The Midwife's One-Night Fling

by Carol Marinelli

  ‘She asked me too.’ Freya smiled. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said it was very good, and then I had the awful feeling I was going to be questioned further, but thankfully she had to rush off...’

  ‘Yes, it’s been one helluva day,’ Freya said. ‘How’s Louise?’

  ‘Critical.’

  ‘I’m not a reporter, Richard. You can tell me how she really is.’

  ‘She’s very unstable. She’s had a splenectomy and a Caesarean and has been given a lot of blood. It’s going to be a very long night for her.’

  ‘Poor thing.’ She was about to let him in, but then she shook her head. ‘To be honest, I’m not really in the mood to go out.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Few women refused him, but he found it was rather refreshing. Richard liked her ways.

  ‘We’ll do the film another time, maybe?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Freya looked at him. He was a man she could never keep, but that didn’t matter now. For in her heart Freya knew she would be leaving London soon.

  ‘You can come in,’ Freya said. ‘If you want to.’

  And Richard did want to.

  He came through the door and Freya could feel his eyes on her bottom as she led him down the hallway.

  His eyes were on her bottom—for a moment—but then he looked at the trail of moisture her hair had left on her robe, and then he looked down to her long, bare legs.

  He didn’t notice the mustard carpet, nor the curtains hanging too short, he simply noticed her. As he had from the very first day they had met.

  They faced each other, and the want that had been there for a long time, certainly on the doorstep last night, seemed to have followed them into her flat.

  ‘I’ll go and get dressed.’

  Please don’t, Richard thought, but didn’t say.

  As if she could hear him Freya looked up into his eyes.

  ‘If you disappear on me, at least I’ll know what to tell the police,’ he said.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘She was wearing a pale robe...’

  ‘Oh.’

  Freya didn’t really understand, but there was a smoky edge to his voice, and as he further explained their eyes locked.

  ‘I don’t usually notice what women wear—well, not to the extent that I do with you.’

  This morning Freya had regretted her sensible decision last night not to invite him in. Now she wanted to be reckless.

  Richard felt as if he could see the barriers between them tumbling down before his eyes. And, yes, desire did reside behind her green gaze.

  ‘What else was this woman in a pale robe wearing?’ Freya asked. ‘Slippers?’

  ‘No,’ Richard said, his eyes never leaving hers. For he had already seen her painted toes. ‘Her feet were bare and her hair was damp...’ His hand came up and he picked up a heavy coil of black hair, as he had ached to do from day one. ‘And,’ he added, ‘I’m quite sure she didn’t have any underwear on...’

  He watched her mouth part in a smile and lust punched like a fist as they teased and flirted and turned each other on.

  ‘I wish you hadn’t shaved,’ she whispered as his mouth came to hers.

  And then she changed her mind, because instead of rough kisses she got the tang of cologne and Richard’s clean-shaven cheek against hers.

  ‘Smooth can be good,’ he told her as his hand slid behind her neck.

  Her skin flared beneath his fingers and the feel of his cheek had her mouth searching for his.

  But then he spoke. ‘Freya...’

  She frowned at the slight hesitation in his voice, for it was unfamiliar. He was always, always so confident and direct.

  Freya pulled back her head and those gorgeous eyes of his awaited her.

  Richard was not one to spoil the moment, but his conscience niggled and he wanted to make things absolutely clear to Freya. People could trust him with their lives, but not with their hearts, and he wanted to be sure she understood that before things went further.

  ‘Don’t rely on me.’

  It was the oddest thing to say, perhaps, and yet the kindest.

  ‘I get it, Richard.’

  He wasn’t going to be the cure for her loneliness. Richard Lewis wasn’t going to be the love of her life.

  Yesterday it might have mattered. But now she knew it didn’t have to last for ever, or even for more than this night, because her time in London was finite. And she wanted this night with him.

