‘Helen…’ He cleared his throat, and started again. ‘Will you come to bed with me?’
Was it his imagination or had her grip on the magazine tightened?
‘I’m on call tonight, remember?’ she replied.
He almost said ‘We might get lucky’ until he remembered what had happened the last time he’d said that. How the whole evening had gone right down the tube.
‘Helen, please.’ Dear Lord, he was begging. Begging his own wife to make love to him. Well, he had no pride, not where she was concerned. ‘Helen, it’s been so long since we made love, and…and I need you.’ Slowly she lowered the magazine, and to his utter horror he could see tears sparkling in her eyes. Oh, hell, could he never get it right? ‘Helen, I’m sorry. Oh, love, don’t—please, don’t cry.’
Desperately he reached for her, and she met him halfway, clinging to him with an almost frantic desperation.
‘Kiss me, Tom,’ she muttered into his chest. ‘Don’t talk—don’t say anything. Just…kiss me.’
With a ragged groan he took her mouth, teasing her lips gently at first, but she didn’t seem to want him to be gentle. Her whole body might be trembling beneath his fingers, but her lips were firm, demanding, almost as though she was seeking an answer to something, and he returned the pressure of her lips with equal intensity, plundering her mouth, locking his fingers in her hair to bring her even closer.
‘Helen—’
‘No words—no words,’ she gasped, sliding herself onto his lap, straddling him with her thighs, pressing herself hard against him so he could feel her heat. ‘Make love to me, Tom. Just make love to me.’
She dug her fingers deep into his shoulders as he un-buttoned her blouse, then slipped her bra from her. Arched against him, whimpering, when he took first one hardened peak into his mouth and suckled it, then the other, and convulsed jerkily when his fingers slid up under her skirt to touch and caress her warm dampness.
Damn Mark for all eternity, he thought savagely as he lowered her onto the sofa and reached for the zip of his trousers. She was his wife, not Mark’s. His love, not Mark’s. But as he drew her closer a groan of frustration was torn from him as the phone suddenly rang.
‘Ignore it,’ he begged, his voice raw with need. ‘Pretend we didn’t hear it.’
‘I can’t—you know I can’t,’ she gasped, rolling out from under him, already reaching for her bra.
It was the hospital, of course. He knew with a certain grim inevitability even before she lifted the phone that it was going to be the hospital.
‘I’ll wait up for you,’ he said as she lifted the car keys, but she shook her head. ‘There’s no point. I could be hours.’
She was right, but that didn’t stop his body protesting, demanding release, as he heard her drive away.
Why couldn’t the switchboard have waited an hour—half an hour—even ten minutes—before they’d rung? If it could only have waited, Helen and he would have made love and then he was sure everything would have been all right again.
But, no, it had to ring, and Helen had gone.
Slowly he went upstairs and into their bedroom where the empty bed seemed to mock him. Perhaps if Helen got back early from the hospital…
His lips twisted. The way his luck was running at the moment he’d be lucky if he saw her by breakfast-time, and with a sigh he opened the wardrobe to hang up his jacket, only to frown as his eyes caught sight of a gold carrier bag stuffed at the very back of the wardrobe.
Curiously he hauled it out, but as he stared down at the bag his frown gave way to a smile. Helen must have bought herself something very expensive and was trying to pluck up the courage to tell him. Should he find out what it was, or let her surprise him? His conscience told him to let her surprise him, but common sense told him that if he at least knew what it was he wouldn’t look so much of an idiot by complimenting her on something she’d had for years.
Quickly he reached into the bag but as he drew out the contents a hard lump formed in his throat.
It was a nightdress. A scarlet nightdress so sheer and fine it was practically transparent. A scarlet nightdress so blatantly sexy that any red-blooded male who saw Helen in it would have been turned on instantly.
But she hadn’t bought it for him.
As he crushed the flimsy material between his fingers, he knew without a shadow of a doubt that she had bought it to wear for Mark.
