‘Hey, stop. It’s only a one in four.’
‘Only?’ he said drily. ‘Or one in two, if you ask Libby. She doesn’t want a daughter, either, if she’s got the gene. She’s adamant about not passing it on to a future generation.’
‘She wouldn’t…’
Pain sliced through him, and he had to force himself to breathe. ‘I have no idea. I hope not, but she won’t talk to me, and she said she wouldn’t marry me.’
And suddenly it all got too much for him, and a choking sob rose in his throat. He pressed his fist to his mouth, but his chest heaved and he found himself wrapped hard in his brother’s arms, held tight while the waves of pain and shock ripped through him, leaving him empty. Gutted.
‘You need to go home,’ Will said softly as he pulled away and dragged his hands over his face.
‘I can’t. I’ve got work to do.’
‘Then have a coffee, and sit and talk this through with me for a while, because there’s no way you’re going anywhere in this state,’ Will said firmly, and, pushing him down into his chair, he handed him a mug and then perched opposite, elbows propped on the desk, studying him.
‘You need to talk to her, bro’.’
He shook his head. ‘She walked out. She needs time, Will. I have to give her time—time to calm down, to think it through. And I need time, too. It’s just so much to take in, and there’s a bit of me that’s trying to be happy because it means we can be together and raise a family, but the rest of me—’
He clamped his teeth together, fighting back another wave of grief for the child who might have been handed a life sentence by his careless assumptions. ‘I’m a doctor, for God’s sake! I should have known better. I should have checked, been properly investigated, not just assumed I knew enough to take that kind of risk. And now it’s too late, and, as Libby said, this is one time when sorry isn’t the point.’
‘So what are you going to do?’
He scrubbed his hands through his hair and met Will’s worried eyes.
‘I have no idea. I really have no idea. But I’m not taking no for an answer.’
Libby didn’t know how she found her way back to the ward.
She wouldn’t have gone back there at all, but her bag was there with her car keys in it, and she had to hand over the ward to someone. And, of course, as luck would have it, the first person she saw was Amy.
Dear, sweet Amy, who took one look at her, shoved her into the office and shut the door.
‘Libby? What’s happened? Is it your sister? Your mother? Andrew?’
She shook her head, the tears she’d held back until now fighting their way to the surface, and Amy gave a soft cry and wrapped her in her arms, rocking her gently as she wept, one hand clamped over her mouth to stifle the great raw sobs tearing through her.
She couldn’t tell Amy, couldn’t share anything this personal, this agonising, because just to say the words out loud would make it real, and she was hoping, so desperately hoping that it would all go away.
Except, of course, it wouldn’t.
‘Oh, Libby!’ Amy crooned softly. ‘It’s all right. It’ll be all right.’
Oh, if only! Fresh tears scalded her cheeks, and she eased away, rummaging for a tissue with trembling fingers, blotting hopelessly at the tears which fell faster than she could catch them, as Amy steered her to a chair and sat her down, holding her still, stroking her face and murmuring softly to her.
‘Is it Andrew? What’s happened?’
She shook her head, pressing her fingers to her eyes until they ached, until everything went black, but she could still see his shocked face, the pain and confusion in his eyes as he came to terms with the fact that he was no longer sterile, and what that might now mean.
He wasn’t the only one who was shocked and confused, though. She couldn’t think clearly yet, needed time to let the news she’d never expected to hear sink in. Of all the random, cruel twists of fate, this was the one she might least have expected.
Of course it was, or she would have taken steps to ensure it could never have happened. Oh, how could she have been so stupid?
‘I need to go home, Amy,’ she said, battening down the tears and dragging out her self-control. ‘Can you get someone to take over for me? There are some kids on the ward I was about to go and assess for discharge. Andr-Andrew’s got the details.’
She got her bag out of the drawer and headed for the door, but Amy blocked her way.
‘Libby, you can’t drive like this.’
