The Surgeon’s Gift

by Carol Marinelli

  ‘Chinese, then.’ Hugh shrugged. ‘Or we could get Indian again.’

  ‘But I hate cricket.’

  For the first time that morning their eyes met, brown on green. Defiant eyes, with not a trace of friendliness between them.

  ‘And I’m not in the mood for the beach.’

  ‘Well, I am,’ Rachael retorted. She felt stupid, embarrassed and rejected all at once, and suddenly the red bikini didn’t feel remotely sexy any more—she might just as well have been wearing a garbage bag. Pulling on her shorts and T-shirt, she slipped her feet into a pair of thongs. ‘And if you don’t want to come then I’ll go by myself.’

  ‘Fine,’ he answered smartly, picking up his keys.

  ‘Fine,’ she bit back, watching him stalk out of her lounge and into the hall.

  It was the longest, most humiliating walk of her life, and she’d only got as far as the front door. He didn’t want her, he’d spelt it out, told her in no uncertain terms that friends was as far as they were ever going to go, yet Rachael had chosen not to listen.

  And now she was suffering the consequences.

  ‘Do you need a hand with the basket?’

  She shook her head, picking up the beastly thing herself and marching proudly out to her car as he headed for his own.

  ‘I’ll see you at work tomorrow,’ Hugh called over his shoulder, not even bothering to look back.

  ‘If you can tear yourself away from the cricket.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘TAKE Rachael,’ Helen said brightly as Rachael deposited a pile of files on the nurses’ station.

  ‘Take me where?’ Rachael replied absent-mindedly, her mind focussed elsewhere, utterly determined not to notice how gorgeous Hugh looked this morning, fresh from his post-op shower, writing his notes at the bench, that ridiculous aftershave wafting over the desk between them. It had been two weeks since her attempted seduction, two weeks of burning with humiliation as she remembered every ghastly detail. Two weeks of Hugh deliberately ignoring her or when he absolutely had to, when protocol allowed for nothing else, referring to her as ‘Sister’ and speaking very abruptly.

  ‘To the fundraising ball on Saturday.’ Ignoring Rachael’s frantic eyes signals, Helen carried on happily, ‘The plastics unit is having its annual charity ball and Sister Vermont can’t go.’

  ‘Why?’ Rachael asked, not remotely interested in what Sister Vermont, the plastics nurse unit manager, was up to but desperate to stall this conversation.

  ‘She’s on holiday, like most of the other plastics staff. Taking the opportunity to sun themselves on the Gold Coast, no doubt, while their unit’s being refurbished. She’s just extended her leave, which leaves Dr Connell here short of a date.’

  Rachael gave a rather wintry smile. ‘I very much doubt it.’

  ‘I am,’ Hugh replied without looking up. ‘It’s a work function and I’d like to take one of the nursing staff to make the right noises with all the dignitaries. The type of woman I could get at this short notice probably wouldn’t go down too well with the hospital board.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Rachael said irritably, ‘I’d have thought the plastics unit was the last place that needed a fundraiser. From what I’ve seen of the patients, they’re mostly loaded.’

  ‘Ah, that’s right,’ Hugh said with just a trace of bitterness. ‘You’re the nurse who doesn’t have a problem with cosmetic patients. You must remind me again, I keep forgetting.’

  Rachael swallowed hard, wondering not for the first time how it had come to this. Where had all the headway they had made evaporated to, leaving them squabbling like they had on her first day?

  ‘Besides …’ Rachael busied herself with her notes. ‘I’m working on Saturday night.’

  ‘No, you’re not,’ Helen said with annoying cheerfulness. ‘Didn’t I tell you? Becky’s coming from her sick leave earlier than expected. It wasn’t a fracture after all just a nasty sprain. Isn’t that good news?’ She swivelled her eyes between the two of them, seemingly oblivious of the simmering undercurrents. ‘Problem solved. You’ve got a date, Hugh, and Rachael gets out of night shift.’ She wandered off.

  Without comment Rachael carried on with her notes, determined not to be the one to break the awful silence.

