It took only a few minutes to establish that for every leak they found and plugged, another one would pop up somewhere else. A nurse was bagging blood into him through two giving sets simultaneously, but they were hardly keeping pace. Then Max turned the liver over and found a split under the back of a lobe that was steadily leaking.
Muttering under his breath, he clamped it and stood watching for a moment. Nothing happened, and the tension in Theatre eased visibly.
'Finally,' he growled, and set about repairing the damage as fast as possible.
'The spleen's a goner,' he told them, thinking aloud. 'I think I can patch up the rest without a problem. I might try and leave part of it, just take the tail off. I hate knackering the immune system permanently if I can avoid it.'
It took over an hour from that point before the spleen was repaired to his satisfaction, and all the other little bits and pieces took another forty minutes. In all, they were two hours behind schedule as a result of the emergency, and that, of course, put paid to lunch and left him running late for his clinic.
Still, at least it had proved to him that his registrar was a valid and useful member of the team, and level-headed in an emergency. Always handy to know.
There were other things he needed to know about Annie, though, and things she needed to know about him—such as the fact that he didn't intend to let their past become an issue. All he needed was the chance to talk to her, and that was becoming increasingly difficult to fit in as the day went on.
Before he left the operating suite for his clinic, he showered rapidly and emerged from the changing room with his tie slung round his neck and his shirt buttons undone, shoving his shirt tails into his trousers, and he almost ran straight into her. Her hair was wet, her skin scrubbed and gleaming, and he had a desperate urge to kiss her.
No. Idiot.
'Annie, we need to talk,' he said without preamble, and she nodded and looked up at his face. Did he imagine it, or was there a touch of colour in her cheeks? And had she had to drag her eyes from his naked chest? He hauled the buttons together and she relaxed visibly. 'What are you doing after work?'
'Um, I'm busy,' she said, and her eyes slid away.
Peter, of course. 'Can you ring him? Tell him you'll be late? Or can we meet later?'
'Him?'
'Peter.'
She shook her head. 'It's not Peter.' She hesitated, then looked back at him, her eyes still wary and filled with doubt. 'But we do need to talk. Later—say, seven-thirty? I'll come to you. Where are you staying?'
'I've rented a house for a while—a little detached Edwardian place near the park. Will that do? Or do you want to go somewhere... ?' Neutral, he'd been going to say, but changed it. 'Somewhere else? A pub? A restaurant? The park?'
She shook her head. 'Your house will be fine. Tell me the address,' she said, so he told her, and she nodded. 'OK. I'll see you there at half past seven.'
There was something curiously ominous about the way she said it that made his blood run cold. He watched her go, then gathered himself almost physically together and headed for his clinic. What a great start to his new career—over an hour late, and without time to look at any notes or prepare himself.
And all the time, in the back of his mind, was Annie...
'Darling, whatever's happened? You look as if you've seen a ghost!'
Annie scooped the baby out of her mother's arms and hugged her, kissing the wet, messy little face and laughing as her daughter clapped cereal-covered hands on her cheeks and giggled.
'You've just had your supper, haven't you? Have you been a good girl for your grannie?' she asked, but the baby just gurgled and laughed and pulled her hair with sticky fingers.
'She's been fine, haven't you, poppet? She went out with her grandad to the park, and fed the ducks, and had a lovely time. You, on the other hand, look as if you've been to hell and back. Want to fill me in while I clean her up?'
She handed little Alice back to her grandmother to have her face and hands de-cerealed, and took the opportunity to clean herself up. She licked her lips and frowned thoughtfully. 'Apple?'
'Apple and blackberry with millet flakes, and wizzerated roast chicken and vegetables from yesterday evening—-and before you ask, yes, of course I reheated it thoroughly. There's tea in the pot, and we've run her bath, so bring it through to the flat and tell me all about it.'
Annie sighed. Her mother was nothing if not persistent, but there was no way she could tell her. Well, at least, not everything. Not that. She wouldn't understand, not that Annie herself really understood what had happened, or at least why it had, and there was no way she was going to upset the applecart unnecessarily now.