‘I’ll be fine.’
‘At least tell me what’s going on.’
She stared at her, her friend and yet not quite confidante, and shook her head. ‘I can’t. I will, but not now, please. Just let me go.’
Amy stepped out of the way, and Libby fled, running out to the car park, getting into her car and putting the key in the ignition with hands that were shaking so badly she could scarcely hold it.
Seat belt, she thought, clipping it, and drove home, blinking hard to keep the road in view. She shouldn’t be driving. She knew that, but she had to get away, to get home, to crawl into bed and shut her eyes and wait for the pain to ease.
If it ever did…
‘Libby’s gone home.’
‘Good. You should, too. Come back to mine.’
‘No. I can’t face the family.’
‘Then I’ll come to you, but you’re not doing this alone,’ Will said, and Andrew gave up. He’d been there for Will a thousand times, and they knew each other inside out.
‘OK. I’ll come to yours. Where are you now?’
‘In the car park—I was just about to go. I’ll wait for you.’
‘Will, I’m fine.’
Will said something rude and to the point, and Andrew dropped his phone on the desk and rang through to his secretary.
‘I’m knocking off early—bit of a headache. Could you make sure the team knows? If there’s an emergency, I’m sure Patrick Corrigan will cover me. He’s on take today.’
‘Sure, Andrew. Can I get you anything?’
A miracle? Or had they already had that?
Be careful what you wish for, he thought, and swallowed hard. ‘No, I’m fine, Janet, thank you. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
He grabbed his coat and headed out of the building, lifting a hand in acknowledgement as Will’s Land Rover pulled up near his car and waited, engine running. His kid brother, crazy, reckless, always in trouble; he’d bailed him out so many times.
Maybe it was time to let him return the favour.
She cried for hours, curled up in her bed, rocking to comfort herself, her arms wrapped firmly over the still-flat abdomen that cradled her baby.
‘Please, God, let my baby be all right,’ she wept brokenly. ‘Please be a girl. Please don’t let me have passed this on!’
She couldn’t lie there any longer, couldn’t do nothing, but there was nothing to do, nothing to say, nowhere she could go to escape the agonising wait for an answer to her questions. She’d have to wait for the results to come back, for the examination of the dystrophin gene to be painstakingly completed. And in the meantime, she had to stop crying and try and rationalise her behaviour, so she got out of bed and went downstairs, made herself a cup of tea and curled up on the sofa with Kitty.
And then thought about the risk to a pregnancy from cat litter and began to cry again. Even her cat was out of bounds, she thought, tears cascading down her cheeks.
She needed Andrew. She’d never needed anyone so much, but she’d shut him out, implied that he’d let her down, but he hadn’t. She knew—had always known—that he was a good man, that there wasn’t a lying, deceitful bone in his body, that for all he might have been mistaken, he’d made an honest, genuine mistake, and he was every bit as shocked and distressed by it as she was.
She had to ring him.
She found her phone, checked for messages, then hesitated. Wouldn’t he have rung her if he’d cared? Really cared, rather than being dutiful? Chris Turne
r had told her he would have given up everything to look after Will had it been necessary. He was that sort of man.
Did she want that?
No. No, of course not, but he’d told her in Paris that he loved her.
Only not today. Today, he’d just told her was going to marry her and be involved in their child’s life, and she’d told him to go and marry Cousin Charlotte. So why would he call her? She had to call him, to apologise. Fingers shaking, she dialled his number and waited till it went to the answering-machine.
Then she rang his house phone, with the same result.
He might be in the shower, or still at work—that was it. He’d be at work.
She rang the switchboard, asked them to page him, and was told he’d left the hospital at four.
Four? He never left at four. It was rare for him to leave before six, and often it was later than that. But he had left, and he wasn’t answering her calls. Which could well be because he was in the shower, she told herself, trying to be rational. He always showered when he got home from work.