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘WELL, all I can say is there’s got to be something far wrong with a hospital if a person can come into it with a stomach ache and end up having a heart attack,’ Mrs Foster exclaimed, her plump cheeks quivering with indignation. ‘Now, I’m not one to complain, Doctor…’
Yeah, right, Helen thought, schooling her features into an expression of solicitude with difficulty. Mrs Foster had done nothing but complain from the day she’d met her, and since she’d recovered from her heart attack in the theatre last Thursday she’d been impossible.
‘And as for Dr Brooke’s suggestion that I should lose some weight,’ Mrs Foster continued imperiously. ‘What does my weight have to do with anything?’
‘Quite a lot, actually,’ Helen replied. ‘You see, people who are overweight are often more prone to heart attacks. The excess weight puts a strain on their heart, and—’
‘My mother never weighed any less than fourteen stone and she was ninety-five when she died. All this talk of diet and exercise…If you want my opinion, it’s just an excuse to cover up sloppy surgery. If my hysterectomy had been carried out properly in the first place…’
Helen groaned inwardly as Mrs Foster launched into her by now all-too-familiar diatribe against the Belfield in general, and Tom in particular. Sometimes Helen wondered why she bothered—why any of them bothered.
Because of people like Yvonne Merrick, she thought, noticing the woman smiling sympathetically at her from down the ward. OK, so the woman had been foolish to ignore her symptoms for so long but she couldn’t help but feel that Yvonne deserved her attention a hell of a lot more than Mrs Foster did. If Mrs Foster followed their recommendations, there was no reason why she shouldn’t live to the same age as her mother, but Yvonne’s future was uncertain in the extreme.
‘Could I have a word with you, please, Doctor?’
Helen glanced round to see Gideon standing behind her, and tried hard not to look too relieved. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me, Mrs Foster—’
‘And that’s another thing that’s wrong with this hospital,’ the woman called after her as she walked away. ‘The staffing levels in it are atrocious. There’s never enough nurses and doctors to attend to our needs. You’re always rushing off somewhere.’
‘Mostly to get as far away from her as possible,’ Gideon commented the moment they were out of earshot, and Helen sighed.
‘I know we’re not supposed to let our personal feelings get in the way of our work, but…’
‘Mrs Foster gets right up your nose?’ Gideon smiled ruefully. ‘As far as I’m concerned, the sooner she’s discharged, the better.’
‘When will she be able to go home?’
‘Another week—twelve days probably—always supposing one of us doesn’t murder her first.’
Helen chuckled. ‘Did you really want to talk to me or were you just performing a rescue mission?’
Gideon looked slightly uncomfortable. ‘Actually, I did want a word. It’s Tom, Helen. He looks quite dreadful.’
He did, and any gratitude Helen might have felt towards the consultant for rescuing her evaporated in an instant.
‘I’m not surprised he looks dreadful considering all the extra shifts you’ve been dumping on him,’ she said tartly. ‘It’s not on, Gideon, it really isn’t. He’s practically living at the Belfield—’
‘Hey, it’s not my fault,’ Gideon protested. ‘I haven’t been forcing him to work extra shifts. He volunteered.’
‘Tom volunteered?’ she repeated. ‘But—’
‘I thought…’ Gideon flushed
slightly. ‘I thought perhaps the two of you were in some sort of financial trouble, perhaps needed the extra cash.’
‘No, we’re not in any financial trouble,’ she said, bewildered. At least, nothing Tom had told her about. ‘Gideon—’
‘I told him this morning that enough was enough. In fact, I’ve insisted he does no more evening or night work for a month, and nearly got my head in my hands for my trouble. What’s wrong with him, Helen?’
She wished she knew. Last week, when he’d reached for her—suggested they make love—she’d thought all her stupid fears and doubts about their marriage had been just that—stupid. OK, so she’d known that the mere act of making love wasn’t going to provide the answer to all their problems, but the fact that he’d desired her had at least proved the attraction between them was still there. But since then he’d been so distant, snapping at the children, barely exchanging a word with her.
She’d thought it was simply because he was exhausted by all the extra shifts Gideon had given him, and to hear now that he’d actually volunteered for them…
‘Are you sure about him volunteering?’ she said uncertainly. ‘You couldn’t possibly have misunderstood?’
