction between them, and that was something she must never do.
‘No, Mark.’
‘Trying to pretend that what’s happening between us isn’t really happening isn’t going to work, you know,’ he said softly.
‘Mark…’ She paused, and started again. ‘Mark, I—’
‘Mark, you’re needed down in A and E,’ Liz called from her small office. ‘RTA. Female passenger, five months pregnant with chest and leg injuries.’
He sighed. ‘No rest for the weary.’
No, but a reprieve for me, Helen thought as she watched him go, and she badly needed that reprieve. Needed time to think. No, not to think, she told herself. Thinking about Mark Lorimer and what he’d said would be a mistake, a big one.
Home, Helen thought, catching sight of the time on the ward clock. She needed to go home, to the children, to everything she and Tom had created, and remind herself of what was important in her life.
One hour at home, however, was enough to make her wonder about her decision. Two hours had her questioning her sanity.
‘Do you two never do anything but fight?’ she exclaimed as she went into the sitting room in time to see Emma hurl a book at her brother.
‘He started it,’ Emma protested. ‘He’s always in my way, mucking about with my things.’
‘I wouldn’t touch your rubbishy old things with a bargepole,’ her brother retorted. ‘You’re just mad at me because you got into trouble at school today, and I got three gold stars.’
‘What sort of trouble?’ Helen demanded.
‘Nothing,’ Emma replied, shooting her brother a fulminating glance.
‘Emma, what sort of trouble?’ Helen repeated.
‘She was fooling about in class again,’ John declared, looking as smug as only an eight-year-old-boy could, ‘so the teacher sent her to the headmistress.’
‘That’s right, go telling tales to Mum,’ Emma snapped. ‘You’re a big jerk, and I hate you.’
And to think I gave up the chance of becoming a surgeon for this, Helen thought wearily as John responded in kind. I should have gone on the Pill instead of trusting to Tom and his condoms. Better yet, I should have got myself sterilised.
‘Why were you fooling about in class?’ she asked as evenly as she could.
‘It was boring.’
‘That’s it?’ Helen said. ‘It was boring? Well, let me tell you something, young lady. A lot of life is boring, but you’ve got to take the rough with the smooth. It can’t all be—’
‘Fun, fun, fun,’ Emma finished for her. ‘Yeah, I know. I should do. You keep telling me.’
Helen opened her mouth, closed it again and gave up an argument she knew she couldn’t win. ‘Bedtime,’ she said instead.
‘Oh, Mum!’
For once her son and daught
er were united, but she was adamant.
‘Bed,’ she repeated. ‘It’s way past nine, and your father won’t be pleased if he comes home and finds the two of you still up.’
Actually, Tom probably wouldn’t even notice, but she needed some peace and quiet. Now.
And time to try to salvage some of his dinner. The chicken casserole was still OK, but the vegetables were a total write-off.
Should she put more on now, or wait until Tom got home?
Now, she decided, slipping some roasted potatoes onto a tray and the broccoli into a pot. He’d be starving by the time he got home, and as she was on call tonight it would be just typical if the hospital paged her just as he walked in the door.
‘Something smells good.’
She whirled round, her hand on her heart. ‘Tom, are you trying to give me a heart attack!’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said ruefully. ‘I was trying to be as quiet as I could so as not to wake the kids.’
‘They’ve just gone up.’ Her eyes swept over him, taking in the greyness round his jaw, his tired eyes. ‘Rough shift?’
He lifted the cruet set on the kitchen table, and put it down again. ‘Did you hear about the RTA—five-month pregnant woman with chest and leg injuries?’
She nodded. ‘Mark was on his way down to it when I left.’
‘She didn’t make it. Neither did the baby.’
There was nothing she could say—nothing that would make it any better. They’d both had experiences like that in the past, but it never got any easier to handle.
‘Why don’t you go and sit down?’ she suggested. ‘Dinner won’t be long.’ Quickly she salted the broccoli, put the lid on the pan and reached for her oven gloves, only to see he hadn’t moved. ‘Is there something else?’
He disappeared into the hall and reappeared clutching the biggest bouquet of flowers she’d ever seen. ‘These…these are for you.’
‘For me?’ she faltered. ‘But—’
‘I thought…well, you’ve seemed a bit down lately,’ he said awkwardly, ‘and I thought they might cheer you up.’
A hard lump clogged her throat as she took the flowers from him. He’d bought flowers for her when it wasn’t her birthday. He’d found time in the middle of his fraught, awful shift to go out and buy flowers for her.
‘They’re lovely,’ she said a little unsteadily. ‘Thank you.’
‘You’re sure you like them—I mean, they’re all right?’
Oh, Lord, but he looked so uncertain, and she blinked back the tears she knew were shimmering in her eyes. ‘They’re beautiful. You shouldn’t have—’
‘Of course I should,’ he protested. ‘I don’t buy you flowers often enough. I don’t buy you anything often enough. I should buy you flowers, and chocolates, and perfume—’
‘Tom, you don’t need to buy me anything to prove you love me,’ she said through a throat so tight it hurt. ‘Just…just maybe tell me once in a while that you do.’
‘Then they’re all right?’ he said, relief coursing through him. ‘You really do like them?’
‘Oh, Tom, you big ninny,’ she said with a queer little laugh that sounded almost like a sob as she came round the table into his arms. ‘Of course I like them.’
And he gathered her to him, and did what he’d been wanting to do all day, captured her lips with his own, revelling in the taste of her, the feel of her soft warmth under his hands, the pressure of her breasts against his chest.
Lord, but it had been so long since they’d made love. Too long, he realised, feeling his groin tighten in anticipation as she moaned against his mouth when he slid his fingers up under her blouse, searching for, and finding, the catch of her bra. Much, much too long, he decided with a groan of frustration when she suddenly pulled back from him just as his fingers cupped her bared breasts.