She tried again later, both phones, and then at two in the morning she pulled on her coat and drove to his house, to find it deserted. No car, no lights.
Of course. He’d gone to Ashenden, gone to Will.
She had Will’s number in her phone, and she hesitated, her finger hovering over the button, but then she threw it in her bag and drove home, a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.
He’d asked her to marry him and she just walked out, refusing to discuss it. Why should he want to talk to her?
She went inside, threw her bag down on the sofa, went to bed and cried herself to sleep a little before dawn.
‘I ought to ring her.’
‘Really? You’re drunk, Andrew.’
‘I know. But I still ought to ring her—damn! Where’s my mobile?’
‘I don’t know. When did you last have it?’
‘In my office—oh, hell. She might have been trying me, and I don’t know her number.’
‘I’ve got her mobile number,’ Will said, ‘but it is three in the morning. She’s probably asleep.’
‘No. She’ll be churning it over in her mind, and I ought to be with her. I should have been with her all the time. Give me the number, I’ll ring her.’
Will threw his phone across to him, and he rang her.
Three times.
Each time it rang and rang, then went to the answering-machine, but he didn’t say anything, just hung up. He had no idea what to say; he needed to hear her voice, get some feedback, before he could launch in and say anything.
And she wasn’t answering her phone to him.
He dropped the phone in despair and stared at Will.
‘OK. You’re the expert. What the hell do I do now?’
Will smiled a little crookedly. ‘You go to bed, sleep off that brandy and I’ll wake you up and take you to work. Got a clean shirt there?’
He nodded. He always had a full set of clean clothes at work, because you never knew when accidents might happen, especially working with children.
Children. He didn’t want to think about children. Sick children, children with life-limiting conditions, children who were sick and going downhill and all you could do was slow the progress…
‘I can drive myself.’
‘No, you can’t. You’ve been drinking, you’ll probably be hovering on the limit.’
‘So have you.’
‘Not like you. And I hope you aren’t operating?’
He shook his head. ‘No. Clinics.’ Clinics with children. Sick children…
Will eyed him thoughtfully. ‘Actually, of course, there’s only a one in eight chance,’ Will said, reading his mind.
‘What?’
‘You don’t know if Libby’s a carrier. That’s a one in two. That halves the odds. Or doubles them. Don’t know which I mean, but it makes it one in eight, not one in four, that it’s an affected boy.’
One in eight.
Better, but no way good enough to comfort him.
‘I love her,’ he said conversationally. ‘And she loves me. Why aren’t we together now, Will, talking this through?’
‘Because it’s three in the morning and she’s upset? She’ll calm down and think it through.’
‘I don’t think so. What the hell am I going to do if she won’t listen to me?’ He stood up and headed for the door. ‘I’m going to bed. Wake me at six. Maybe it’ll look better then.’
It was a forlorn hope.
Will dropped him at work at seven-thirty, and he went straight up to his office and found his phone lying there on the desk.
With two missed calls from Libby. He checked the time of her calls, late last night, and cursed the fact that he’d been stupid enough to leave his phone behind. Stupid enough to drink, so he couldn’t just get in the car and drive round to her house and bang on the door and demand to talk to her.
Stupid enough to make assumptions, to rely on his clearly flawed judgement and make a colossal mistake with potentially massive consequences.
Hands shaking, he rang her, and got her answering-machine…
CHAPTER ELEVEN
SHE had missed calls on her mobile.
Three, from Will. Nothing from Andrew.
She didn’t want to talk to Will, didn’t know what to say to him. Did he know? Had Andrew spoken to him?
Or maybe, she thought as a chill ran over her, maybe something had happened to him. She checked the time of the calls. After three in the morning. Oh, lord. Was Andrew hurt? Sick? What if he’d had an accident?
She ran through the shower, slapped on some make-up to cover the ravages of the night and drove to work. She’d go and see if he was in his office, leave him a note. Check with the ED to see if he’d been brought in.