  ‘I’ll send a taxi to collect you,’ Hugh mumbled, which struck Rachael as strange, not the offer to send a taxi—the sight of her in a red bikini had obviously put her humble abode way off Hugh’s map—but the fact that he was mumbling. Hugh never mumbled. Hugh Connell always spoke clearly, confidently. ‘I’d pick you up,’ he offered by way of explanation, ‘but I’m actually staying at the hotel that night, and I’ll be welcoming some of the speakers long before the ball starts.’

  ‘I’m quite capable of ringing for my own taxi. What time do you want me there?’ she asked with a rather cynical laugh. ‘Or, rather, what time should I be there?’

  ‘Rachael …’ He closed his eyes for a second then opened his mouth as if there was something he badly wanted to say. But nothing happened, for an age he stood there. His eyes opened finally and when they did they were troubled. She stared directly back, not giving an inch. He had hurt her, ignored her for two weeks, and now he wanted small talk. Well, he could go to hell. ‘About seven,’ he said finally, and, placing his pen in his top pocket, turned and left.

  Picking up a file, Rachael gave a low sigh. The meticulous Hugh hadn’t even bothered to finish the sentence he’d been writing, such had been his haste to get away. How were they going to survive a whole evening together?

  ‘What did you do that for?’ Rachael wasn’t smiling when Helen came back with her eyes agog, a huge, expectant grin on her face.

  ‘He needed someone to go to the ball with him,’ Helen said defensively when she saw Rachael’s tense face. ‘I’ve put my foot in it, haven’t I?’

  ‘Big time,’ Rachael sighed. ‘Look, Helen, I know you mean well, I know you’ve got it into your head that there’s something there, but there just isn’t. There isn’t,’ she flared when Helen gave her a doubtful look. ‘You said yourself your beach charade was foolproof and look how that ended up.’

  ‘It worked with Jack.’

  ‘Jack loves you,’ Rachael said simply. ‘I’m not going to humiliate myself chasing Hugh when he blatantly doesn’t want me. I was right the first time—a relationship is the last thing I need right now.’

  ‘Probably,’ Helen conceded. ‘And if we were talking about any other man then I’d be the first to say it was too soon, but Hugh’s a once-in-a-lifetime man, it seems a shame to let a little thing like timing get in the way.’

  ‘I know you mean well, Helen,’ Rachael said more softly, ‘but it just isn’t going to happen for us, and the last thing I need right now is a night on the town with the eternally unobtainable.’

  Helen cringed. ‘Are you still going to go?’

  Rachael shrugged. ‘With a bit of luck I’ll come down with a healthy dose of chickenpox, but knowing my constitution I’ll be pink-cheeked and disgustingly healthy. Maybe Hugh will back out,’ she said hopefully. ‘Maybe Sister Vermont will get sick of lording it on the Gold Coast and make an early return for the plastics ball. What do you think my chances are?’

  Zero, as it turned out.

  It felt strange, dressing up again after so long. An unwelcome sense of déjà vu assailed her as she paid the hairdresser, carefully tapping in her PIN number with her still slightly damp nails. Her hands had been shaking so much Rachael knew that any hope of a decent make-up job was useless so she had gone the whole hog and had her make-up done as well.

  How many hundreds of times had she done this for Richard? How many times had she stood in front of the mirror, staring back at her sleek, sophisticated reflection and wondering if this was what it was all about. And what on earth was she getting into tonight?

  Don’t be silly, Rachael scolded herself, poking her tongue out between her red-painted lips. She wasn’t getting into anything—it was a work do, nothing else.
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  Nothing else.

  She still hadn’t decided what to wear. Pulling open the wardrobe, rows of dresses glittered back at her. For the first time in two years she was actually spoiled for choice—there wasn’t a dress she couldn’t fit into, not a single zip that wouldn’t pull up easily. The hell of the past year meant she finally had the figure Richard had wanted her to have. Each dress evoked a memory, a few pleasant, some agonising. Pulling out a black dress for a moment or two, Rachael closed her eyes, running her fingers along the soft velvet fabric as she remembered when she’d worn it. Remembered the soft swell of her baby beneath the fabric, the glow of knowing she was with child. It had made the endless cocktail parties, the long tedious dinners bearable.

  She wanted to wear it again, wanted to feel her body as it had then, wanted her baby so badly it hurt.

