board against a background of screams from a woman in the bathroom.
‘Yes.’ Stella nodded. ‘Maternal compromise.’
And then there was paperwork—so much paperwork—only today Freya used it as an excuse and a reason for lingering at the nursing station until well after four, when Kelly came back.
She was wearing a pink theatre cap and still somehow brimming with energy as she and Stella commenced restocking the emergency trolley.
‘Mum dropped her blood pressure. Thankfully they were straight onto her. The baby’s out.’
He was doing well for dates, but it was Louise that was the main concern. The small tear on her spleen had extended and, as Dr Mina had explained, the signs of hypovolemia were more subtle in pregnancy.
Freya was utterly exhausted as she made her way home.
‘Cheer up, love, it might never happen,’ said the flower seller, and Freya managed not to shoot him a look.
She stepped into her flat and just flopped onto the couch—lay there staring at the peeling paint on the ceiling, feeling utterly wrung out. Every second at work she felt as if she were on a roller coaster that didn’t allow time for catching her breath, or time to reflect.
Poor Louise... She’d been incredibly well taken care of—Freya knew that—but it was all so different from everything she was used to.
Which was what she had wanted, of course. And she was certainly getting experience. But it was draining her.
Stella had told her there would be a case follow-up for Louise, in which Dr Mina would go into greater detail, and Freya was truly grateful that she’d been sent down to Casualty to observe. She really was gaining experience, and if ever a mother came into Cromayr Bay with blunt force trauma...
Freya halted herself there, but it was too late. She knew in that moment that she was imagining herself back at home, just as she had this morning.
But she wasn’t just here to gain experience. If she’d wanted that, as Richard had pointed out, she could have gained it rather more locally.
No, she had moved to London.
Freya hauled herself to the shower and then, having pulled on a robe, surveyed the contents of her fridge.
There wasn’t much. She had meant to stop and pick up a few things on her way home. Now she had neither the energy nor the enthusiasm to go out again.
A knock on the door had her padding down the hall—she guessed it would be her neighbour, as their post got muddled on occasion.
Instead it was an unexpected sight for sore eyes.
Richard.
He’d had a haircut and was clean-shaven. And he was wearing a suit, but no tie, and he looked incredibly tired but still breathtakingly handsome.
‘What are you doing here?’ Freya asked.
He tried not to notice that she wore only a robe and that her hair was wet as he answered. ‘We have a film to see.’
‘STELLA ASKED ME earlier if I’d enjoyed it...’ said Richard.
‘She asked me too.’ Freya smiled. ‘What did you say?’
‘I said it was very good, and then I had the awful feeling I was going to be questioned further, but thankfully she had to rush off...’
‘Yes, it’s been one helluva day,’ Freya said. ‘How’s Louise?’
‘Critical.’
‘I’m not a reporter, Richard. You can tell me how she really is.’
‘She’s very unstable. She’s had a splenectomy and a Caesarean and has been given a lot of blood. It’s going to be a very long night for her.’
‘Poor thing.’ She was about to let him in, but then she shook her head. ‘To be honest, I’m not really in the mood to go out.’
‘Fair enough.’ Few women refused him, but he found it was rather refreshing. Richard liked her ways.
‘We’ll do the film another time, maybe?’
‘Sure.’
Freya looked at him. He was a man she could never keep, but that didn’t matter now. For in her heart Freya knew she would be leaving London soon.
‘You can come in,’ Freya said. ‘If you want to.’
And Richard did want to.
He came through the door and Freya could feel his eyes on her bottom as she led him down the hallway.
His eyes were on her bottom—for a moment—but then he looked at the trail of moisture her hair had left on her robe, and then he looked down to her long, bare legs.
He didn’t notice the mustard carpet, nor the curtains hanging too short, he simply noticed her. As he had from the very first day they had met.
They faced each other, and the want that had been there for a long time, certainly on the doorstep last night, seemed to have followed them into her flat.
‘I’ll go and get dressed.’
Please don’t, Richard thought, but didn’t say.
As if she could hear him Freya looked up into his eyes.
‘If you disappear on me, at least I’ll know what to tell the police,’ he said.
‘Sorry?’
‘She was wearing a pale robe...’
‘Oh.’
Freya didn’t really understand, but there was a smoky edge to his voice, and as he further explained their eyes locked.
‘I don’t usually notice what women wear—well, not to the extent that I do with you.’
This morning Freya had regretted her sensible decision last night not to invite him in. Now she wanted to be reckless.
Richard felt as if he could see the barriers between them tumbling down before his eyes. And, yes, desire did reside behind her green gaze.
‘What else was this woman in a pale robe wearing?’ Freya asked. ‘Slippers?’
‘No,’ Richard said, his eyes never leaving hers. For he had already seen her painted toes. ‘Her feet were bare and her hair was damp...’ His hand came up and he picked up a heavy coil of black hair, as he had ached to do from day one. ‘And,’ he added, ‘I’m quite sure she didn’t have any underwear on...’
He
