and overwhelming, but you’ll both get used to it and she’ll be back to her usual smiley self before you know it. I’ll book you in with the physiotherapist and my clinic for a week’s time, and in the meantime if you’ve got any questions just ring in.’ She took a leaflet from a drawer. ‘This will tell you all about the harness and what it does, if anyone asks you and it’s gone all fuzzy because right now you’re worrying too much about Poppy to take everything in.’
Jamie glanced at her. Anna Maskell was kind as well as professional. And he could already see the difference that kindness had made to the patient’s mother; Ms Byford had stopped crying and was asking questions.
Anna, he thought, was going to be good to work with.
Not that he intended getting close to her or to any of his other colleagues in the Muswell Hill Memorial Hospital. He’d agreed to cover maternity leave here for three months, and that was all. He didn’t need to make new friends. He was absolutely fine on his own.
‘All the best, Ms Byford. I’ll see you later, Dr Maskell,’ he said. And he left the room before he was tempted to blow a raspberry at Poppy and make the baby laugh.
Babies.
How ironic that this was his vocation, the job he loved so much.
After losing Hestia and the baby, Jamie hadn’t wanted to see another baby or child ever again. But he wasn’t going to throw all those years of hard work and studying away and change his career. Hestia would never have forgiven him for that. But, unable to face the pity of his team at the hospital where he’d worked in south London, he’d switched to working as a locum. No involvement, no closeness, no risk of heartache. He stayed for no longer than three months in one place; as soon as his locum cover was finished, he moved on to the next job. That was how his life had been for the last two and a half years, and that was how he intended it to stay. Utterly within his comfort zone.
Anna finished writing up her notes for the last patient of her morning’s clinic, then headed to the office where she’d met Jamie Thurston earlier. ‘Ready?’ she asked from the doorway.
‘Yes.’ He logged out of the files he’d been reviewing, then came to join her.
‘Did Robert introduce you to everyone when you started this morning, or would you like to meet everyone now?’
‘Robert introduced me,’ Jamie said.
‘That’s great. OK. I’m assuming he also showed you the staff kitchen?’
‘Yes.’
‘Just the canteen, then,’ she said, ‘and filling you in on the social side of the ward.’
‘Social side?’
Was it her imagination, or did Jamie look a bit antsy? ‘We’re a close team. We do a lot of things together outside work,’ she said. ‘And we try to do stuff that includes partners and children.’
He said nothing, simply nodded.
‘Locums count as part of the team,’ she said softly. But she shut up when she noticed his slight frown. Maybe he was shy. And it was his first day on the team, so she should cut him some slack.
She left it until they’d bought lunch and found a quiet table in the canteen. ‘I guess it’s because I have bossy tendencies,’ she said, smiling to take the sting from her words, ‘but I organise most of the ward’s social stuff. I’ve had the venue for the team Christmas dinner booked since July, but I don’t have to give the absolute final numbers or confirm everyone’s menu choices to the pub for another week or so.’
Jamie’s wrap stopped tasting like sweet chilli chicken and turned to ashes in his mouth.
Christmas.
No.
Since Hestia’s death, he didn’t do Christmas. There weren’t tidings of comfort and joy, as far as he was concerned. Just the bleak midwinter, and the radio playing songs saying how it would be lonely at Christmas, or begging the singer’s loved one to come home for Christmas, or, worse still, the song Hestia had loved and danced around the house to with him, making him sing along with her. The most popular modern song, the one that seemed to be playing all the time in December, no matter which radio station he chose.
All Hestia had wanted for Christmas was him. And their baby.
That was what he’d wanted, too.
What he’d actually got was a double funeral. All those plans, all the happiness and excitement, had sunk into a black hole. It was just over three years ago now, and everyone had expected him to move on. But he couldn’t. It was too, too hard.
Which was why he worked as a locum.
And why he flatly refused social invitations from family and friends alike, since the time they’d all clearly talked about him and decided he needed help to move on, and had set him up at a dinner party with a suitably single woman. A nice, sweet woman who deserved so much more than the wreckage that had once been Jamie Thurston. He’d been polite, the first couple of times it had happened, but then he’d refused invitations so he wouldn’t be put in an awkward position again. He didn’t need to be fixed up with anyone. He didn’t want anyone else in his life.
‘Sorry. I don’t think—’ he began, but Anna had already fished her phone out of her pocket.
‘It’s very much a foodie pub, so the food’s utterly amazing,’ she said. ‘The smoked salmon pậté is to die for.’
Die. Yeah. Jamie knew all about dying and death. Though this wasn’t Anna’s fault. She didn’t know him, so she’d have no idea how inappropriate that phrase was.
‘If you’re veggie or vegan, the avocado on toast with chilli jam is fantastic. Or the spiced pumpkin soup,’ she continued.
He didn’t want to even think about a ward Christmas dinner, let alone go to one.
‘They do the best roast potatoes in the world—better even than my mum’s, which is saying a lot,’ she said. ‘Crispy on the outside and fluffy in the middle. And they stir-fry the Brussels sprouts with lemon and chilli. There’s traditional turkey, sea bass if you prefer fish, or parsnip and chestnut Wellington for the veggie/vegan option.’ She passed her phone to him so he could see the menu for himself. ‘Obviously there’s traditional Christmas pudding or cheese, but I guarantee the chocolate Venetian cake will ruin you for any other pudding.’
He blinked at her.
‘Or I can email everything over to you, if you want to take a bit of time choosing. It’s the first Friday evening in December, at half-past seven,’ she said. ‘And we do a Secret Santa on the ward, too—you pick a name out of the hat, leave your labelled parcel with the secretaries, and Robert puts the ward’s Father Christmas outfit on and dishes them out on the night. Anyone who can’t make it to the dinner gets their parcel at the start of their next shift.’
This was going way, way too fast for him.
She