  Stuffing the dress back in the wardrobe with a strangled sob, she pushed her knuckles into her mouth, biting hard. She mustn’t cry, mustn’t go there. Tonight was about dazzling, tonight was about dancing and laughing and showing Hugh she didn’t need him, didn’t want him for anything more than friendship. Red-rimmed eyes and blotchy mascara weren’t on the agenda. Looking in the mirror at her smeared lipstick, she let out a sigh and opened her make-up bag.

  Rachael, the queen of repair jobs.

  It would be written on her gravestone.

  She decided on the silver. It was very sleek, very long and with dangerously thin straps. One of those dresses you bought knowing you’d never in a million years get into but daring to dream all the same.

  And it looked divine.

  The taxi was hooting outside, and she fought with an attack of nerves as she draped a stole over her arms, stopping for one final glimpse in the full-length mirror, torn between approval and shame as she eyed her sleek reflection. She looked every bit the trophy wife Richard had so badly wanted, every inch what she had fought so vehemently against.

  The venue, set on Melbourne’s south bank, was a sight in itself, dripping with luxuries as glamorous and opulent as the people swarming colourfully outside, taking advantage of the warm evening air to enjoy a casual chat or cigarette before heading inside. Rachael didn’t feel out of place as she climbed the steps, her heels clicking in unison with those of the other well-dressed women, the only difference being that she didn’t have a well-groomed man on her arm.

  Yet.

  She saw him first, standing in the massive foyer, chatting easily with a rather ruddy-faced, elderly man, Hugh throwing his head back as he laughed at a joke. But somewhere in the middle the laughter died, the smile literally wiped off his face as his eyes met Rachael’s, his hand tightening around his glass of champagne as the muscles quilted in his face.

  ‘Rachael?’ She saw his lips move, the noise in the foyer too loud to hear his voice, but the question in his eyes was obvious enough. Barely stopping to excuse himself, he crossed the foyer, beside her in an instant. ‘Rachael,’ he said again. This time his voice reached her ears, as delicious and familiar as a well-loved song, and she knew then there was no point denying it—the make-up, the nails, the dress, they had all been for him. His neglect and indifference might have wounded her pride but they hadn’t severed her feelings. ‘You look beautiful.’

  She gave a nervous laugh as he kissed her on the cheek. ‘I left the rubber soles at home tonight.’

  He glanced down at her strappy silver sandals, taking in the cherry-red nails peeking out, the absence of a stocking seam telling Hugh that under her dress Rachael’s legs were bare and undoubtedly as smooth and sheer as the enchanting silver that draped her slender body.

  ‘Glad to hear it.’ There was a slight tremor in his voice, utterly out of place with the dashing, confident man he depicted. ‘You even smell wonderful.’

  The same nervous laugh escaped her lips. ‘I went a bit over the top with the perfume. I figured I’d be up against some pretty stiff competition.’ In a totally spontaneous movement, her face neared his briefly, inhaling his overpowering yet delicious fragrance, oblivious of his clenching hands as she moved in closer. ‘Seems I was right.’ He didn’t say anything, just stood there, swallowing hard as Rachael moved back slightly and scanned the foyer. ‘What am I expected to do?’ She frowned when he didn’t answer. ‘Hugh, what am I supposed to do tonight?’

  He cleared his throat, snapping his attention to her question. ‘For now just shake hands and thank people for coming. I’ll make all the introductions. The small talk will come later, after the meal. With a bit of luck a few heavy envelopes might be pressed into your hand. Just pass them on to Jeffrey here.’

  ‘Jeffrey Hillingdon, the CEO?’ Rachael gave a nervous gulp.

  ‘Our mutual boss.’

  ‘I still don’t understand,’ she asked. ‘What’s the fundraiser for?’

  He didn’t answer as suddenly the floodgates of people opened. Taking her arm, he guided her to the doorway where she stood, uncomfortably aware she was in a greeting line with some of the biggest dignitaries from the hospital. ‘You ready?’

