same, he would have preferred to have been one of those fortunate souls for whom green lights, empty lanes and parking spaces appeared in his path like magic.
The sun was spearing into his eyes, half blinding him and making him sleepy. He and Alex had both been in emergency surgery half the night, putting a nineteen-year-old motorbike rider back together after a horrific crash. Head injury, complicated fractures, internal injuries. It was one of those times when you didn’t know whether to even hope that he would live. The metal plates and pins now keeping the young man’s bones in place were the least of his problems.
As befitted a senior orthopaedic specialist and a man about to get married, Alex had then taken the rest of the day off. Dylan, in contrast, had tackled his senior’s scheduled surgical list, done a three-hour fracture clinic, which had run late, made hospital rounds and met his lawyer. The man was probably on the phone with Sarah’s lawyer right now, presenting the details of the proposed settlement he and Dylan had worked out together.
Would it pass muster? Dylan suspected not. Sarah apparently valued the support she’d given him during his past two years of specialist orthopaedic training more highly than he did.
‘Thank God we didn’t have kids!’ he muttered.
Were children on the agenda for Alex and Annabelle? He imagined so. Alex would want to perpetuate the Sturgess dynasty. And Annabelle, aka Theatre Sister Annabelle Drew…Didn’t she have a child already? Yes, he was sure she did. Not hers, but one she’d had dumped on her a year or so ago. Her sister’s little boy, or something.
Dylan didn’t know the exact circumstances. Sister Drew didn’t splash her personal life around during surgery like antiseptic solution, the way some people did. She was one of the few women who, in many ways, actually suited the anachronistic title of ‘Sister’ that was still used for senior nurses in Australian hospitals.
She was composed, contained, warm and highly competent. Polite. Honourable. Good. The kind of woman men didn’t swear in front of.
Except Alex, Dylan revised. Alex swore during surgery the way he used a scalpel—deliberately, and with precision.
And Annabelle laughs at dirty jokes, he thought. As long as they’re actually funny.
She had a lovely laugh. It was gurgly and rich, and came from deep inside her diaphragm.
So perhaps I’m wrong about the swearing thing. Perhaps it’s just me who doesn’t swear in front of her. That goodness thing…I probably don’t have the slightest idea about who she really is at all.
The thought discomfited him a little, for some reason. This marriage to Alex, for example. Unlikely, wasn’t it, if Annabelle Drew was the woman Dylan believed her to be?
The light turned green and he made a little more progress before getting stopped on a steep hill, which necessitated a noisy handbrake start once the car ahead began to move. Dylan’s shirt was glued to his back, and it felt far too limp for a garment he’d only put on an hour ago.
Up ahead. Was that it? At last, yes!
Except that three circuits of the parking area revealed that there were no spaces, which forced Dylan into the next street and delayed his arrival by a further five minutes.
Now I really am in a foul mood! Dylan realised. I wish I’d turned down the invitation.
But his senior colleague would have read more into this than was intended. Alex had a tendency to do that.
Dylan hurried through the entrance of the elegant function centre and asked, ‘Sturgess-Drew wedding? I’m late.’
‘Straight through.’
‘Thanks.’
He opened one half of a double, frosted glass door, slid through the gap, narrowly avoided colliding with a potted palm directly ahead, and discovered that he’d arrived halfway through the ceremony itself. A string quartet waited patiently on a large, draped dais. Guests, seated in neat rows, listened politely as a civil marriage celebrant droned out a syrupy poem.
It was almost impossible to hear. In the front row, a little boy was squirming energetically in the arms of a rather frail-looking woman and yelling, ‘No! Don’t want to sit down! Don’t want to sit down!’ He looked to be around two years old.
There were barely any empty seats. Just one, in fact, at the end of the same short row where the little boy was refusing to sit. Dylan edged his way along the side aisle towards it, hoping Alex wouldn’t notice his terrible timing.
Again, it was the kind of thing that Dr Alexander Sturgess, MB, BS, M.Sc., FRACS, FA Orth. A., would take personally. Alex never considered that other people might have vindictive ex-wives and verbose divorce lawyers, late-running clinics and bad luck with traffic.
Dylan admired Alex Sturgess as a surgeon, which was why he’d returned to Coronation Hospital to train with him after a couple of rotations in hospitals elsewhere in Queensland. As a man, however, Alex wasn’t exactly a role model he strove to emulate.
Easing into the seat, Dylan could hear a little better. The celebrant intoned more flowery words about love. Alex looked as if he’d forgotten to paint an expression on his face—other than, perhaps, a faint mist of approval—and Annabelle looked very, very nervous. The pale grey suit that the groom wore was wrong. Expensive, but wrong. It made Alex’s skin tone look washed out, and stressed the fact that his once blond hair was heavily greyed. He was actually a much better looking specimen of manhood than he appeared today.
Oh, shut up! Dylan told himself. Who are you, to be this critical? Just sit through it, wish them every happiness and let them get on with it!
No.
No.
Annabelle’s dress was lovely. She had resisted the current vogue for strapless wedding gowns, in which most brides looked as if they had a single, log-shaped breast plastered across their chest. Dylan suspected, too, that she had an unsuitably freckly back and shoulders. Instead, she wore some draped confection in warm cream silk.
Portrait neckline, was it called? Anyway, it gave her a classic, regal aura and made her curvy figure look perfect. Her shoulder-length dark hair was piled up in glossy curlicues and tendrils. Her brown eyes were huge. Her freckle-dappled skin looked warm and peach perfect. She wasn’t beautiful, but she had something.
He wasn’t wrong about her, Dylan decided. She was going to be miserable with Alex.
The toddler was still struggling and yelling. He was an attractive child, with brown eyes and light brown curly hair, but clearly he wasn’t suited to this formal setting. The woman who held him—presumably Annabelle’s mother as there was a resemblance—looked grim-faced and at the end of her rope, on the verge of giving up and carrying him out.
Dylan could hear her laboured, wheezy breathing, and remembered overhearing Annabelle talking to another nurse about ‘Mum’s health’. Emphysema, he thought.
Meanwhile, the little boy was ruining the occasion. Alex clearly thought so. He glared in the child’s direction, then frowned tightly. The celebrant reached the meat-and-potatoes part of the ceremony. Traditional and churchy, this bit. Alex’s idea? It didn’t really fit, after those chintzy poems.
‘If anyone here present knows any reason…’
The
