second mug of coffee.
‘Average. Though I had a nasty case of carpal tunnel. Hayley Porter.’
‘Mmm, she had it when she was pregnant,’ Rachel said. ‘Poor thing. It’s still giving her gyp, then?’
‘I’ve given her a wrist splint, and told her to take ibuprofen before bed. Hopefully that’ll help. If not, the next step’s a steroid injection.’
‘Which could itself cause problems—apart from making sure you don’t touch the median nerve when you put the needle in, there’s a risk of the patient developing a haematoma,’ Rachel said. ‘Plus she might need a second injection and splints if it doesn’t work. And if that doesn’t work, you’ll have to divide the flexor retinaculum to decompress the nerve.’
‘We can do it by keyhole surgery,’ Oliver said.
She shook her head. ‘I know endoscopic techniques—’ keyhole surgery ‘—mean that patients recover faster, but there’s less risk of a complication with the open technique, and more chance that you’ll release the carpal tunnel fully. Half the time with endoscopic techniques you can’t see well enough and you have to convert it to an open technique anyway.’
His turn for a peace offering. ‘Want me to refer her to you?’ He knew Rachel didn’t get to do as much minor surgery as she’d like.
Rachel nodded. ‘Please. Not that you’re a bad doctor. She’s just really, really scared of needles. Lucy—’ the midwife for Hollybridge and the next village ‘—gave up in the end and sent her to me to do the antenatal blood tests.’
‘Then you’d be the best doctor to calm her down. She’s used to you and she trusts you.’
‘She trusts you, Oliver. Everyone does.’
Did they? He wasn’t so sure. Especially where his wife was concerned. ‘Rach, what you were saying yesterday...’
‘Hmm?’
‘About us. I’ve been thinking.’
She looked nervous; her brown eyes suddenly went very, very dark. ‘What about us?’
‘You’ve got a point. We don’t ever talk about us any more, only about work or the children.’
She nodded. ‘Maybe we should—’
But before she could finish, Rita, the practice receptionist, put her head round the door. ‘Rachel, sorry to interrupt, I’ve got the hospital on the phone. Says it’s urgent.’
‘Hell. I’m expecting some test results. If they’re calling, that means bad news,’ she said. She gave Oliver an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry, I really need to take that call. Catch you later?’
‘Sure.’
Though he couldn’t help wondering. What had she been about to suggest? He had no idea. He didn’t know what Rachel was thinking a lot of the time nowadays. Maybe they could try again and talk tonight when the kids were in bed.
Maybe.
CHAPTER THREE
EXCEPT things didn’t work out quite as Oliver planned. Surgery overran and the florist was closed when he got there, so he had to make do with what was left at the supermarket. Not the ideal choice, but the thought was what counted, wasn’t it?
‘Thank you,’ Rachel said politely when he handed her the huge bunch of carnations. Then she gave him a suspicious look. ‘What are they for?’
What did she mean? He’d bought them because he knew she liked flowers. ‘Do I need an excuse to buy my wife flowers?’ he demanded.
‘No-o.’
But she didn’t sound that sure. He tried to remember when he’d last bought her flowers—except for birthdays and anniversaries—and drew a blank. Hell. No wonder she looked leery. She probably thought he was going to tell her that he’d promised to cover someone else’s shifts and he’d bought the flowers out of guilt.
Well, he had bought them out of guilt.
‘I thought maybe we could, um, spend some time together, tonight. Talk,’ he muttered.
‘Oliver, I can’t. It’s the school PTA committee meeting tonight and I have to be there—I’m the chair. I can’t just back out at the last minute and let everyone down.’ She sighed. ‘It’s been booked for weeks. You know I write everything on the calendar.’
The one that hung by the phone. The one he never really took any notice of.
‘Why don’t you ever look at it?’ she asked, almost as if she’d read his thoughts.
Because, if there was anything important, Rachel always reminded him. She hadn’t bothered this morning. So it wasn’t his fault he’d forgotten, was it? ‘Some other time, then. Soon,’ he added.
But when? Not tomorrow—that was his trauma medicine course. Thursday was the practice late night. Maybe Friday, then.
When had life become so complicated? When had he and Rachel stopped having time for each other? More to the point, how were they going to fix it? Right now, he didn’t have any answers.
* * *
On Thursday morning, Rachel was surprised to see Megan Garner halfway through the morning. The practice antenatal clinics were held on Wednesdays, and she’d seen Megan last week. ‘Hi, Meg. I thought I was seeing you next Wednesday?’
‘You are.’ Megan’s face was ashen and there were dark shadows under her eyes—more than Rachel expected to see, even though Megan was probably having the usual difficulty sleeping in late pregnancy.
‘What’s up?’
‘It’s Jasmine. She’s got chickenpox.’ A tear trickled down Megan’s face. ‘I haven’t had it. Ever. I played with all the kids in the village and I never, ever got chickenpox. And my mum’s friend said chickenpox can—can ki—’ She broke off, her breath shuddering, clearly too distraught to say the word, and scrubbed at her eyes with the back of her hand.
‘Hey.’ Rachel took her hand. ‘Of course you’re worried. And I’m glad you came to see me. First things first, we don’t know you haven’t had chickenpox.’
‘Mum said I didn’t.’
‘It’s possible that you had it so mildly, you only had one or two spots and your mum thought they were gnat bites,’ Rachel reassured her. ‘Studies show that eighty per cent of people who can’t recall having chickenpox are actually immune. And chickenpox in pregnancy is really rare—only about three in every thousand pregnant women get it.’
‘What about the baby?’
‘Yes, there is a risk of the baby developing problems such as skin scarring, eye problems and neurological problems, but that’s only a risk if you get it between thirteen and twenty weeks. So you can stop worrying about birth defects because you’re well past twenty weeks.’
