face when he’d seen the chaos in the room. It had been sheer stubbornness mixed with her disappointment at losing out on the head of department job that had stopped her from explaining what was going on, and she felt a bit guilty about it now.
‘Guilty enough to lose some sleep to finish the job, but as I’ve already checked the contents of each one of these and put them all into alphabetical order, at least this part should be a breeze,’ she muttered as she prepared to slot each file into position. In a relatively short space of time she could have every last piece of paper filed neatly out of sight and she could push the last drawer shut with a warm feeling of achievement.
Suddenly she paused and threw a disparaging glare around the room.
‘The trouble is, when there are none of Donald’s piles of filing to distract the eye, it will be even more obvious just how shabby everything has become.’
The walls, in particular, could do with a fresh coat of paint—something rather more welcoming than dingy Institution Beige. ‘But fresher walls will make the curtains look worse than ever,’ she muttered in defeat, until an image of the spare pair of curtains lurking back at her flat leapt into her head. She’d bought them for her last flat and, while they didn’t fit any of the windows in her new one, they were still nearly new.
‘And if I can corner one of the maintenance men some time tomorrow…Even if he can’t do something about it, perhaps I could get him to beg a can of paint from the stores. Then I could come back again tomorrow evening…’
Course of action decided, she put the pile of files back where she’d got them from, switched off the light and locked the door behind her, a tiny smile betraying the thought that she was actually looking forward to David ffrench starting work on Monday. She could hardly wait to see the expression on his face when he saw the finished transformation.
‘And it’ll be every bit as good as any of the make-overs he’d see on the television,’ she vowed, a fresh spring in her step in spite of the time.
David ffrench stepped back into the shadow of the stairwell with a frown.
‘What on earth is Leah Dawson doing here at this time of night?’ he muttered into the darkness, his eyes following her swiftly moving figure as she made her way to the lifts. She’d obviously been home since the end of her shift because she’d changed from her neatly tailored trousers into a pair of decidedly disreputable jeans, jeans that revealed a figure every bit as neat and slender as he’d imagined.
And that smile! It was the first one he’d seen that didn’t look as if it had been forced out of her by well-drilled manners, and it had instantly intrigued him.
What had she been doing in his office at this time of night…? Well, it would be his office when he took it over on Monday morning. His frown deepened as he considered the possibilities. She must be in her late twenties or early thirties, so far too old for juvenile pranks such as whoopee cushions, and he hoped that she was far too professional to do something as stupid as to mess about with patient files.
‘As if I’d be able to tell,’ he groaned softly, remembering the chaos littering every surface. ‘As it is, it’s going to take me a month of Sundays just to get things organised. How I’m going to be able to run the department at the same time…’
He couldn’t imagine what the patients must think when they were shown into the room for the first time. It certainly wasn’t confidence-inspiring, and the frustration was that he couldn’t do anything about the situation until he officially started work.
‘Unless…’ he mused as he turned and made his way back down the stairs, then shook his head. The possibility of enlisting Leah in some overtime to sort through the mess had briefly flashed through his mind, but it wasn’t a good idea.
‘No,’ he conceded. ‘I’ve got enough to do in the next twenty-four hours with organising my living space. And I really don’t need to get off on the wrong foot with Leah before we’ve even started to work together.’
As he left, he smiled absently at the security guard who’d earlier verified his identity before admitting him to the building, then lengthened his stride as he set off towards the nearby block of flats, wondering why the woman seemed to have taken up permanent residence inside his head when he’d only met her this morning.
‘The last thing I need is getting tangled up with some woman,’ he said aloud, startling an elderly gentleman taking his equally elderly dog out for its late-night constitutional. ‘Been there, done that,’ he muttered more quietly. ‘I’ve got the scars to prove it.’
‘THAT looks better!’ Leah exclaimed aloud as she clambered down from her perch on the window-sill and stepped back to admire her handiwork.
In the distance, she heard the chimes of the church clock striking two, a reassuring sound that couldn’t be heard at all when the department was busy during the day, but now only served to remind her of just how late it was.
‘If I’m going to be awake enough to work a full shift, I’d better get home to bed,’ she muttered. ‘I wouldn’t want to oversleep and miss out on seeing his reaction.’
She’d already deposited the decorating equipment in a nearby storage cupboard, as arranged with the helpful maintenance man. Now that she’d hung the curtains, she was going to leave the window open for the rest of the night to help to dispel the last of the paint fumes.
‘Now I’m the messiest thing in the room,’ she said with a grimace for her paint-splattered clothing, but the results were certainly well worthwhile.
In spite of her need to get home, get cleaned up and get some sleep, she couldn’t help pausing by the door for a little gloat at all she’d achieved.
She’d barely had time to rejoice over the improvement—the calm, professional appearance of the ‘business’ end of the room, with not a stray piece of paper to be seen, compared to the softer, more welcoming area where prospective parents would be invited to sit—when her pager shrilled its imperative summons, startling her out of her wits.
‘I hope it’s a misdialled code,’ she muttered even as she was reaching for the receiver to answer the call.
‘Leah? How long will it take you to get here?’ demanded the familiar voice of one of the midwives.
‘Is there a problem?’ Leah made a sound of disgust. ‘Ignore the stupid question, Sally. Blame it on the time of night and change it to “What’s the problem?’”
‘Major, major problem,’ she said grimly. ‘An IVF patient in advanced labour, multiple birth, malpresentation.’
Already Leah’s head was reeling with the staccato presentation of facts. One part of her brain was sifting through ‘their’ patients, but she couldn’t think of any of the sets of twins who were anywhere near due yet.
‘Which one? Is she miscarrying?’ Unfortunately, there was a high rate of loss and all its attendant heart-aches in their vulnerable group of patients.
‘Not one of ours,’ Sally reassured her succinctly. ‘She’s in a bad way. How soon can you get here? I think the only way we’re going to save any of them is an emergency Caesarean, pronto, and Chas is already fully occupied.’