No. She wouldn’t even let herself think about that until she’d checked his office, she thought, and hurried through the hospital, along the corridor to his office outside the paediatric ward. Her hand was raised to knock when the door swung inwards, and he stood there, looking like she felt, his eyes red-rimmed, his mouth set in a grim line, his cheeks sunken with exhaustion.
He was all right. Not in Emergency, or undergoing surgery, not in ITU linked up to a million machines. Just screening her calls. She felt sick, but she lifted her chin and met his eyes.
‘Andrew, we need to talk,’ she said, and he stepped back and let her in, then closed the door.
‘I’m sorry.’
They spoke together, and then with a muffled groan he reached for her, hauling her into his arms and holding her close.
‘I tried to ring you, but you didn’t answer, and you weren’t at home,’ she mumbled into his shirt.
‘Will took me home, and I forgot my phone. I tried to ring you on his.’
Will’s phone. The missed calls. He had tried to ring her.
‘I thought—I was so awful to you.’
‘I deserved it,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ve behaved like an idiot. You were right, I should have checked. No wonder you hate me.’
‘I don’t hate you,’ she cut in, tilting her head up so she could see his eyes. Tortured, tormented eyes. ‘I just don’t know if I want to marry you—not under these circumstances. You’re a good man, Andrew, I know that. And I know you really thought you couldn’t have children, but I’m scared and I just don’t know—I don’t know where to go from here.’
His hands gripped her arms reassuringly.
‘Nor do I, but one thing I do know—we do it together. I love you, Libby, and you love me, and this is our baby. Whatever the outcome, whatever the consequences, this is our child, and we’ll do this together. Marry me.’
Libby shook her head.
‘Andrew, I can’t! Not now, not like this! It’s not a sound basis for a marriage.’
‘Rubbish. We love each other, Libby. We have done right from the start. I’ve loved you since you told my brother he was a better dancer than me.’
She gave a strangled laugh. �
��Maybe he is?’
‘No, he’s not. You were being generous—as usual. And I shouldn’t have taken advantage of you that night.’’
‘You didn’t,’ she corrected softly. ‘I needed you so much. Needed to reach out with my hands, to touch you—I’d been falling for you for ages, but I didn’t think you’d even noticed me until you asked me to go home with you for the weekend. So you didn’t take advantage of me—if anything I took advantage of you. And it’s not your fault I’m pregnant. I’ve known about this DMD for a year. I should have made sure I couldn’t get pregnant, not just relied on my relentlessly single status.’
‘That’s my line.’ He smiled, a little crookedly, then shook his head. ‘I still don’t see why you won’t marry me.’
‘Because it’s not why you get married.’
‘So why do you get married? If it’s not because you’re with the person you love, and you’re having a baby together, and then you find out something might mean your child needs even more care, more love, and you’ll need each other more than ever before—what better basis could there be, Libby?’
She shook her head. ‘You didn’t want to get married.’
‘Of course I did! I’ve always wanted to get married and settle down, but I didn’t want to trap a woman into a childless marriage and find out years down the line that loving me wasn’t enough! You knew that. If it hadn’t been for my infertility, I would have asked you to marry me in Paris.’
‘And I would have said no, at least until I’d had the tests.’
‘Why? Why do you imagine it would make any difference to me? I love you, Libby—you, not our children. If you’d decided not to have any, I would have been fine with that.’
‘Would you? So why is it all right for you to decide to sacrifice your chance of being a parent, but not for me?’
He frowned. ‘Because I’d know. I’d make the decision, stick to it, and know I could make it work for us.’
‘But you couldn’t have trusted me to do the same?’
He closed his eyes with a sigh. ‘I couldn’t have asked you to do that for me.’
‘Well, it’s not relevant now, anyway, is it? The fact is your fertility is not an issue. The issue is my carrier status, and I need to know the answer before I can give you one.’
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