of black and white that had been made overpowering with the excess of black on floors, walls and paintwork; to the bedroom with the oversized four-poster bed that was totally out of place in such a modern setting and whose voluminous floral drapery looked more like something a pre-schooler would prescribe for a fairy-tale princess.
In fact, the only room in which it looked as if Dan had finally put his foot down was the living room. That alone was an oasis of calm understatement with restful neutral colours a backdrop for the stunning views out of the wide uncluttered windows.
The furniture, when she finally made her way to it, was deliciously comfortable, particularly the reclining chair that was in reach of everything she could need, from the remote control for the television and another one for the stereo system to a wall of bookshelves that had everything from Agatha Christie to massive tomes on emergency radiographic diagnosis.
She quickly realised that this was the one place in the whole flat where she might be able to feel at home, but it wasn’t until she turned her head and caught a hint of the shampoo that Dan used that she understood why.
‘This is Dan’s chair,’ she said, and cringed as she heard the words coming back to her sounding like the sort of reverential tones of a besotted fan of her favourite idol.
Disgusted with herself for mooning about like this, she forced herself up onto her feet—well, onto her one weight-bearing foot and her single crutch—and struggled her way into the kitchen.
‘It’s not your home, so don’t go criticising it,’ she told herself sternly as she sorted through her shopping to put the perishables away in the enormous American-style fridge. ‘And don’t go getting comfortable in it either … not even in Dan’s chair. You’re only going to be here for a short time—just until the panic’s over in A and E—and then you’ll be back in your own place.’
Her own place with the little poky rooms that were too small to have anything bigger than doll’s-house furniture and the old draughty windows and iffy heating.
‘But it’s mine, everything in it is something I’ve chosen and it suits me,’ she said aloud, even as she silently wondered who she was trying to convince.
It was two hours later that Dan phoned her.
Of course, she didn’t know that it was Dan until the answering-machine kicked in and she heard his voice projected into the room.
‘Sara, pick up the phone … it’s Dan,’ he announced—as if the sound of his voice wasn’t imprinted on every cell in her body.
‘Dan?’ she said, furious that she sounded so breathless when she’d only had to reach out her hand to pick up the phone. Pathetic!
‘Sara, I’m sorry to do this to you, but they really need me to stay on till the end of the shift. Arne’s had to go home with this wretched flu, too. He was nearly out on his feet and we could just about fry eggs on his head.’
Sara chuckled at the mental image painted of her colleague. Arne Kørsvold was an enormous gentle Swedish doctor who disguised the fact that he was rapidly losing his natural platinum-blond hair by shaving his whole head.
‘Anyway, if you’re OK with it, I’ll stay on and work the rest of the shift, then call in for an update on Zara. I promise I’ll take you back as soon as I can get away.’
What could she say? A and E’s needs were far more urgent than her own so she resigned herself to several more hours of sitting on the chair that faced Dan’s recliner and tried not to imagine what it would be like to spend her evenings sharing this lovely room with him.
Sara had no idea when the television programme finally lost her attention and she drifted off to sleep but she was completely out for the count by the time Dan let himself in.
She didn’t know how long he stood in the doorway to the living room, watching her sleep; didn’t see the way he frowned when he saw the shadows around her eyes that spoke of her exhaustion or the way his eyes softened as they traced the swelling curve of her belly.
The first thing she knew was a hazy realisation that Dan was there and that she was in his arms as he lifted her off the settee. Then he was laying her gently down again and she couldn’t help giving a little whimper of disappointment when he took his arms away again.
‘Shh,’ he whispered softly as he stroked a soothing hand over her head, and as she drifted off to sleep again, comforted by the fact that he was close to her, she imagined that she felt the butterfly brush of his lips on her forehead.
‘I ’M GOING to go mad if I have to stay here any longer,’ Sara told the four walls of her borrowed bedroom.
She was spending yet another day in Dan’s spare room … Dan and Zara’s spare room, she corrected herself, although it was getting harder and harder to make herself remember that fact.
Because of the continuing staff shortages, Dan had returned to work full time. He was, however, being allowed time to go up at intervals to visit Zara.
Each evening, when he returned to the flat, Dan gave Sara a full report on the latest test results, but Zara’s body seemed to be struggling to rid itself of the toxic metabolite of the paracetamol she’d taken.
‘No doubt it’s because her liver had reduced glutathione stores as the result of her years of drastic dieting,’ he said soberly.
‘But the liver can regenerate itself,’ Sara reminded him. ‘Surely the paracetamol hasn’t done that much damage that it can’t be repaired.’ She shook her head and pushed her plate away, unable to eat any more even though it was her favourite tagliatelli carbonara.
‘Oh, Dan, I’m in such a muddle. Half of me desperately wants her problem to be the result of taking the drugs earlier in the afternoon, which would mean Zara couldn’t possibly be the person driving the car that hit me. But the other half wants just as desperately for it to have been her in the car, because that means the drugs hadn’t been in her system so long and she’s more likely to recover.’
There was a strange shadow in Dan’s eyes but he didn’t comment on her dilemma, choosing instead to tell her about one of the department regulars who’d turned up again after an absence of several months showing all the usual signs that she’d fallen off the wagon again.
‘Somebody hadn’t remembered to flag her name, so the new junior registrar went sailing into the cubicle to find dear old Alice lying there with all her worldly goods piled around her on the bed and snoring her head off.’
‘Oh, dear! He didn’t touch any of her bags, did he?’ Sara chuckled. ‘And she woke up and yelled the place down?’
‘She started shouting “Fire!” then realised it was a male doctor in the cubicle with her and changed it to “Rape!” with all-too-predictable results.’
‘Poor chap!’ Sara laughed even louder, remembering her own noisy introduction to Alice and her obsession with her bags. ‘I bet he got an even bigger shock when it took less than thirty seconds for the cubicle to fill with half the hospital’s security personnel.’
‘He was shaking and as