‘Tom, we can’t,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I’m on call tonight. The phone could ring at any minute.’
‘Maybe it won’t,’ he said, coaxing her back into his arms, kissing the silky soft hollow in the centre of her throat where he knew she liked to be kissed. ‘Maybe we’ll get lucky.’
‘Fat chance,’ she said with an unsteady laugh. ‘And you haven’t eaten yet. You must be starving.’
‘I sure am,’ he murmured huskily, encircling one of her nipples with his fingers and smiling as she gave a gasp of pleasure. ‘But not for food.’
‘At least let me turn off the oven,’ she said, her eyes dark and soft and luminous. ‘And put your lovely flowers into some water.’
Impatiently he watched as she switched off the cooker, but when she lifted the flowers he couldn’t help but say, ‘I’m so glad you like them. I wasn’t sure what Doris would buy—everyone’s taste’s different—and—’
‘Doris,’ she repeated, with an odd expression on her face. ‘You asked Doris to buy them for me?’
‘I’d much rather have bought them for you myself, of course,’ he said hastily, ‘but I’m so busy at the moment—’
‘Too busy even to lift the phone, and at least order them personally?’ she snapped. ‘Nobody’s that busy, Tom.’
‘Helen—’
‘So you asked Doris to buy them for me,’ she continued furiously. ‘Doris, who’s the biggest gossip in the hospital. Doris, who’ll know it isn’t my birthday, or our anniversary, so she’ll guess we’ve had a row.’
‘She won’t—’
‘Was it her suggestion to buy them for me?’
‘No, of course it wasn’t. It was—’ Quickly he choked off the rest of what he’d been about to say, but not quickly enough.
‘It was who, Tom?’ she said, her voice icy. ‘Who suggested buying me flowers?’
‘Gideon,’ he muttered, ‘but—’
‘So, not content with discussing our private life with Doris, you told Gideon as well. Well, thanks, Tom. Thanks for nothing!’
‘Helen—’
‘I’m going to bed.’
‘But—’
‘I’m going to bed, and you know what you can do with your damn flowers!’
She’d slammed out of the kitchen before he could stop her, and for a moment he wondered if he should go after her, but something told him that if he were to suggest making love now he’d probably end up sleeping in the spare room.
Morosely he stared down at the flowers left abandoned on the kitchen table. They were nice flowers—they were beautiful flowers—and she’d loved them. He knew she had, until…
‘Women,’ he muttered out loud to the empty kitchen. ‘If I live to be a hundred, I don’t think I’ll ever understand women.’
CHAPTER SIX
‘HELEN, the very person I’m looking for!’
Helen’s heart sank as she turned to see Gideon coming towards her, a broad smile on his face.
He was going to ask about the flowers. The flowers Tom had given her last night and she’d binned this morning. And she didn’t want to talk about them. Not today. Not ever.
‘I’m in a bit of a hurry, Gideon.’
‘Aren’t we all?’ He beamed. ‘But I’d like a word with you before I see Tom.’
Of course he would. He was clearly itching to know how successful his idea had been. To find out how pleased she’d been with the flowers. And she had been pleased until she’d discovered who’d bought them, whose idea they’d been in the first place.
‘Gideon—’
‘It’s such good news, Helen, such tremendous news. And it’s going to make such a difference to our lives.’
She stared at him blankly. Good news—tremendous news? What on earth was he talking about?
‘I’m not making any sense, am I?’ He laughed, seeing her confusion. ‘But I’ve just come from a meeting with Admin, and they’ve finally agreed to us advertising for another member of staff. And not just any old member of staff, but a consultant. A consultant who’ll be in charge of a newly created infertility clinic affiliated to Obs and Gynae.’
‘You’re joking?’ she gaspe
d, and he shook his head.
‘I’ve got permission to start working on the advertisement this morning.’
‘But that means…’
‘No more fifteen-hour days.’ He nodded. ‘No more one weekend off in four, and, best of all, our own infertility clinic.’
‘Oh, Gideon…’
‘It sounds wonderful, doesn’t it?’ He laughed. ‘And I wanted you to be the first to know. You’ve been working so hard recently.’
‘We all have.’
‘Yes, but you’re a wife and mother as well as our SHO, and I know things haven’t been easy for you recently.’
A faint wash of colour crept over her cheeks. How much had Tom told him? At a guess, not a lot. Men didn’t discuss their feelings with other men the same way women did, but Gideon clearly knew—or at least suspected—enough to be concerned.
‘Gideon—’
‘I’m not going to say any more,’ he continued quickly, obviously wishing now that he hadn’t actually said anything at all, ‘except that I’m sure that once you and Tom can spend more time together everything will be all right again.’
She hoped it would as Gideon hurried off to spread the good news, but could the problems she and Tom seemed to have be fixed simply by spending more time with each other?
All marriages have their rough moments, her heart whispered. That’s what the ‘for better, for worse’ part of the wedding ceremony is all about. You work through the difficult times, and come out stronger on the other side. And marriages don’t break up because of a bunch of flowers. Women don’t start thinking about the big D word simply because they feel neglected, taken for granted. OK, so maybe right now Tom appears to have as much sensitivity as a hospital trolley, but you love him, and he loves you.
‘I was beginning to think you’d got lost,’ Liz said when Helen reached the ward.
‘Gideon wanted a word,’ Helen replied with an effort. ‘Any new admissions this morning?’
‘A Mrs Yvonne Merrick. She’s one of Tom’s patients, but I think you saw her last month when you took over his clinic. Mother of four—vaginal bleeding between her periods?’
The Surgeon's Marriage Page 9
