'Sweetheart, are you all right?' he asked gruffly, and she felt the unwanted tears welling again.
'I'm fine,' she said, a little choked. 'Just tired. Let me go, Nick.'
Slowly, reluctantly, he released her, and she all but ran to her car, driving away as quickly as the traffic would allow. She held on until she got home, until the door closed behind her, and then finally the dam burst.
CHAPTER THREE
Troubled, Nick watched Sally go, not at all convinced that he believed her story—or at least, not all of it, and not in the form in which it had been presented to him.
There was something she wasn't telling him— something major, something that had torn her apart. He knew her too well to be fobbed off, just as he knew she was hurting now.
'Ah, Nick, just the guy I was looking for,' Ryan said, coming up behind him. 'Could I put you in charge of the waiting-room contingent? I think we're OK on the RTA now, it's just tidying up, but that lot in there could use some fast professional decision-making and they're a bit short-handed—Toby's rather out of his depth. You want to handle it for me?'
'Sure. I reek of diesel, though—I ended up kneeling in it. I need a minute to change.'
'I don't suppose they'll even notice,' Ryan assured him.
Dragging his eyes from the door, he nodded and went in search of a white coat and clean trousers. He couldn't deal with Sally until later and, besides, he didn't have her address. He'd have to find a way to wheedle it out of someone—but who? Ryan would never give it to him, always assuming he knew it anyway, but one of the girls might if he used his charm.
He smiled grimly. It was unfair and unethical, but there were times, like this, when that was just tough. He headed for the waiting room and bided his time.
*
It wasn't hard, in the end. As he was finishing off, he simply asked Angela, the senior sister on duty, if she had Sally's phone number. 'She left something in Ryan's car, and I don't know if she needs it. I thought I'd ring her—if it's important I could drop it round to her on my way home.' He cranked up the charm, and she crumpled like a paper bag.
Stage one, he thought, pocketing the number. Now for the telephone directory. He looked up Clarke, scanned down the 'S's until he found her number and, bingo, he had her address.
Excellent. All he had to do now was find it, and a walking road map strolled into the department at that point. With a grim smile, he approached the policeman and showed him the road name.
'It's a colleague—I have to drop something round there and I don't know the area. I wonder if you could direct me?'
'Sure. Know the Old London Road? It's off there— small, fairly new development. You can't miss it.'
He shook his head. 'Sorry. I'm new here. I wouldn't know where to start.'
'No matter, I'll jot it down for you.' The policeman took the piece of paper with Sally's address on it and sketched out a neat map. 'There you go, that should get you there.'
Nick wondered if the small victory showed in his eyes. 'Cheers, mate,' he said, clapping the man on the shoulder, and within minutes he was on his way.
He dived home first and showered and changed to wash the smell of blood and diesel off his skin, and then, dressed in clean jeans and a polo shirt, he checked the sketch map against his road atlas, got back in the car and set off.
it was impossible to miss, as the policeman had said, but a real maze. Still, at least it was well lit and he could see the road names clearly. He turned into Sally's road, crawled along until he spotted her number and pulled over, studying it for a moment.
It was a pleasant little house, he thought. Neat, tidy, nothing fantastic, but there were trees in the street and it looked a decent neighbourhood. The house was semi-detached, but staggered so that only part of it was linked to the next house, and it gave the illusion of more privacy.
There was a car on the drive, a sensible little navy blue Fiesta not quite in its first flush of youth, exactly the sort of car he pictured her driving—exactly like the car the injured woman had been trapped in today. Had it worried her? Very likely.
Pondering his reception, he got out of his car and approached the house. There were lights on at the back, but the hall was dark behind the glass door and the outside light remained firmly unlit. He rang the doorbell and wondered idly if she owned the house. Probably. She'd always wanted security. She would have bought one by now, he was almost sure of it, and this was probably within her reach.
The hall light came on, and through the glass he saw a figure approaching. She opened the door and looked up at him, and her face hardened.