She poured herself a mug of tea, drank half of it and cleared up the kitchen, then topped up her tea and slowly, reluctantly followed her mother through to the little flat she shared with Alice in the garden wing of her parents' house.
She could hear giggling and shrieking from the bathroom and, smiling despite her mood, she went in and perched on the loo and watched them.
'She loves her bathtime with you,' Annie said wistfully, wishing not for the first time that she could be at home with her daughter, but there was no way she could afford the luxury. She had to finish her training and become a consultant before she had a hope even of working part time, and that process, of course, would take years.
Still, she was here now, and she pushed up her sleeves and knelt down by the side of the bath and joined in the fun.
Her mother shot her a thoughtful look, and Annie sighed inwardly. She knew that look. It meant her mother was just biding her time, and the Spanish Inquisition would start again shortly, just the moment Alice was settled for the night.
She had to avoid that—and she had the perfect excuse.
'I hate asking you, Mum, but could you put her to bed for me? I have to go out, and I need a shower. We had a blood bath in Theatre today and I really must scrub—and could I ask another favour? Could you babysit for me for a while? I won't be long, but I have to meet a new colleague at seven-thirty—we didn't get time today to do all we wanted, and I have to fill him in on things.'
She could almost hear the cogs turning and wished she'd left out the 'him'. Now her mother's maternal instinct was on red alert, and Annie's chances of avoiding that conversation indefinitely were slight in the extreme. If she put two and two together...
'Of course I'll put her to bed. You go ahead and get ready, and I'll keep an eye on her, it's no problem.' She lifted the protesting baby clear of the bathwater and swathed her in a huge, fluffy towel, and for a few moments there was silence.
Then her mother looked up and met her eyes. 'So,' she said with an exaggerated disinterest that didn't fool Annie for a second, 'who is this man?'
Annie swallowed. 'His name's Max Williamson- he's the new consultant.'
Her mother's hands paused in the act of patting the baby dry, then resumed. 'I see.'
Annie hoped she didn't. She hoped her mother never saw—and never saw Max, because if she did, she'd know the truth, and Annie didn't know if her precious relationship with her beloved mother could bear the strain. If she knew she'd been unfaithful to Peter...
She looked away. 'I must get on. I'll get my things ready while you finish up in the bathroom. Don't bother to tidy it, Mum, I'll do it when I've finished.'
It was twenty past seven before she was ready, but that was fine. Max lived very close—too close for comfort, really, but at least it was an easy walk.
The doorbell rang dead on seven-thirty, and Max paused long enough to draw in a deep, steadying breath before walking slowly down the hall to open the door.
Annie looked lovely, of course—no make-up to speak of, but she didn't seem to wear it and frankly he didn't want her to, because her natural beauty was more than sufficient to knock him off his perch.
'Hi,' he said, holding the door for her, and she gave him a fleeting smile and crossed the threshold. A faint drift of something familiar caught his
nostrils—her shampoo? Her perfume? Not obvious enough for perfume, but his body remembered the smell all too clearly.
'Fancy a drink?' he offered, scrabbling for common pleasantries and hoping he didn't disgrace himself absolutely.
'Um...thanks. Coffee? Tea?'
'Sure. Which?'
'Um...coffee.'
She seemed unsure of herself, something he could empathise with. He didn't know how to start this conversation, but then he reached out to turn on the kettle as she turned and they bumped into each other, and she recoiled with a tiny gasp.
That did it. He stepped back, closed his eyes briefly and opened them again to find her watching him warily.
'Annie, stop it,' he said tiredly. 'You're safe. I'm not going to jump on you. That's why I wanted to talk to you—just to tell you that it's all right. I'm not expecting us to pick up where we left off. Forget what happened, it's in the past. We can move on.'
For some reason her eyes clouded. 'Can we? I don't know that it's that simple—at least for me.'
