shocked at how readily the tears seemed to form. She was always so grounded, so sensible, so dispassionate.
But not about Jack.
‘I’d love to see a photo,’ she said, wondering if she was just opening herself up to heartache but unable to deny herself this one small thing.
‘A photo?’ He laughed softly. ‘I’ve got hundreds—and videos going back to his birth. You’re welcome to them. Why don’t you come round? Then you can meet him, too.’
An ache so large it threatened to destroy her built in her chest. ‘But Crystal didn’t want us to stay in contact.’
‘And I never did agree with her. Besides, it’s irrelevant,’ he added, his voice curiously flat. ‘Crystal’s dead, Molly. She died two years ago.’
Molly felt shock drain the blood from her face. ‘Dead?’ she echoed silently. ‘Oh, dear God, Sam, I’m so sorry.’
His face tightened. ‘It was a long time ago,’ he said, but she could feel his pain, could remember her own when Mick had died, and she ached for him.
She reached out, her hand covering those interlinked fingers, and he turned his hands and caught hers between them, renewing the bond that had been forged three years ago in blood and sweat and tears.
‘So—how do you manage?’ she asked, her voice surprisingly steady. ‘About Jack, I mean? Who looks after him?’ Oh, lord, she thought, tell me you’re not married again. Tell me someone else isn’t bringing him up.
‘I have a couple who live in the house—Mark’s disabled after an accident and can only do very light work, and Debbie needs to be around to look after him, but between them they look after the house and the garden and take Jack to and from nursery. They do it in return for their accommodation and a small salary, and because they live on the premises it gives me cover when I’m on call for the night or the weekend or whatever, and it’s much better than having an au pair. Been there, done that, and this is streets better.’
‘Gosh. You were lucky to find them. Do you think they’ll be all right? Does Jack like them, or is it too soon to tell?’
He smiled. ‘Jack loves them and, yes, I was lucky, but it’s not a new arrangement. They’ve been with me for a year now, and so far it’s been brilliant. Mark’s a tapestry designer—he’s a great big guy, an ex-biker with multiple piercings and the most unlikely looking person with a needle and thread, but he’s amazingly gifted, really successful, and Debbie’s just a miniature powerhouse. She makes me tired just watching her.’
‘Didn’t they mind moving up from London?’
‘Didn’t seem to, but it’s early days. We only moved three weeks ago, and I’ve only been in this job three days.’
While she’d been on her days off, of course, which was why she hadn’t known he was here.
A pity. It might have given her a chance to prepare.
Or run.
His bleeper summoned him and, standing up, he drained his coffee and shot her an apologetic smile.
‘Later—we’ll talk some more. Perhaps over dinner.’
She smiled and gave a noncommittal nod. ‘Perhaps,’ she said silently to his retreating back, and wondered what hand fate, with her twisted sense of humour, would deal them this time.
It wasn’t too late to run…
So many memories.
Crystal, determined and focused, her gimlet mind fastened on this one idea to the exclusion of all others, one last attempt to rescue the tatters of their marriage.
‘I want a child,’ she’d said. ‘What about a surrogate mother? You’re in the business—can’t you find one?’
And then he had, by a miracle, by sheer coincidence, because a patient of his had had a baby for someone else, and he’d talked to her, told her about Crystal’s idea.
‘You need to talk to my friend Molly,’ she’d said, and then Molly had been there, coming through the door behind him, warm and generous and full of life and laughter, filling the room with sunshine and making him glad to be alive. His first impression of her had been that he’d could trust her with his life and with that of his child, and nothing she’d ever done had taken that away.
They’d become friends over the next few weeks and months, and she’d been a rock during the endless procedures, the meetings, the conversations, the dealings with the solicitors. He remembered how calm she’d been, how in control, how understanding and gentle with Crystal.
The pregnancy had seemed to last for ever, such a long wait until the phone call came to say she was in labour, and he could remember every moment of the drive to the hospital, the waiting again, and then being there, holding Molly, supporting her while she’d given birth to Jack—the son he and Crystal had thought they’d never have.
Their son, carried for them by Molly, who’d generously agreed to act as a host mother to their embryo. A tummy mummy, she’d called herself, and their son had been loved and nurtured and protected by her body until the time had been right to hand him over to them.
And then Jack—tiny, screaming, enraged by the insult of birth, only calming when the midwife had taken him from the panic-striken Crystal and given him to Sam.
Then Molly had let out a long, ragged breath and smiled tearfully at him and nodded, and it had been all right.
Or so he’d thought, for the last three years.
And now he’d seen her again, and she’d admitted she’d had problems, and the doubts had come back to plague him. Had it been the right thing to do, to ask another woman to make such stupendous sacrifices for them, so Crystal could have what she wanted?
He nearly laughed out loud. What she’d thought she wanted, anyway. What was that saying? Be careful what you wish for, you might get it?
‘So—is it possible?’
Matt Jordan, the A and E consultant, stood beside Sam with his hands thrust into the pockets of his white coat, watching as he examined their patient. It was the first time he’d met the big Canadian, and he liked him instinctively—not least for calling him so quickly on this somewhat puzzling case.
‘She could be pregnant, yes. Certainly looks possible.’ Sam gently palpated the distended abdomen of the unconscious woman in Resus and shook his head thoughtfully. ‘I think you’re right, I think she is pregnant, but I can’t be sure without a scan or a pregnancy test. It could be all sorts of things—a tumour, an ovarian cyst, fibroids—without a heartbeat it’s anybody’s guess, and I can’t pick one up on the foetal stethoscope. It could just be fluid, but it doesn’t really feel right for that. What do you know about her?’ he asked Matt.
‘Very little,’ he was told. ‘She was brought in a few minutes ago after collapsing at the wheel of her car. The police are working on it, but it doesn’t seem to be registered to a woman, so they don’t know who she is. They’re checking with the car’s owner.’
He nodded.
‘Well,