'Nick, no,' she said, trying to shut the door, but the pain in her eyes was more than he could bear and he eased the door open and went in, closing it softly behind him.
She turned away and he followed her, catching her shoulders and turning her gently to face him. Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, but she held his gaze defiantly.
'I don't recall inviting you in,' she said, and her voice was cold. 'You might like to leave before I call the police.'
A sensible man would have walked away, but Nick had never been sensible where Sally was concerned. He shook his head.
'Sal, talk to me,' he urged, 'What is it? What's wrong?'
'Nothing's wrong, except that you're standing in my hall and I want you to leave.'
He shook his head and frowned. 'Don't change the subject, you know what I mean. What happened all those years ago that made you ring me?'
For an age she hesitated, as if she was engaged in some internal struggle, then the fight seemed to go out of her.
'I had a baby,' she said, so quietly that for a moment he wondered if he'd heard her right.
Then the impact of her words hit home, and he stared at her in shock. 'A baby?' he echoed. He sucked in some much-needed air. 'You mean I'm a father? All these years I've been a father and I didn't even know?'
Sally shook her head. 'You're not a father,' she told him.
Anger shot through him, and he had to forcibly restrain himself. 'What the hell do you mean, I'm not a father? Is this one of these pedantic statements about biological function not inferring automatic rights, or are you telling me it's not my child?' he bit out furiously.
'Oh, she was yours all right,' Sally confirmed, and then went on, her gentle voice tinged with bitterness, 'She died, Nick. That's why I rang you—to tell you she was dying—but you didn't call me.'
Shock drained the strength from his legs for a moment, and he stood stock still, hanging on to reality by a thread.
'My God,' he said eventually, his voice rising. 'All these years you've kept this secret and you never even bothered to tell me?'
'What was the point?' she blazed. 'She was dead, Nick! There was nothing to be achieved by contacting you and, besides, you didn't care anyway or you would have rung me. By the time she was dead it was too late—too late for everything!'
She turned away, and this time he let her go. He was too stunned to follow her, too stunned and shocked and...
Gutted. He felt utterly gutted. He'd had a child, and he'd never seen her, never felt her move in her mother's womb, never touched her, never held her, and now it was too late—nearly seven years too late, and all because a phone message hadn't got to him in time.
Nick sank back against the wall and closed his eyes, dragging his hand over his face. He stayed there for an age, staring into space, thoughts reeling through his head.
Thoughts, and then questions. Endless questions.
And guilt.
He could hear the clink of crockery coming from the kitchen and, shrugging away from the wall, he followed the sounds.
He still looked stunned, Sally thought. Stunned and wounded, but no longer angry.
Good. This wasn't an area in which she could cope with his anger. It was a very private part of her, a part she'd dealt with alone. Sharing it at all was going to be very, very difficult.
'I'm sorry,' he said gruffly, and she jerked her head up and star
ed at him in amazement.
'Sorry?' she echoed.
'That I didn't contact you. I was away. My father had been taken into hospital—he had angina. I was at home for the weekend. My house-mate didn't give me your message until Wednesday. I don't suppose he realised it was urgent or he would have given you my home number.'
Of course, it had been the weekend. 'It was Saturday morning,' she said, feeling hollow as she remembered.
'When... ?' He trailed off, searching her face helplessly. 'When did she...?'
She knew what he was asking, what he couldn't find the words to say. 'Saturday afternoon, a quarter to five,' she told him gently, then went on, 'She had an inoperable congenital deformity of her heart, and she was too weak for a transplant, even if a donor heart had been available. There was never any hope. I knew that, from the moment I saw her.'
Nick nodded, understanding, and then looked up at her again, his eyes anguished. 'I'm sorry—I should have been there for you. It must have been hell.'
Sally looked away, swallowing the lump in her throat. 'It was,' she admitted. 'I went into labour early—I was about thirty-two weeks. They said it would probably be all right, and they tried to slow me down, but it didn't work. I had her at six on Saturday morning, and I rang you at eight or thereabouts, when the shock had worn off a little and I realised you should see her. You didn't ring back—I assumed you didn't care.'
