CHAPTER ELEVEN
DR MEREDITH DENNISON’S hands were tied behind her back, and her head was deep down in a large bucket, leaving her face millimetres from water as she tried to get her mouth around one of the many bobbing silicone babies’ teats. The laughter of her colleagues filled her ears—she was going to kill them. They’d cheerfully ambushed her with a surprise baby shower, which had been a generous and appreciated idea, although she could have done without the party games.
‘Come on, Merry, just grab one with your teeth,’ Olivia, the receptionist, encouraged, her voice full of glee.
‘I’ve got dinner at Le Goût with Richard’s parents at seven,’ she said rising slightly. ‘I can’t go with wet hair. The snooty maître d’ won’t let me in.’
‘You’ve got plenty of time to restyle your hair,’ Emma, her good friend and fellow GP, said firmly. ‘Besides, you want your presents, don’t you?’
‘This is extortion,’ she replied indignantly, her breath making the water ripple.
‘Sure, but it’s fun.’ Emma’s tinkling laugh rained down on her. ‘Consider it payback for the humiliations you made me suffer at my hens’ night.’
Meredith turned her head sideways to see her friend. ‘Having a hunk of a male stripper making a fuss of you is a lot different from half drowning me.’
Emma rolled her eyes. ‘It may have been different if I hadn’t treated him the week before for a sexually transmitted infection. Instead of admiring his ripped muscles, I kept seeing his path report and going ewww.’
‘Granted, that was unfortunate but, as I’ve said at least one thousand times since, I didn’t know he was a clinic patient.’
Emma crossed her arms, her eyes twinkling. ‘Stop stalling.’
Meredith felt a firm kick under her ribs and sighed. Even her unborn child was telling her to get on with it. Sucking in a deep breath of air, she lined up a bobbing teat, bared her teeth and dived. Two seconds later and with dripping wet hair, she raised her head triumphantly, the teat firmly clenched between her lips.
Her colleagues cheered. The baby kicked again as if to say, Go, Mum. Laughing, Meredith spat out the teat. ‘Wait until I tell Richard I was all tied up and he missed it.’
‘When he gets home from his week of snowboarding in the back country he won’t care,’ Emma said. ‘He’ll just want a hot shower, clean sheets and lovely, waddly you.’
‘Hey, I don’t waddle.’
Emma laughed again. ‘If you say so.’
Meredith accepted the proffered towel from Olivia. ‘I asked Richard if I waddled and he said I’m the sexiest pregnant woman he’s ever seen.’
Lee Ng, the clinic’s physiotherapist, sighed, the sound loaded with experience. ‘If he wants an easy life, he’d be a fool to say anything else.’
‘Damn straight.’ Meredith smiled and hugged Richard’s loving words to herself.
She’d been waiting a long time for this baby—waiting while she and Richard completed their fellowships, waiting while Richard established himself as one of the top trauma surgeons in Melbourne and now, finally, her long-held dream to be a mother was almost here. In a few weeks they’d welcome their baby into the world and as far as she was concerned it couldn’t come fast enough. They were going to be parents—a team at last—and she couldn’t wait to see Richard as a father.
There had been a few worrying months a year and a half ago when she’d despaired that Richard was never going to be ready for fatherhood. He worked long hours as a surgeon and he’d told her he didn’t want to have any more demands put on his time. Any precious spare time he had he spent in the great outdoors, unwinding and re-energising. As much as she loved joining him in his outdoor adventures, she’d craved motherhood more. Just when she had really started to worry he would never change his mind, he’d surprised her. Last year, on his return from trekking in Nepal, he’d swept her into his arms and told her he was ready. The ease with which she’d got pregnant had delighted them both.
With the physical demands of pregnancy on her body, her life had instantly changed with the nausea and cloying fatigue in the early weeks, thankfully followed by the energy and wonder of feeling the baby move. Richard’s life had stayed much the same and he’d continued to work hard and play hard. She’d buried any niggling concerns she had that he wouldn’t be the hands-on father she hoped for because right now there was no need for him to change a thing. After all, the baby wasn’t here yet so why shouldn’t he go hiking and kayaking and do all the things he loved just because she was too big now to join him?
There was no rational reason at all but that didn’t stop irrational reasons booming in her head. All she wanted was one free weekend so they could paint the nursery together. Perhaps he’d sensed her disquiet or finally the reason behind her burgeoning belly had registered in his brain as baby coming. Either way, last week as he’d packed his gear for his alpine snowboarding trip, he’d tucked her hair behind her ears, kissed her on the forehead and told her this was his last recreational trip away until the baby was a few months old. Next weekend—medical emergencies excepted—they were painting the nursery together. She felt dizzy with excitement.
Having towelled her hair dry, she grinned and tossed the damp towel into the hamper. ‘So, Emma, did I hear you say presents?’
Raf Camilleri stood in the kitchen, immune to the lulling sound of foaming waves rolling rhythmically onto the beach. With his chest heaving, he was trying to gulp down water and quench his ragged thirst while he waited for his blood to pump out of his legs and back to his brain. Running along the white, sandy beaches of Shearwater Island was completely different from pounding the concrete pavements of Melbourne and his calves reminded him of that every day. After draining the water bottle, he pressed the palms of his hands against the island bench and lowered his heels to the floor, welcoming the burning stretch of his Achilles tendons. It was a case of the pleasure of the pain—without it he’d end up a lot sorer.
‘You’re back.’
‘I am.’ Raf swung his head sideways, glancing under his arm towards the familiar male voice. He caught sight of his father’s orthotic shoes—shoes Mario Camilleri hated, shoes Raf laced up for him each morning—and he was reminded, not just by his burning calves, that both his and his father’s lives had changed.
‘So,’ Mario said, his voice tinged with a hint of an Italian accent, ‘now you can drive me to the club.’
It wasn’t a question—more of a demand, really. Mario didn’t do