  It was Freya who moved to close the gap between their mouths. But it was definitely Richard who kissed her, softly at first, but warmly and thoroughly. Freya’s mouth felt so exquisitely tender that even the gentlest of his kisses felt bruising.

  The moan as his tongue slipped inside came from her. And then, for the first time since she’d arrived, London fell silent. Save for the sound of them.

  His breathing was ragged and their mouths were frenzied. And surely he’d kissed the oxygen from her because he made her dizzy, and his tongue was so expert and thorough that it made her crave more of him.

  His hands undid the belt of her robe. He freed one arm, then the other, and as it slid to the floor she felt cool air on the back of her body—a contrast to the warm rough fabric of his suit and the press of metal and buttons on her naked front.

  Freya had never known such raw passion. Their tongues jostled and then she was pressing herself into him, her hands clutching his hair as his hands spanned her waist.

  He guided them so that they moved to the wall as if as one. His kisses were certainly not smooth now—they were indecent and delicious and Freya was lost in them. Their chins bumped, their teeth clashed. She wanted to climb him and wrap her body around him.

  Freya was tackling his belt, to free him, and then she felt his hard warmth leap towards her hand.

  Richard reached into his jacket pocket for a condom, and it was an impatient pause for them both as he sheathed himself. She ached to have him inside her, and he ached to be there too.

  And so he rectified things, thrusting in and taking her against the wall.

  Freya had never been so thoroughly taken, and it felt sublime. He lifted her so that her legs could wrap around him and she knew she had never moved so seductively. He exposed a side to her that she did not recognise, because she had always been a touch reticent in bed.

  Not now.

  His fingers dug into her buttocks as she ground against him, and instead of feeling herself holding back, she was more herself with him.

  She was so light that he could put one hand against the wall and hold her round her waist with the other. And then he changed the pace...

  There was a scream building in her throat, which was clamped closed, so it waited there, trying to burst free. And then there came a breathless shout from him, followed by a rush of energy along her spine as he came deep within her. Finally her scream found its release, but it came out in staccato sobs as she throbbed to his beat.

  His hands soothed now, rather than inflamed, and he seemed to know that this wasn’t a Freya she knew.

  And it wasn’t.

  Her head came to his shoulder and she felt the fabric of his jacket. He was completely dressed, and she was utterly naked. And now there was a smidgen of shame creeping in for Freya—just a curl of guilt as he lowered her down to the floor, yet still held her tightly.

  He buried his head in her damp hair and then she felt his lips near her ear. ‘I only wanted a cup of tea.’

  Richard made her laugh. He just did.

  Having sorted out his clothes, he picked up her robe and helped her into it, then did up the very same belt she had so readily allowed him to open.

  They were both still a touch breathless, still trying to find their balance again—but, God, they felt better.

  She went and sat on the sofa, where she’d been lying earlier. Richard looked utterly normal—not even particularly dishevelled. His hair fell into perfect shape, whereas Freya was quite sure hers was in knots.


  But she didn’t care.

  He came and joined her on the sofa, and though they didn’t speak it wasn’t awkward. It was nice to lie down with her head on his lap, looking up at him as he played with her hair. It was relaxing not to speak.

  He looked around at her flat and saw for the first time the mustard carpet and odd curtains. Even odder, though, was the fact that there was nothing that spoke of her.

  Well, there were some books and magazines on a shelf, but there was a large picture on the wall of a horse and carriage, and he was certain it hadn’t been wrapped in a blanket and lovingly moved down from Scotland.

  ‘Do you like horses, Freya?’ he asked.

  ‘Not particularly. Why?’

  ‘There’s a picture of one on your wall.’

  She looked over to where his gaze fell. ‘I know. I can’t get it down.’

  Well, that wasn’t quite true. Freya had a little step ladder, which she’d used when she’d re-hung the curtains, but she simply hadn’t got around to taking the horse and cart picture down. It wasn’t as if she had anything to replace it with. It would do for now.

  And, anyway, there were far better things to look at. Gosh, it was nice to lie there, Freya thought, looking up at Richard.