'I didn't know.'
'I realise that now, but then it never occurred to me that you might not have got the message, not till much later, and there didn't seem any point then in contacting you. I knew you'd be hurt. There didn't seem to be any reason to do it.'
'And if she'd been all right?' he asked, an edge in his voice again. 'Would you have contacted me then? Or would you have brought her up alone?'
'I don't know,' she said honestly. 'I hadn't decided. You'd walked away, told me there was no future for us—'
'No,' he corrected. 'I told you I wasn't ready for marriage. I told you we were too young to make a commitment at that stage and I didn't want a long-distance affair. I never said we didn't have a future.'
'And if I'd told you about the baby, what then? Would you have married me out of duty? I didn't want that, Nick.'
He rammed his hands into his pockets and looked away. He was silent for an age, and then he spoke, the words seemingly dragged from him. 'Did you give her a name?'
'Amy. It means beloved.'
His eyes fluttered shut, and his jaw worked restlessly for a moment.
Sally went on, 'I've got pictures of her, and I kept her clothes. They also took hand-and footprints for me. I thought...if you were too late, you might want to see them. They're upstairs. I'll show you.'
He followed her, sitting on the bed in the spare room and staring in silence at each of the little things she showed him—the tiny handprint, the premature-size sleepsuit which had all but drowned her, the photographs of her in Sally's arms.
His jaw worked, and a silent tear slid down his cheek. She laid a hand gently on his shoulder and stood up.
'I'll be downstairs,' she said, and left him alone to grieve for the daughter he'd never known.
Nick appeared silently in the doorway, but Sally knew he was there. His face was grave, his eyes sombre.
'Coffee?' she offered, and he nodded.
'Please.'
She went through to the kitchen and made him a cup of instant coffee. She didn't even attempt the real thing. As he'd reminded her, she made lousy coffee.
She put the mug in his hand and searched his face, and he gave her a crooked smile. 'It's OK, Sally,' he murmured. 'I'm all right. It's just a lot to take in.'
'I know. I've had years to get used to it. Have you eaten?'
He shook his head, and before she could stop herself, she'd offered to cook for him. Fool, she thought. Get him out!
But she couldn't. The offer had been made and accepted, and the best she could hope for was that he wouldn't settle in for the whole evening. She really, really didn't think she could deal with that.
He didn't stay long. A part of him wanted to, but another, larger part needed to be alone to assimilate his thoughts and finish dealing with the bombshell she'd landed on him.
She made pasta in a garlicky tomato sauce with cheese on top, quick and simple and delicious, and it was cosily domestic and curiously heart-rending and familiar.
They'd had all this, and they'd thrown it away because of a few ill-judged words and an excess of pride. Idiots, he thought. If only he'd been more patient, if only she hadn't told him to go to hell...
So many if onlys. Too many.
He helped her wash up, desperately trying to ignore the scent of her hair as she leant across him to put a plate in the sink, the feel of her body nudging his. He ached for her, but he was used to that, and tonight, of all nights, wasn't the time.
When the last dish was put away, she turned to him with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. 'Coffee?' she offered, but he knew she was only being polite and, anyway, he needed space.
'No, I'll be getting on,' he said. She followed him to the front door and reached for the latch. He stopped her, laying his hand over hers.
'Thank you for telling me about Amy and showing me the things,' he said softly. 'I realise it must be difficult for you.'
Her eyes shimmered a little. 'You're welcome. I'm sorry it was such a shock.'
He gave a hollow laugh. 'It would have been a shock seven years ago, Sal,' he pointed out. 'Only maybe then I would have been of some use to you.'
He lifted his other hand, the one that wasn't holding hers on the latch, and brushed his knuckles over her cheek. 'Sleep tight,' he murmured, and, bending his head, he touched his lips briefly to hers. They were soft and warm and yielding, and the ache intensified.
