‘Technically I agree with you, but I’d just spent several hours of my life struggling to save the young fool, and it’s hard to see it all thrown away. I like working miracles, and I don’t like to be cheated! But you’re right, the poor bloke’s better off dead. God knows what complications he would have had if he’d lived.’
Lizzi followed him out of the room. ‘What about relatives?’ she asked.
‘They hadn’t managed to contact any by the time they brought him down this morning, I don’t think.’
But they had. Lucy Hallett ducked her head out of the office door and smiled.
‘I’ve got Mr and Mrs Holden in here. They’re wondering about how Michael’s getting on.’
Ross and Lizzi exchanged glances, and he nodded.
Thanks, I’ll see to it. Perhaps you’d get him presentable?’ he murmured quietly to Lizzi.
Lucy frowned, and Lizzi shook her head slightly. Lucy’s mouth formed an ‘O’, and she came soundlessly out of the room as Ross went in and closed the door firmly behind him.
‘What happened?’
‘He arrested—probably as a result of a traumatic aneurism. Just as well. Mr Hamilton was about to have to take him down to Theatre to sort out his kidney again, because it was still bleeding. Did his parents realise how bad he was?’
Lucy gave a hollow little laugh. ‘I doubt it—I didn’t know, and they were getting their information from me. I was having difficulty holding them; they were almost determined to find him.’
Lizzi went back into Michael’s room and took down the drip, removed the catheter and tidied up the bed. No doubt his parents would want to see him now, and she did her best to disguise the damage. Just as she was about to leave the room, Ross appeared with Michael’s parents.
She left them to it. Telling relatives was a part of her job that she liked the least, and she wasn’t particularly good at it. She realised she was also feeling very angry with the dead man still, and probably wasn’t the best person to deal with his relatives anyway. Maybe it was cowardly of her, but she made her escape nevertheless and went to see how Sarah was doing with Roger Widlake.
He seemed to be holding his own much better than Michael had, and Lizzi went back to her office and contacted the mortuary technician, and then rang ITU to tell them that they now only needed one bed.
Shortly afterwards she saw Ross escorting the Holdens out, and she didn’t see him again until much later, by which time Roger Widlake was in ITU and her ward was her own again.
She was sitting in her office doing battle with the rota when he opened the door and popped his head round.
‘Can I come in?’
Of course.’ She straightened up and pushed the paperwork away from her. ‘What can I do for you?’
He grinned. ‘You could offer me a coffee and we could talk about Roger Widlake, in that order. I think I’m going to fall asleep otherwise!’
‘Mr Widlake’s been transferred to ITU,’ she told him.
‘Good. Then I’ll settle for the coffee!’
He dropped wearily into the chair opposite her desk and rubbed his hand over his face. He had shaved and changed into a suit, but he looked just as tired.
She smiled. ‘I’ll see what I can find. Have you had breakfast?’
He shook his head. ‘No. I’d missed the chance by the time I’d dealt with the Holdens.’
Lizzi felt guilty. ‘I’m sorry I left you to cope with that. I should have done it so you could go and rest for a while.’
He gave her a weary, lop-sided smile. ‘It doesn’t matter. I don’t suppose you would have enjoyed it either, even though you think he got his just deserts.’
‘I-’ Lizzi’s mouth opened and closed, and she floundered to a halt. Was she really that vindictive? Was her judgement really so clouded that she couldn’t deal with the relatives of a patient because she had tried him and found him guilty?
Ross smiled understandingly. ‘Don’t look so worried. I had difficulty, too. It’s hard to explain that someone’s golden boy is not only dead but has caused havoc on the way. It was easier than I’d thought. His father asked straight out if he had been drinking, and I think his attitude was much the same as yours, but tempered by love. He’s a policeman.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yes, oh. Lizzi?’
‘Mmm?’
‘Coffee?’
‘Oh. Sure. Sorry.’
She left the room and went into the kitchen, making toast and fresh coffee. She found some butter and marmalade and laid a tray, and took it back into her office.
He was asleep, his head propped on his arms, sprawled across her rota. He had taken off his jacket, and his shirt pulled and eased with the rhythmic rise and fall of his broad shoulders. The sun gleamed on the soft, thick mass of silver hair, turning it to pale gold. It looked impossibly soft. Lizzi wondered how it would feel in her fingers. She felt a strange, primitive urge to nurture and protect—but not maternally. Oh, no. There was nothing maternal in her feelings, and she drew in her breath sharply.
She hadn’t felt like this for years, not since—not for years. She put the tray down with a tiny clatter, and he stirred and sat up.
‘Sorry.’ His voice was gruff, sleep-roughened. He ran his fingers through his hair and her fingers ached with jealousy. The elemental urge strengthened.
Grasping the coffee-cup, Lizzi filled it and set it down in front of him, her hands trembling slightly.
‘Black or white?’ Damn, why did her voice sound breathless?
‘Black, I think. Thank you.’
‘Toast?’ That was better. Her voice was her own again.
‘Lovely. Do you spoil all the doctors like this, or are you just taking pity on me?’
She blushed and busied herself with her own cup. He was right. Normally she would have sent them off to the canteen rather than let them raid the ward provisions. Sometimes when they were very rushed Oliver would grab a sandwich, but waiting on them? With a tray? What was she thinking about?
She knew perfectly well what she was thinking about, and she blushed again as he caught her eye. She struggled for a neutral topic.
‘Oliver told me you’d had a hectic weekend.’
He chuckled. ‘Is that what you call it? I picked the boys up from school in Norfolk on Friday and took them back to their mother in Edinburgh on Saturday, then back down yesterday.’
‘Your wife’s in Edinburgh?’ Lizzi asked, surprised—as much as anything at herself. She never, never asked personal questions—or answered them, come to that!
‘My