‘It’s a bit difficult to misunderstand a request for extra shifts, Helen.’
He was right, it was, but why would Tom volunteer? It made no sense unless…
Unless he’s trying to avoid you, her heart whispered, but why would he want to make love to her one night, then deliberately distance himself from her from then on?
Guilt, her heart answered. He felt guilty that night about not loving you any more and decided to make love to you one more time before telling you that he was leaving you.
It made sense. It made horrible, awful sense.
‘Oh, heck, Helen, I’m sorry,’ Gideon said quickly, consternation on his face as a small sob came from her. ‘I shouldn’t have said anything—me and my big mouth. Forget I said anything. Forget I even mentioned the subject.’
He took off before she could stop him, disappearing out of the ward like a panic-stricken rabbit, and a wobbly smile touched her lips as she watched him go. Poor Gideon. Never had she seen him look quite so embarrassed, and all because of one small sob. She wondered what he would have done if she’d burst into tears. Gone into orbit, probably.
Tom was exactly the same. He hated seeing her cry, too. Or at least he used to, she thought as she walked slowly down the ward. Now she wasn’t sure how he would react to anything she did any more. Now she didn’t even know if he loved her any more.
‘Thanks, Doctor,’ Yvonne said as Helen bent to retrieve the book which had slipped off her bed.
‘Alternative Treatments for Cervical Cancer,’ Helen observed, squinting at the title before she handed it back. ‘Don’t you think it’s a bit early to be thinking of that? You haven’t even had your radiotherapy yet.’
‘My husband brought it in for me.’ Yvonne grimaced slightly. ‘He’s panicking a bit, you see.’
Yvonne didn’t appear to be. In fact, if anything, Yvonne had been far too bright and cheerful since Tom had told her how far the cancer had spread. Helen guessed she was keeping a tight lid on her emotions, but it wasn’t healthy. The more Yvonne bottled things up, the more catastrophic it was going to be when she finally let go.
‘And you,’ Helen asked, perching on the end of Yvonne’s bed. ‘How are you?’
‘Oh, I’m fine,’ the woman replied with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. ‘I mean, the success rate for treating people with cancer has improved dramatically recently, hasn’t it?’
‘It has indeed.’ Helen nodded. ‘In fact—’
‘And just because my cancer has spread so far, and you’ve had to take away so much of my insides, doesn’t mean that I…It doesn’t mean I’m necessarily going to…to…’
‘Die?’ Helen suggested gently, and saw the woman swallow convulsively. ‘Yvonne, listen to me—’
‘I’m just being stupid, aren’t I?’ Yvonne interrupted, her voice thick. ‘Feeling sorry for myself like this…It’s not going to get me anywhere, is it? I…I’ve got to be positive—look to the future—but sometimes…sometimes…’
‘Let it out, Yvonne,’ Helen urged as the woman bit her lip. ‘Stop being so brave and noble, and just let it out.’
She did. Tears suddenly began trickling down Yvonne’s cheeks. Tears that became racking sobs. Helen held her tightly, murmuring words she guessed Yvonne scarcely heard but hoped she took some comfort from.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Yvonne gulped when her tears were spent. ‘You must think I’m such a fool…’
‘Yvonne, everyone’s frightened when they’re told they have cancer,’ Helen said softly. ‘It’s not a sign of weakness to cry.’
‘I just wish I’d gone to my GP sooner. If I hadn’t kept on putting it off, and putting it off…’
‘I’m afraid no amount of wishing and hoping can change what’s happened,’ Helen murmured. ‘All you can do is to look forward and not back, and the surgery Dr Brooke performed has at least given you a fighting chance.’
‘That’s what your husband said. He’s such a nice man—isn’t he?’ Yvonne said tremulously. ‘Oh, I know most of the women in the ward think Dr Lorimer’s the best thing since sliced bread, but I prefer your husband. He’s honest, and solid, and you know where you are with him.’
I don’t, Helen thought as she settled Mrs Merrick down. All I know is that I’m miserable and unhappy, and I don’t know what to do about it.
Then confront him, her mind whispered. OK, so maybe you won’t like what he says, but surely anything’s better than this uncertainty, this doubt?