He pulled away before he gave in to temptation, and opened the door. 'I'll see you tomorrow,' he said, his voice gruff, and strode down the path to his car without looking back. At the end of the road he stopped, turned round, stared at her house.
Temptation was a dangerous thing, and he was very, very tempted. Still, tonight wasn't the night, not for either of them. He went back to his motel and stared at the ceiling for hours, then finally, just before dawn, he fell asleep.
'Oh, dear, not you again, Martin!'
The young lad grinned at Sally and hopped into the cubicle. 'Sorry, Sister. It just—'
'Went,' they said together, and laughed.
'Is your mum with you today?' she asked, and he shook his head.
'No. I was in the park playing football—a mate gave me a lift. I'll tell her later—when I'm all bandaged up and she doesn't have to stress. It's bad enough on my own, without her getting upset when I yell.'
She laughed and helped him up onto the examination couch. 'You lie here, I'll get Dr Baker to come and sort you out.'
Martin reached out and grabbed her arm. 'Sister— is he OK?'
Remembering the last time, Sally nodded. 'Yes, Martin, he's good,' she told him, and crossed her fingers. 'He's done it loads of times.' She slipped out of the cubicle and went up to Nick at the work station.
'Can I borrow you for a sec?' she asked quietly. 'Recurrent dislocation of the patella—Martin knows the form. Only, can you do it cleanly? His last experience was a bit rough.'
Nick nodded. 'Sure.' He followed her back in and perched on the edge of the couch.
'Hi,' he said with a grin. 'I'm Dr Nick Baker. I gather this is a habit of yours?'
Martin rolled his eyes. 'You could say that.'
'Have you seen the orthopaedic team about it?'
'Yeah—they said they'd do something if it got too bad, but they don't want to yet. They keep trying to train me not to do whatever triggers it, but it seems to happen easier and easier.'
Nick pulled a wry face and looked down at the knee. It was bent slightly, the kneecap pushed out to the outside, and from Martin's apprehensive face it was obvious he knew exactly what was coming.
Sally handed him the Entonox mask and he took several deep breaths, propping himself up on his elbows and looking down at his knee. Then he glanced at Nick and nodded.
'OK. Just do it.'
'It'll be fine,' Nick said confidently. Sally wasn't so sure. The last time the doctor on duty had had two goes at reducing it, and Martin had been in agony.
She should have had more faith, she thought a second later. Nick had grasped Martin's ankle, pressed firmly on the side of his kneecap and gently but steadily pulled his leg straight. There was an audible plop, and the patella dropped neatly into place.
Martin yelped, and then laughed with relief, and Sally left him breathing from the mask for a moment until the pain had subsided.
'Oh, that's so much better,' the lad said weakly, and chuckled. 'I thought it was going to be like last time.'
Nick grinned and flexed his hands. 'It's all down to the wrist action,' he said with a grin. 'Now, I don't think it needs another X-ray, I expect you've had so many your leg glows in the dark. I think we'll just put a pressure bandage on it to stop it slipping again and refer you to the orthopaedic surgeons for reassessment. It might be time to consider surgery, but they'll decide. In the meantime, no more football for a while, please, and you need a knee support with a hole in it to locate the patella.'
'I've got one of those.'
'So wear it!' Nick admonished.
'Yes, sir!'
'That's better.'
He grinned at the lad, and Martin chuckled again and sat up cautiously.
'Stay there, I'll bandage it,' Sally told him, and he leant back on his hands and looked down at the swollen and discoloured knee. 'I suppose I could ring my mum,' he said, and sighed. 'She'll stress at me.'
'It was hardly deliberate,' Sally reminded him with a smile. 'And it's only because she loves you.'
'No accounting for taste,' Nick said with a wink, and headed out of the cubicle to his next patient, leaving Sally to finish Martin's bandaging off and listen to the young man waxing lyrical about Nick's amazing skill.
Accidental Rendezvous Page 4
