Allie’s hand flew up to investigate, and they laughed at her, the teasing, kindly laughter of good friends. ‘Go for it, kid,’ Lucy said sagely. ‘It’s about time.’
It probably was, she acknowledged as she went up to bed, a steaming mug of tea in hand. She was twenty-three, a professional woman on the threshold of her career, and untouched by human hand. It hadn’t really been deliberate, except that she was naturally fastidious and had heard such awful stories from her friends that she’d never felt inclined to dabble or experiment, and nobody had come along who’d pushed her buttons.
Nobody except Mark, that is, but he’d been out of reach and a hero figure at a most impressionable time. The trouble was, the impression had been lasting, and despite a few relationships with young men during her training, the affection she’d felt for them had never been enough for her to take that next and most intimate step.
The memory of his farewell kiss as he was leaving all those years ago had haunted her, and nothing else had measured up. Nobody else. As an adolescent she’d wanted the touch of Mark’s hand, the feel of his lips, the warmth of his body. Apparently she still did.
She felt the soft, bruised skin of her lips and remembered the kiss they’d just shared, and a deep yearning ache flared to life within her. She’d been subconsciously waiting for him so long—would it be worth waiting for? Was it possible she’d find the love she needed in her life with Mark, or was it just wishful thinking?
She seen her friends flit from one man to another, unfulfilled and often desperately unhappy, and she didn’t want that for herself. When she gave herself, it would be for ever. Did Mark feel the same? They might be on the same playing field now in terms of age, but was it a level playing field in terms of expectations, or was she going to open herself up to heartbreak if she allowed them to see what happened, as he suggested?
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ she grumbled, putting her tea down and pulling off her clothes. ‘You went out for a cheap meal to a basic little Italian. You’re making much too much of it, building too much on such a slight acquaintance. You don’t even know the man.’
But she wanted to, and that was scary. She hadn’t felt like this before, not since—well, not since they’d first met and they’d sat for hours talking, night after night. They’d talked about everything—religion, politics, music, medical ethics, the fact that her father wanted her to be a doctor and she wanted to be a nurse.
He’d supported her, talking through it with her, giving her a very sane piece of advice.
‘Be true to yourself,’ he’d said. ‘You have to do that. If you aren’t true to yourself, you can’t be true to anyone else, because everything else is built on a lie.’
It had given her the courage to talk to her father, to explain that being clever enough to be a doctor didn’t mean it was the career she wanted. Her mother had understood, but then her mother had been a nurse. And gradually, over the next few weeks, her father had come to understand—all thanks to Mark.
She owed him so much for that. She’d never thought she’d see him again, but now he was back in her life, and she realised she wanted to know much more about him—his likes and dislikes, his taste in music, his preferences in literature—all the things she hadn’t had time to find out before. Suddenly it seemed very important. She had felt happier tonight in his company than she’d felt in five years.
Please God, let him feel the same, she thought as she curled up in bed with her tea. Don’t let it be one-sided. Give us a chance. Let it be for real …
THE ward was busy the next morning when she arrived for work at seven. She’d thought she wouldn’t sleep, but in fact had gone out like a light when her head hit the pillow. That’s what happiness does for you, she’d told herself as she scrabbled around getting ready in a hurry. Or, more likely, half a bottle of red wine, a brandy and that sinfully laced chocolate dessert!
She had arrived in the nick of time, and found the night staff getting the children ready for their breakfast. There was always a flurry of visits to the loo and a rush round with bedpans to the immobile patients at that time of the morning, and Allie was as busy as any of them.
Anna was there, taking report from the Night Sister, and the moment it was done she joined Allie in the little single room where she was replacing Darren’s colostomy pouch.
The twelve-year-old had come in with a rectal abscess, with fever and severe pain, following chronic constipation and an appalling diet, and after investigation they had decided to operate. The surgeons had cut through his bowel above the abscess and brought the cut end out through the wall of his abdomen in a temporary colostomy, to rest the affected area and allow it to heal, and for the next few weeks at least he would have to tolerate the indignity of a bag stuck on the front of his tummy.
Still, at least it wasn’t permanent, Allie thought, carefully peeling the old bag away and sealing it and throwing Anna a smile at the same time.
‘Morning.’
‘Morning. Hi, Darren, how’re you doing?’ Anna asked, and chatted for a moment to him, then perched on the end of the bed and watched Allie work. ‘A little bird tells me you went out for dinner with Mark last night, you sly old fox,’ she murmured.
Allie felt a rush of guilt, then stifled it. I got there first, she told herself—five years ago! ‘Not really dinner,’ she denied, still not sure exactly what had happened. ‘We went to the bistro—it was my birthday. Can you hold your T-shirt up higher for me, Darren? That’s lovely. Thanks.’
‘And did you bring cream cakes in?’ Anna prodded, clearly feeling no malice towards Allie for having stolen the brightest prospect on the ward for years. ‘No, you didn’t. I hope you’ve brought them today.’
Allie smiled ruefully. ‘Sorry. I haven’t had time to get to the bakery—anyway, cream cakes are fattening, isn’t that right, Darren?’
‘Yeah—and I can’t have one, so you can’t either.’
‘No, you can’t, but we could always save you one for later—we need any excuse we can get for a cream cake at coffee time!’ She propped herself on the edge of the treatment couch and grinned at the patient. ‘We all need treats, don’t we, Darren?’
Darren nodded. ‘I fancy a cream cake. I’m bored with eating nothing decent. Can’t you sneak off to the bakery now?’
‘No—and anyway, you know you can’t have a cream cake,’ Allie told him with mock sternness. ‘You need to rest your stomach for a few more days, not overload it with junk food, and besides, it’s not my birthday any more.’
‘We could pretend.’
‘No, we couldn’t. It’s too soon after your operation.’
He poked his tongue out, and Allie chuckled and pressed the new pouch firmly in place. ‘We’ll pretend when you’re better. There. That’s you sorted. I’ll come and see you in a while—unless you want to go into the playroom and watch telly with the others?’
He shook his head. ‘Not yet. Perhaps tomorrow.’
‘OK.’ She smiled
