and reassurance. ‘You want advice, I’m full of advice. You want a hug, that’s what I’m here for, too.’
‘You can’t be here with me all the time.’
‘I can’t,’ Em agreed. ‘I have my own son and daughter to look after. But I’m here every day during the week, and if I’m needed, I can come in at other times. My mum lives with me so I can usually drop everything and come. I don’t do that for all my mums, but I’ll try for you.’
‘Why?’ Ruby demanded, suspicious.
‘Because you’re special,’ she said soundly. ‘Isn’t that right, Dr Evans? You’re one special woman, and you’re about to have one special daughter.’
But Oliver was hardly listening. Somehow he managed to make a grunt of acquiescence but his mind felt like it was exploding.
I have my own son and daughter to look after.
Somehow … a part of his brain had hoped—assumed?—that she’d stayed … as Em. The Em he’d left five years ago.
She hadn’t. She’d moved on. She was a different woman.
I have my own son and daughter to look after …
‘What do you think, Ruby?’ Em was saying gently. ‘Do you want to go ahead with the operation? Do you want time to think about it?’
‘I don’t have a choice,’ Ruby whispered. ‘My baby … It’s the best thing …’
It was. Oliver watched Ruby’s hand drop to cover the faint bulge of her tummy, the instinctive gesture of protection that was as old as time itself.
And the gesture brought back the wedge that had been driven so deep within his marriage that it had finished it. Em had wanted to adopt, and he’d known he couldn’t love like parents were supposed to love. He was right, he thought bleakly. He’d always been right. What was between Ruby and her baby was what her baby needed. Ruby was this baby’s mum. Adoption was great if there was no choice, but how could an adoptive parent ever love a child as much as this?
He knew he couldn’t and that knowledge had torn his marriage apart.
But Em was watching him now, with those eyes he’d once thought he could drown in. He’d loved her so much, and yet he’d walked away.
And she’d walked, as well.
I have my own son and daughter to look after.
It was nothing to do with him. He’d made his choice five years ago, and Em had obviously made choices, too.
He needed to know what those choices had been.
But now wasn’t the time or the place to ask. All he could do was turn his attention back to Ruby, reassure her as much as possible and then set about working out times and details of the forthcoming surgery.
As they finished, a woman who introduced herself as one of the hospital social workers arrived. It seemed Ruby needed help with housing—as well as everything else, she’d been kicked out of her parents’ house. She was staying in a boarding house near the hospital but she wouldn’t be able to stay there when the baby was born.
There’d be more talk of adoption. More talk of options.
Ruby’s surgery was scheduled for the day after tomorrow, but for now he was redundant. He was free to head to the next mum Charles had asked him to see.
He left, but his head was spinning.
Em was still sitting on the bed, still hugging Ruby. I have my own son and daughter to look after.
Whatever she’d done, it had been her choice. He’d walked away so she’d have that choice.
Why did it hurt so much that she’d taken it?
EM GOT ON with her day, too.
One of the wonderful things about being a midwife was that it took all her care, all her attention. She had little head-space for anything else. What was the saying? Find a job you love and you’ll never have to work again? She’d felt that the first time she’d helped deliver a baby and she’d never looked back.
She sometimes … okay, she often … felt guilty about working when her mum was home with the kids, but the decision to foster had been a shared one. Her mum loved Gretta and Toby as much as she did. They had the big old house, but they needed Em’s salary to keep them going.
Sometimes when Em got home her mother was more tired than she was, but whenever she protested she was cut off at the pass.
‘So which baby are we giving back? Don’t be ridiculous, Em. We can do this.’
They could, and knowing the kids were at home, waiting … it felt great, Em thought as she hauled off her uniform at the end of her shift and tugged on her civvies. Right, supermarket, pharmacy—Gretta’s medications were running low—then home. She’d rung her mum at lunchtime and Adrianna had been reassuring. ‘She’s looking much better.’ But, still, there was no way she was risking running out of Gretta’s drugs.
‘Big day?’ Sophia Toulson, one of the more recent arrivals to the Victoria’s midwifery staff, was hauling her uniform off, too, but instead of pulling on sensible clothes like Em’s—yikes, where had that milk stain come from?—she was putting on clothes that said she was heading out clubbing or to a bar—to a life Em had left behind years ago.
Not that she missed it—much. Though there were times …
‘It has been a big day,’ she agreed, thinking of the night to come. Em had had three sleepless nights in a row. Gretta needed to be checked all the time. What she’d give for a solid eight-hour sleep …
‘But have you met the new obstetrician? You must have—he’s been fast-tracked here to operate on your Ruby. Em, he’s gorgeous. No wedding ring, either. Not that that tells you anything with surgeons—they hardly ever wear them. It’s not fair. Just because rings can hold infection it gives them carte blanche to disguise their marital state. But he’s come from the States and fast, so that hints at single status. Em, you’ll be working with him. How about giving it a shot?’
Yeah, right. Propositioning Oliver? If Sophia only knew … But somehow she managed to grimace as if this conversation were completely normal, an anonymous, gorgeous obstetrician arriving in the midst of midwives whose first love was their job, and whose second love was dissecting the love lives of those around them.
She turned to face the full-length mirror at the end of the change room. What she saw there made her grimace. Faded jeans, with a rip at the knee. Trainers with odd shoelaces. A windcheater with a milk stain running down the shoulder—why hadn’t she noticed that before she’d left the house?
Her hair needed a cut. Oliver had loved her hair. She’d had it longer then and the dull brown had been shiny. It had bounced—she’d spent time with decent shampoo and conditioner, and she’d used a curling wand to give it body.