What did she mean? It didn't matter. He didn't let himself think about it or try and work it out. Instead he just sighed and nodded. 'Yes, we can. We have to work together, and you've got Peter—'
'No.'
He searched her face carefully for clues, but there were none. 'No?' he said cautiously. 'Did you get divorced?'
She shook her head. 'He died.'
'Died?' He felt shock drain the blood from his face, and he leant back against the worktop and shook his head slowly. 'Oh, Annie, I'm so sorry.'
'No, don't be. Not for me. For Peter, maybe, but not for me. He was a good man, and I didn't deserve him.'
'That's rubbish.'
'No, it's the truth. Do you remember that fracture? Fiona took him to the hospital while we were...' She broke off, waving her hands as if searching for the words, then wrapped them tightly round her waist.
'Making love?' he offered softly.
Her eyes widened and she looked hastily away. 'It was a pathological fracture. He had cancer, Max. He died four months later,'
'Did you know?' he asked, a horrible thought creeping up on him unannounced and giving his voice a hard edge. 'Did you know about the cancer at the time?'
Her look speared him and he felt a wave of relief. 'Of course not! Do you really think I would have been gallivanting around the countryside with you if I'd had the slightest clue?'
He scrubbed a hand over his face and sighed. 'I'm sorry—sorry about all of it. How did you find out?'
'He knew then—that day. They'd told him at the hospital. That's why he was so moody with Fiona. He'd just been told he was dying, basically.'
Max nodded. 'Of course. They'd be able to tell it was a path, fracture in A and E. So where was the primary?'
'Round his aorta. He had chemo—it wasn't suitable for surgery. He would have died instantly. It was right on the branch, behind his heart. It explained a lot, of course. Why he was so tired, why he had so much indigestion. It wasn't indigestion, of course, it was the tumour, but he didn't know that.'
Max turned away from her, resting both hands on the front of the worktop and dropping his head forwards against the wall cupboard. 'So you came back and had all sorts of tests and chemo and things, and he died—four months later, you said?'
'Yes.'
He sighed heavily. 'Annie, I really am so sorry if I added to your problems at the time.'
She made a sound that could have been a tiny, bitter laugh. 'In a strange way it was almost a help. At least my guilt gave me something else to think about and, of course, Peter was so shocked and so wrapped up in what was happening to him I don't think it occurred to him that we might have done anything.
'And then,' she continued with a wary edge to her voice, 'I discovered I was pregnant.'
Shock held him motionless for a second, then he turned slowly and met her steady, wounded eyes. 'Pregnant?'
She nodded. 'She's nearly eight months old now— her name's Alice.'
He hauled in a breath and the world seemed to right itself on its axis. 'Where is she now?'
'With my parents. I live with them, in a flat at the back of their house. Mum looks after her while I'm at work.'
She had a child. Peter's child, conceived—he ran the maths through his head—before their holiday, about a month before. So she'd been pregnant with his child at the time...
He felt a sudden, raging jealousy that was totally irrational, and crushed it ruthlessly. There was no place in this for his feelings, none at all.
'Peter must have been very pleased,' he said in a neutral voice.
'He didn't know. I didn't until the day of the funeral, when I couldn't do up my skirt even though I'd lost weight. I couldn't understand it. It took my mother to explain to me.'
He nodded slowly. 'You must have been in shock. It must have been a hell of a time. I'm sorry.'
'You keep saying that.'
'Because it's the truth. What am I supposed to say? That I'm glad he's dead?'
'If it's the truth.'
'It isn't,' he said, surprised to find that he really meant it. What he'd hoped all along had been that she would have been able to walk away from him to Peter without a backward glance. He hadn't wanted the destruction of their marriage on his conscience—and he certainly hadn't wanted Peter's death.
But it did change things, potentially. If there was no one else in her life now, then maybe there was a chance for them.
