derisive snort at Anton’s lack of response. ‘I guess that means, no, you’re not.’
‘It’s been a long day …’ Anton attempted, but Saffarella knew very well the terms of their friendship and it was this part of the night that she had been most looking forward to and she argued her case in loud Italian.
‘Don’t give me that, Anton. Since when have you ever been too tired? I saw you looking at that blonde tart …’
‘Hey!’ Anton warned, but his instant defence of Louise, combined with the fact that they both knew just who he was referring to, confirmed that Anton’s mind had been elsewhere tonight. Saffarella chose to twist the knife as they pulled into the hotel. ‘I doubt that she’s being dropped off home by that Rory. They couldn’t even wait for the night to finish to get out of the place.’ When the doorman opened the door for her Saffarella got out of the car. ‘Don’t you ever do that to me again.’ She didn’t wait for the doorman, instead slamming the door closed.
Anton copped it because he knew that he deserved it.
His intention had never been to use Saffarella, they were actually good together. Or had been. Occasionally.
Anton had never, till now, properly considered just how attracted he really was to Louise. Oh, she was the reason he had called Saffarella and asked if she was free tonight, and Saffarella had certainly used him in the same way at times.
But it wasn’t just the ache of his physical attraction to Louise that was the problem. He liked her. A lot. He liked her humour, her flirting, the way she just openly declared whatever was on her mind, not that he’d ever tell her that.
But knowing she was on with Rory, knowing he had taken her home, meant that Anton just wanted to be alone tonight to sulk.
It’s your own fault, Anton, he said to himself as he drove home.
He should have asked Louise out months ago but then he reminded himself of the reason he hadn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t be getting involved with anyone from work ever again.
Approaching four years ago, Christmas Day had suddenly turned into a living nightmare. Telling parents on Christmas Day that their newborn baby was going to die was hell at the best of times.
But at the worst of times, telling parents, while knowing that the death could have been avoided, was a hell which Anton could not yet escape from and he returned to the nightmare time and again.
The shouts and the accusations from Alberto’s father, Anton could still hear some nights before going to sleep.
The coroner’s report had pointed to a string of communication errors but found that it had been no one person’s fault in particular. Anton could recite it off by heart, because he had gone over and over and over it, trying to see what he could have done differently.
But the year in the between the death and the coroner’s report had been one Anton could rarely stand to recall.
He took his foot off the brake as he realised he was speeding and pulled over for a moment because he could not safely think about that time and drive.
His relationship hadn’t survived either. Dahnya, his girlfriend at the time, had been one of the midwives on duty that Christmas morning and when she hadn’t called him, the continual excuses she had made instead of accepting her part in the matter, had proved far too much for them.
Friends and colleagues had all been injected with the poison of gossip. Everyone had raced to cover their backs by stabbing others in theirs and the once close, supportive unit he had been a part of had turned into a war zone.
Anton had been angry too.
Furious.
He had raged when he had seen that information had not been passed on to him. Information that would have meant he would have come to see and then got the labouring mother into Theatre far sooner than he had.
The magic had gone from obstetrics and even before the coroner’s findings had been in, Anton had moved into reproductive endocrinology, immersing himself in it, honing his skills, concentrating on the maths and conundrum of infertility. It had absorbed him and he had enjoyed it, especially the good times—when a woman who had thought she never would get pregnant finally did, and yet more and more he had missed obstetrics.
To go back to it, Anton had known he would need a completely fresh start, for he no longer trusted his old colleagues. He had come to London and really had done his best to put things behind him.
It was not so easy, though, and he was aware that he tended to take over. He sat there and thought about his first emergency Caesarean at The Royal. Louise just so brisk and efficient and completely in sync with him as they’d fought to get the deteriorating baby out.
He had slept more easily that night.
That hurdle he had passed and perhaps things would have got better. Perhaps he might have started to hand over the reins to skilled hands a touch further had Gina not rear-ended him in the hospital car park.
Anton had got out, taken one look at her, parked her car, pocketed the keys and then driven her home.
Twenty minutes later he’d reported her to the chief of Anaesthetics and Anton had been hyper-vigilant ever since then.
Anton looked down the street at the Christmas lights but they offered no reprieve; instead, they made it worse. He loathed Christmas. Alberto, the baby, had missed out on far too many.
Yep, Anton reminded himself as he drove home and then walked into his apartment, which had not a single shred of tinsel or a decoration on display, there was a very good reason not to get involved with Louise or anyone at work.
He took out his work phone and called the ward to check on a couple of patients, glad to hear that all was quiet tonight.
Anton poured a drink and pulled out his other phone, read an angry text from Saffarella, telling him he should find someone else for the maternity night out, followed by a few insults that Anton knew she expected a response to.
He was too tired for a row and too disengaged for an exchange of texts that might end up in bed.
Instead, he picked up his work phone and scrolled through some texts. All the staff knew they could contact him and with texting often it was easy just to send some obs through or say you were on your way.
He scrolled through and looked at a couple of Louise’s messages.
BP 140/60—and yes, Santa, before you ask, I’ve read your list and I’ve checked it twice—it’s still 140/60. From your little helper
He’d had no idea what that little gem had meant until he’d been in a department store, with annoying music grating in his ears, and a song had come on and he’d burst out laughing there and then.
He had realised then how lame his response at the time had been.
Call me if it goes up again.
Her response:
Bah, humbug!
Followed by another text.
Yes, Anton, I do know.