‘Liz, do you have any idea where Tom is?’ she asked, seeing the sister hurry past her with a bedpan.
‘Last time I saw him he was heading for the staffroom,’ Liz threw over her shoulder.
Helen glanced down at her watch. His morning clinic must have finished early. He’d be grabbing a quick coffee before he joined Gideon in Theatre, and although the staff-room was hardly the ideal place for a private conversation it would have to do.
Tom clearly didn’t agree with her. His face stiffened into tight, grim lines when she appeared, but she’d come this far and she wasn’t going to back down now.
‘Tom, I have to talk to you.’
He was already getting to his feet. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have the time—’
‘Then make the time,’ she insisted. ‘Tom, you said yourself that we don’t talk any more. That all we ever talk about is the hospital, our patients, the children. And you were right.’
For a second she thought he was going to sit down again, but he didn’t. ‘Can’t we talk about this later?’
‘When?’ she demanded. ‘You only come home nowadays to sleep—’
‘It’s not my fault I’m so busy.’
The blatancy of his lie took her breath away, but she wasn’t going to lose her temper. She refused to allow herself to lose her temper.
‘Oh, really?’ she said as calmly as she could. ‘Well, that’s very interesting when Gideon’s just told me you’ve been volunteering to work extra shifts.’
A guilty tide of colour rushed over his cheeks.
‘Gideon had no right to talk about me behind my back,’ he flared, and she shook her head.
‘Tom, he has every right. He’s worried about you. I’m worried about you.’
‘Are you—are you really?’ he said, and her jaw dropped.
‘Of course I am. Tom, you’re my husband—’
‘I’m glad you can still remember that.’
‘Remember it?’ she echoed, bewildered. ‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’
His eyes met hers for a second with a look she didn’t understand, then he muttered, ‘Nothing.’
‘Don’t you “Nothing” me, Tom Brooke,’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s not nothing that you seem hell-bent on working yourself into the ground. It’s not nothing that you seem to prefer to be at the Belfield in
stead of home with me and the kids.’
‘Maybe if I thought you actually wanted me there I might come home more often.’
‘Wanted you there?’ she gasped. Then all the anger and confusion she’d been trying to keep in check exploded. ‘OK, that does it. I don’t know what you’re talking about, but—’
‘Neither do I, but if the two of you don’t lower your voices I reckon the entire hospital is soon going to find out.’
Helen bit her lip savagely as she turned to see Mark standing in the doorway. Right now she didn’t give a damn if the whole world knew that she and Tom were in the middle of a blazing row. All she knew was that Mark had lousy timing, really lousy timing.
Tom clearly thought so, too. In fact, if the look he threw his friend had been any more searing Mark would have been toast.
‘Is there something we can do for you, Mark, or are you just here to make smart remarks?’ he said, his lips a thin white line of anger.
‘I wanted a coffee if it’s all the same to you, and to ask Helen something,’ he replied.
He didn’t just have lousy timing, Helen thought as she watched in amazement as Mark made himself a coffee, then sipped it with obvious relish. He was also completely impervious to atmosphere. How could he stand there casually drinking his coffee when you could have cut the air in the room with a knife? If she’d been in his shoes she’d have been out of the staffroom, fast.
‘What did you want to talk to me about, Mark?’ she said, hoping he might take the hint, finish his coffee and go.
‘I was wondering if you’d like to come out to dinner with me tonight.’
‘I’m afraid we couldn’t possibly get a babysitter at such short notice,’ she said dismissively. ‘The agency I normally use is booked up weeks in advance—’
‘I wasn’t asking Tom out to dinner, Helen. Just you.’
Was he out of his mind? Her eyes flashed across to Tom in consternation. What the hell was he doing, asking her out in front of her husband?
‘Mark—’
‘You see, I’m leaving the Belfield on Sunday,’ he continued smoothly, ‘and it occurred to me that I really must do something to thank you for that marvellous meal you cooked for me. Tom and I are old friends so there’s no need for me to thank him, but I’d very much like to show you my appreciation.’
The Surgeon's Marriage Page 13