He stared at his hands, wondering how to go on. 'Look, what I'd meant to say this evening about us picking up where we left off—as far as I was concerned you were married, albeit not apparently that happily, and I didn't want you thinking I was any threat to that.'
'And now?'
He shrugged. 'I don't know what to say. It all depends on you—how you feel.'
'I don't know how I feel,' she said honestly. 'Unsettled. I never thought I'd see you again. It all takes a bit of adjusting to.'
Her smile was crooked and very fleeting, but it lifted his heart.
'Ditto,' he said softly. 'Let's have some coffee and you can tell me all about it.'
'Nothing to tell,' she said. 'It was awful. To be honest, I just want to forget it.'
'So tell me about the baby.'
Annie's face softened. 'She's lovely. She's tiny, very dainty, and she's got a wonderful gurgling laugh and a passion for mashed bananas.'
He chuckled! 'What revolting taste.'
'She'd disagree with you.'
'No doubt. My nephews seem to eat the most disgusting combinations of things. I wouldn't be surprised to see them put ketchup on ice cream—but they're older, six and nearly eight. Black or white?'
'White, no sugar. Thanks.'
She took the coffee from him, carefully keeping her fingers away from his, and he picked up his mug and a packet of chocolate biscuits off the side and led her through to the sitting room.
'Sorry, the furnishings are a bit haphazard. Some of it's mine, some of it was here. That chair's comfortable.'
Max waved the chocolate biscuits towards his best chair, and she perched on the edge of it, cradling her coffee in both hands and looking thoughtful. He sat down on the lumpy old sofa and watched her, and after a moment she lifted her head and returned his gaze thoughtfully.
'Max, what happened with Fiona?' she asked a little diffidently, as if she felt she didn't have the right to ask, and he dredged up a smile.
'She met somebody else. After—that day, I realised I couldn't marry her.'
'Because of me?' She sounded shocked, and he smiled reassuringly.
'Because of me, I think, although you were definitely the catalyst. I just realised that day that I'd never had fun like that with Fiona, and I probably never would. And,' he continued quietly, looking down at his hands, 'making love to her became impossible. That night I pleaded tiredness, and then we returned to London and I found myself making excuses—working late, staying over at the hospital, even inventing emergencies.'
&
nbsp; He tried for a smile, but it was wry and, no doubt, quite unconvincing. 'I probably should have realised she took it all too easily. Normally she would have thrown a paddy. As it was, she just accepted my excuses. Then about a week or ten days later, I told her I needed to speak to her. She said good, because she wanted to speak to me, too, and she told me she'd met someone else and wanted to marry him. And she did, on the day she should have married me.'
'The same day?' Annie said, sounding shocked, and he laughed softly.
'Oh, yes. The same wedding, in fact. Some of the presents went back, others were simply rebadged, as it were, and she married her London barrister. She wasn't going to give him a chance to change his mind, I don't think, and to be honest I think they're blissfully happy. Certainly she's happier than she would have been with me.'
'And you?'
He met her eyes, soft and mellow and tender in the muted light. 'What about me?' he asked a little gruffly.
'Are you happy?'
He thought of the endless nights spent longing for this beautiful woman sitting opposite him with her hair like burnished mahogany and eyes like a stormy sky. He thought of the images that had woken him, of the sweat and the aching and the need that had racked him. He thought of the times when he'd known she was in his arms, and had woken desolate to find it had just been another dream...
'I'll do,' he said a little crookedly.
'It's better than being trapped in the wrong marriage,' she murmured half to herself, and he realised she was talking about her marriage to Peter, a marriage that Max had sensed from the first had been a tragic mistake.
He didn't comment. There was nothing to say, nothing he had a right to say. She glanced at her watch and then looked up at him, and there was something evasive in her eyes. 'I have to go,' she said.
'I'll walk you to your car.'
'No—I don't have a car here. I walked.'
'Then I'll walk you home.'
Something that could have been panic flickered in her eyes and was gone. 'It's all right. Actually, I'm going somewhere else first. Do you mind if I call a taxi?'
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