  And for Richard it was nice too—nice to feel her hair, because it had entranced him.

  He looked down, but not into her eyes. Her robe was hanging open a little, and he could see the curve of her breast and the edge of a pink areola beckoning. He wanted to slip his hand in...

  But sustenance first.

  ‘I’m starving.’

  He wasn’t asking her to cook for him—a bowl of cereal was his usual choice when in a rush, and he was in a rush. To resume proceedings!

  He hauled her off his lap and walked through to her tiny kitchen, where he opened up the cupboards while Freya lay there, liking it that he hadn’t asked if he could do so.

  Usually that would have made her tense. She recalled well how she had sucked in a breath when she had bought her little cottage and Malcolm had opened her fridge. But now she lay smiling as Richard opened and closed her cupboards.

  ‘You have absolutely nothing to eat,’ Richard said when he came back. ‘Not even cereal.’

  ‘I meant to stop at the shops on the way home from work. I think there’s some soup...’

  ‘That’s not going to cut it. Come on,’ he said. ‘Get dressed.’

  ‘We could always ring for pizza,’ Freya suggested.

  He was tempted. There was a huge appeal in the thought of having pizza delivered and then moving straight to bed. And he had seen from his search of the fridge that there was a bottle of wine there.

  A perfect evening.

  Except—rarely for him—the pleasure was laced with guilt.

  Did she fully get that he didn’t do the dating thing?

  He wasn’t that bad—it wasn’t all bed. Just...mostly.

  He had come here tonight fully intending to take Freya to that damned film—which was actually quite a concession for him. Richard couldn’t remember the last time he had been to the cinema.

  But now he had to be clear. Richard wanted to make sure that she didn’t think this might lead to anything more than a few casual dates and a whole lot of bed.

  While he hoped he had spelled things out yesterday—and although getting pizza and going straight to bed would be easier and far more pleasant—Richard knew that he needed to tell her that this night wouldn’t change anything.

  Yet clearly it was going to.

  For they were soon back at the Italian restaurant—but as lovers this time.

  CHAPTER SIX

  TONIGHT IT WAS Richard who had the carbonara.

  Freya chose spaghetti, and it came with a rich, meaty tomato sauce.

  ‘You did it again,’ Richard said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘When I saw your carbonara last night I regretted my choice...’ And then he stopped, because he’d been about to say that next time they came here the spaghetti with the rich, meaty tomato sauce was what he’d want.

  But he didn’t.

  Instead he remembered he was off work tomorrow and ordered a bottle of red.

  ‘I don’t like drinking if I’m working the next day,’ he explained. ‘But I’ve got a few days off now.’

  ‘And me.’ Freya smiled.

  He wondered if she was waiting for him to suggest they do something together.

  Ah yes, The Talk, Richard reminded himself.

  Except Freya got there first.

  ‘I’m going home for a couple of days before a stint on nights,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a new lot of tenants arriving at my cottage next week.’

  ‘Holidaymakers?’ Richard said.

  ‘Yes, they’re there for two weeks and then I’ve another lot coming in. I’ve arranged for someone to come in and clean, and change the sheets and things, but I just need to sort a few things out.’

  ‘Don’t you hate having people staying at your house?’

  ‘I’ve put a lot of stuff in the cellar,’ Freya said. ‘And that’s locked. It doesn’t bother me.’

  ‘But isn’t it a hassle?’

  ‘Not really.’ Freya shrugged. ‘And even if it is at times, then it’s worth it. It helps a lot with the mortgage, though in a couple of months it’s going on the market...’ Freya halted.

  Or was it?

  She recalled that just before Richard had arrived her plans had started to change. She needed to be alone to think about that, to decide what she was going to do, and so she asked about him instead.

  ‘What about you? Do you have plans?’

  ‘I have an interview.’

  ‘Ah, that explains the haircut,’ Freya said as she twirled spaghetti around her fork.