  She gave a nervous nod, only relaxing when one green eye shuttered in a playful wink. ‘Sparkle, Rachael!’ he said in a theatrical voice, reminding her so much of her old ballet teacher it made her giggle, instantly relaxing her. And just as she had realised that the make-up had all been for Hugh, the difference between him and Richard also hit her. Richard would have been nervous, falling over himself to please everyone except Rachael, barking orders to his wife from the corner of his false smile, whereas Hugh …

  He just oozed charm, natural charm, his small talk witty, his jokes funny. And if they didn’t go down well he shrugged and carried right on, all the while including her, every other moment checking that she was all right, ensuring that she always felt included.

  There was no comparison.

  And when the last guest had been greeted, when her cheeks must have been smeared like a rainbow from the lips that had briefly grazed her cheek, Rachael was smiling—a real smile, not the false one she had perfected so well. ‘Time for a drink, I think,’ Hugh said, taking her hand so naturally it hardly merited comment. Only as he reached the entrance to the ballroom did he seem to realise what he was doing and, shifting nervously, he removed his hand, placing it instead on the small of Rachael’s back.

  If the intention had been to remove any trace of intimacy, it had the opposite effect, his warm hand pressing at the base of her spine nearly propelling Rachael into orbit. Never had a glass of champagne been so gratefully received. At least it gave her something to do with her hands, with her mouth, too. Every nerve in her body seemed to be tingling; every tiny movement seemed terribly complicated all of a sudden.

  ‘The room looks wonderful.’ It was an understatement. The room was stunning, heavy white cloths draped the round tables, vast burgundy plants, all Australian natives, adorned the centre, the gleaming silver cutlery shone in the candlelight. But it all paled next to Hugh. ‘Where are we sitting?’ She was hoping for a dark corner, somewhere she could hide her blushes and observe the proceedings from a distance, but the heavens had obviously decided that tonight was Rachael’s night. As Hugh guided her forward, with mounting horror she realised they were at the head table, the five hundred or so guests all with a view, one thousand eyes watching Rachael trying to pretend that she wasn’t hopelessly in lust with her reluctant companion.

  ‘How come we’re right at the top?’ she asked, hoping it was some horrible mistake.

  ‘Because I’m the president.’

  It should have been hell on earth, the most uncomfortable night of her life. But whether Hugh had decided to temporarily put their differences aside or was just having a good night, the meal turned out to be a sheer pleasure. As soon as the soup was ladled into her bowl, as soon as she spread her butter thickly on her warm roll, Rachael forgot they were the focal point of the room, forgot the five hundred pairs of eyes on them, focussing instead on the one pair that mattered. A pair of eyes that actually weren’t green but more aq
uamarine, eyes that crinkled slightly around the edges when he smiled, which was often. For all the world it was as if they were the only couple in the room, sitting at a table for two in some secluded restaurant. And slowly as the dessert plates were cleared, as the dessert wine trickled thick and sweet down her throat, his eyes stopped smiling, the dewy sheen of lust unmistakable.

  ‘Rachael …’ His voice was hesitant. ‘Thank you for coming tonight.’

  She gave the tiniest of shrugs. ‘It wasn’t as if I had much choice.’ Her eyes flicked down, suddenly aware of the intensity of his gaze. ‘You didn’t either.’

  ‘But it turned out all right?’

  Rachael nodded, taking a grateful sip of her wine. ‘It’s been great.’

  ‘After …’ Hugh coughed slightly, covering his mouth with hand. ‘I mean, when I’ve done my duty, so to speak, will you stay?’

  She looked up, suddenly confused. ‘Stay?’

  He smiled, realising what he had said. ‘I meant for coffee, brandy, whatever. Maybe a walk along the river. I’m going to be pretty tied up for a while and I don’t want you disappearing on me.’ The smile faded, his voice suddenly serious. ‘I think we both need to talk.’

  ‘We are talking,’ Rachael pointed out, stalling, knowing where this was leading, thrilled and terrified at the same time.

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  She nodded, a bubble of excitement welling in her stomach, and as the lights dimmed, as the attention of the room focussed on the top table, her excitement turned to pride as Hugh stood up, his deep, silken voice caressing the room, holding the audience captive, as he told them the details of his work, giving them and, more pointedly, Rachael a glimpse of the compassionate man behind that smooth smile. And when a brief presentation started, Rachael gasped along with the guests as she saw the dark little faces that filled the screen, horribly scarred and deformed, the soft music in the background enhancing the tragedy that marred these children’s lives.

  The horror of burns untreated.