turned away, stripped off her mask and hat and gown and went to change. She would talk to Amil’s parents, tell them how it had gone, and then she had things to do, a patient to see, letters to write to parents, some results to review. She couldn’t just stand around looking at him simply because he was poetry in motion. Too dangerous. She was trying to keep her distance, and watching him wouldn’t help that at all.
And besides, there was something else she had to do. Something pressing. Something she’d never thought she’d need to do, and couldn’t quite believe. Couldn’t dare to believe.
She had to do a pregnancy test, because this morning she’d made herself a coffee and she’d been unable to drink it. She’d sipped it, but it had sat in her stomach like a rock and she’d had to rinse her mouth to get rid of the taste.
Maybe she’d just had too much coffee over the years and her body had started to rebel? But she was hungry, too, and although she was used to that, almost welcomed it because it was a good sign in her case, today she felt a little light-headed and woozy. And her periods, never as regular as clockwork, were an unreliable sign, but even so it had been a while.
So while he was working miracles on the child’s skin, she spoke to the boy’s parents, went to her locker, got out the test kit she’d bought on the way to work and went to the ladies’ loo.
It wouldn’t be positive. It couldn’t be. Her body didn’t do ovulation—couldn’t do it, because her ovaries were stupid.
PREGNANT
She stared at the wand for a good five minutes before she moved, her mind in freefall.
She was pregnant with Marco’s baby.
How? It couldn’t have happened. There was no way she could have conceived, and besides, he’d used a condom! But one of her nails had snagged her dress as she’d tugged it straight afterwards. Just a tiny jagged edge where she must have caught it on something. When she’d shredded his shirt and raked her nails across that strong, solid expanse of chest? Could that have been enough? And when she’d reached down and touched him right after that, helped him put the condom on, had her nail torn it maybe?
It seemed so unlikely—but what other explanation was there?
None. And, however it had happened, however unbelievable it was, it was definitely Marco’s baby, so she’d have to tell him, but how?
She closed her eyes, squeezing them hard against the well of mixed emotions, and pressed her hand over her mouth. How would he react? Would he be angry? She hoped not. Delighted? Unlikely. And then a chilling thought crossed her mind. Would he want her to keep it, or—?
No. She’d seen him with children. There was no way he’d want that. He was an Italian, and children were at the front and centre of their world. They were for her, too, which was why she’d chosen paediatrics, because it was the closest she’d thought she’d ever come to having children.
Until now. And now, totally unexpectedly, right out of the blue, she was having a baby. The thing she’d dreamed of and longed for and tried to put out of her mind ever since she’d been told it might never happen for her was happening, but she daren’t invest too much of herself in it because she knew there was a distinct possibility it might all go wrong, because it would be considered a high-risk pregnancy.
Pregnancy. A word she’d never thought she’d use in association with herself, certainly not now in her late thirties, and as she sifted through the blizzard of emotions whirling through her, she didn’t know how she felt about it.
Thrilled? Shocked? Or just plain terrified?
All of them. And add sick to that.
* * *
‘How’s Amil?’
‘Fine. He’s in Recovery, looking good. They’re moving him to PICU shortly and the anaesthetist is going to keep his pain relief topped up with the epidural so he should feel much better soon. I spoke to the parents again, filled them in a bit more.’ He cocked his head on one side. ‘How about you? Get your admin done?’
Admin? She hadn’t even been in her office. ‘Some of it,’ she said—which, if you counted finding out if you’d need maternity leave as ‘admin’, wasn’t a lie. ‘We need to talk.’
‘About a patient? I’ve got time now.’
‘No. Not about a patient. About—us.’
His right eyebrow climbed into his hair. ‘Us?’
She held his eyes silently and with a huge effort, and he shrugged.
‘Sure. How about this evening over dinner? I know a nice little Italian restaurant. They do great pasta.’
Pasta. Hunger and nausea warred, and hunger won. ‘That sounds good. What time? Do we need to book?’
‘No. Seven?’
She nodded. ‘I’ll meet you there.’
‘No. I’ll pick you up.’
‘You don’t know where I live.’
‘Yes, I do. I run past your house some mornings, and I’ve seen you coming out in your gym kit on your way to the hospital.’
He ran past her house? Why had she never seen him? Or had she, maybe, once or twice, and not realised who he was? There were plenty of runners in the morning. She often saw them. He must be one of them.
‘So—shall I come for you at ten to seven? The restaurant’s not far from you, it’ll only take a few minutes to get there on foot.’
‘Ten to seven is fine. Now I need to go and make some calls and write a couple of letters. I’ll see you later.’
* * *
He didn’t see much of her for the rest of the day, which was just as well because he didn’t know what to think and she’d only distract him. She always distracted him, unless he was operating. Then he was focused, but otherwise...
They should never have done what they did at the gala. Not that he regretted it, not a bit, and things between them had been easier since, in a way. She’d been less on his case about everything, but he wanted more than they’d had that night, much more, and he knew she didn’t. She’d made that perfectly clear, and he had to respect that, but the memories were playing hell with his sleep and he kept imagining her with him, sharing his bed, sharing his house—sharing his life? Never going to happen, he’d told himself, and now this.
This wanting to talk to him about ‘us’. What ‘us’? Was there going to be an ‘us’?
It drove him crazy for the rest of the day, so it was a good job he was busy checking on his post-op patients, ending with Amil Khan in PICU, and he spent a long time talking to the boy’s parents about his condition going forward. One of Theo Hawkwood’s pro bono cases, the boy had Crohn’s disease, and so far he hadn’t been in remission. Maybe they could turn it round for him at last, and this op to remove a section of badly damaged bowel had at least given him a chance of recovery. And he hadn’t needed a stoma, so he wouldn’t need a bag, which was good news.