  ‘Not really. I was well overdue for that. It’s not an interview as such—more an informal lunch to suss things out...’

  He let out a sigh and promptly forgot the reason he had brought her here. Instead he told her what tomorrow was about. No-one else knew.

  ‘There’s a role coming up.’

  ‘I thought you loved what you do?’

  ‘And I do, but it is consuming. I’m actually heading to the airport after the lunch. I’m going to Moscow tomorrow for a few nights, to get away completely.’

  ‘Moscow?’

  ‘It’s a bit drastic, I know, but I love getting away. I don’t put my phone on, so the hospital can’t call me to come in—or if they do I don’t hear it.’

  ‘Well, you don’t need to go all the way to Moscow for that. There are more than a few places in Scotland where you can’t get a signal.’

  ‘Please...’ He grinned. ‘I was teasing about changing the movie reels.’

  ‘I know you were,’ Freya agreed. ‘But, trust me, there really are plenty of places you can’t get a signal. I went away for Christmas with my family last year and we all had to keep going for walks just so we could make a call, or check emails and things. And in summer, depending on what provider they have, the tourists often can’t get a good signal. We have a wee laugh, watching them walking around with their phones in the air.’

  ‘Well, I’ll bear that in mind,’ Richard said.

  ‘So, are you keen for this job?’

  ‘I’m curious, certainly.’

  He told her the name of a very exclusive private hospital which made her look up from her pasta.

  ‘I’ve a friend, Marcus, who’s director of anaesthetics there, and there’s a position coming up—a very attractive one...’ He didn’t get to finish, for Freya had a question.

  ‘But won’t you miss the adrenaline?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But there are days when I think no, I won’t miss it at all. It’s a big decision—but you’d know all about that, given you’ve just made a big move yourself.’

  Freya gave a shrug. ‘I just knew that I wanted to get away.’

  He looked at her through slightly narrowed, assessing eyes. ‘Why?’

  ‘Lots of reaso
ns,’ Freya said. ‘I had a bit of a rough year. Well, not myself, exactly...’ She didn’t know why it was so hard simply to say it. ‘My best friend lost a baby last year... Andrew.’

  ‘Were you present at the birth?’ Richard asked.

  ‘Not at the actual birth, but I was there on admission,’ Freya said. ‘Alison ended up having a crash Caesarean. She came in a week before her due date, everything about the pregnancy had been fine, and then I went to check the foetal heart-rate...’ She paused a moment as she recalled it. ‘At first I thought I had picked up Alison’s...’

  She didn’t, of course, need to explain to him that the mother’s heart-rate was usually a lot slower than the baby’s.

  ‘But then I knew the heart-rate was the baby’s...’

  ‘Not good.’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘My senior, Betty, was there, and a doctor was there within a minute, and everything was set in motion. We got her straight upstairs to Theatre. I didn’t go in. Betty knew I was too involved. He was born flat and was resuscitated but died two days later. Cord compression and meconium aspiration...’ Freya screwed her eyes closed for just a second but then opened them and gave an uncomfortable shrug. ‘Anyway, it was a difficult time.’

  ‘Did she blame you?’

  ‘Oh, no—nothing like that. It was more...’ Freya didn’t know how to describe how she’d felt when she didn’t really know herself.

  ‘You blamed yourself?’

  ‘A bit,’ Freya said. ‘Well, I questioned myself. It made me realise that being so involved with my patients isn’t always ideal.’

  ‘So you came to nice, anonymous London?’

  ‘It wasn’t just because of that,’ Freya said, ‘but it is nice to be not so involved with the patients.’

  ‘I’m sorry—you don’t get to do a job like yours and not get involved.’

  ‘It’s not that easy...’

  ‘I never said anything about easy.’

  That annoyed her. Richard was too brusque, too direct, and he had hit a nerve.

  ‘You don’t know me.’

  ‘I’m trying to.’

  It was a rare admission for him, because while he might be talking about getting involved professionally, he certainly did his best not to on the personal front.