‘AND you’ll go and see Georgina Bennett at lunch-time,’ Dad finished, his voice a faint, laboured croak.
‘You don’t want Harry to do that?’ Rebecca queried, looking down at the blanket-wrapped form on the bed.
Dad had a bad dose of spring flu, with aches and fever and shivers and sweats, a sore throat, a stuffy head and a rasping chest. Coming to work was out of the question, and he hadn’t even argued when Rebecca had told him so.
‘No,’ he croaked once more in answer to her question. ‘She told me last week she’d like to meet you.’
‘OK, then. I’d like to meet her, too. Anything else, Dad?’
‘No…’ He waved her away. ‘Just want to sleep.’
‘There’s iced juice and plain water, and a Thermos of chicken broth and one of tea right here by your bed, as well as flu tablets and cough medicine,’ she informed him. ‘And tissues and the thermometer.’
‘Thanks. Now, go, gypsy, and don’t be late.’
‘Look after yourself, Dad. Keep your fluids up, and take your temperature if you start to feel any hotter.’
‘I’m a doctor, too, remember,’ he managed to joke.
On reaching the surgery, Rebecca reported to everyone, ‘It’s just a bout of flu. His temperature’s not high enough for any real concern, and it’s not pneumonia because I made him let me listen to his chest!’
‘You managed to get on to Grace?’ Harry asked.
‘Yes, last night. He was still saying then that he’d be fine, but I knew he wouldn’t. Grace is coming in.’
‘Here she is now,’ said Bev, as the pleated blind on the door rattled.
‘Sorry,’ said the pregnant doctor breathlessly.
‘You’re not late, Grace,’ Harry soothed.
‘How is he, Rebecca?’
‘Sick enough to actually admit to the fact,’ she answered.
‘The pity of it is that it’s his birthday on Sunday, isn’t it, Rebecca?’ Deirdre said.
‘Yes,’ she answered, ‘but he didn’t feel that fifty-one was much to celebrate so he hasn’t planned anything. He’s going to Melbourne next weekend for my old obstetrics professor’s daughter’s wedding. This is his third wedding this year! So he’s actually pleased to be laid low now rather than then.’
‘Still.’ Deirdre pulled a face. ‘I made him a cake last night.’ She gestured to a white cardboard box sitting on her desk.
‘Oh…!’ There was a groaned chorus of disappointment.
Harry asked, ‘What’s the protocol, gang? Do we eat it without the guest of honour? Or does Rebecca take it home to him?’
‘The two of us’ll never get through a whole cake before it goes stale,’ Rebecca said. ‘He’s barely managing weak tea and chicken broth at the moment, in any case. Deirdre, I think it’s up to you.’
‘We’ll eat it at lunchtime, and you can take him home what’s left,’ the efficient receptionist decided. ‘Not much of a celebration, but I hate waste!’
There was a chorus of approval at the decision…possibly tinged with a little guilt.
‘I’ve been thinking about his birthday too,’ Harry said next. ‘Would he like a kitten, Rebecca? My parents had an injured one brought in last week and they’ve patched him up but no one’s claimed him. He’s about three months old so he’ll be all right on his own during the day. The people who found him have said they’ll pay the bill and keep him themselves rather than see him put down, but they’d prefer it if another home could be found for him. What do you think?’
‘Dad does miss our old Gussy,’ Rebecca answered. ‘We both do. And he’s got a very soft heart when it comes to injured animals. Yes, I think he’d love a kitten for his birthday.’
‘Oh, it’ll be gorgeous!’ Bev said. With her desk covered in pictures of her children and grandchildren and pets, plump, motherly Bev was unashamedly sentimental. ‘Will you put a red bow around his neck and have him in a cute little basket?’
‘Oh, probably.’ Rebecca laughed. ‘He is a birthday present, after all, isn’t he?’
‘Want to come over to my parents’ tonight after work, then, and pick him up?’ Harry asked.
She didn’t want to at all, of course, but how could she say that in front of Deirdre and Bev and Julie and Grace? It had been such a casual, practical invitation, in any case, that it surely wouldn’t be too awkward to get through.
‘Sounds good,’ she said.
‘I’ll pick you up at eight, shall I?’
‘Great…’
With four pairs of female eyes and four pairs of female ears close at hand, Rebecca hoped she didn’t sound as reluctant as she felt. But the idea of spending any time alone with Harry these days made her insides churn in a way she wasn’t prepared to accept.
As soon as the last of the morning’s patients left, three and a half hours later, she drove over to the Bennetts’ house. She’d been told about the car repairs in the back yard and Georgina’s increasingly effortful crochet-work, but it was still quite moving to be plunged amongst this brave, easygoing family who were managing so well.
Georgina didn’t have her crochet-work in her lap today, and she was slumped in an armchair on her favourite enclosed veranda. She wore a pink velour dressing-gown, a cotton nightdress and slippers, as if dressing had been too much effort, and her hair was scraped back into an ugly knot.
Rebecca wasn’t surprised to find her this way. Wayne Bennett had given the thumbs-down sign as he’d met her at the top of the drive and accompanied her into the house, and Frank Bennett had already been inside, standing at the kitchen stove with an opened tin of soup in his hand.
‘Dr Irwin? Nice to meet you. Trying to make her eat, but she doesn’t want to,’ he’d added in an undertone.
‘So this is Rebecca!’ Catching sight of her, Georgina summoned enough energy to smile, and immediately called to her husband to make tea. ‘Gee, you look like your dad!’
‘Do I? Not many people tell me that.’
‘Yes, you do,’ Georgina insisted, the words dragging from her with effort. ‘Your eyes and your smile, which are what I always notice.’
‘You don’t look as if you’re smiling much today,’ Rebecca said.
‘Well, no, I’m not,’ Georgina agreed with a sigh. ‘One of my crook days.’
‘Mr Bennett says you don’t feel like eating.’
Georgina shrugged. ‘I’ll try to manage something. But, look at me, I’ve swelled up again. It feels terrible. And my waterworks are playing up.’
‘You mean you’re not passing much?’
‘No. It’s all gone into my ankles and my hands.’
She did look very puffy, which explained the absence of the crochet-work. Her fingers probably didn’t have the dexterity at the moment.
‘This is the sort of thing you’ve had before, isn’t it?’ Rebecca asked.
‘Oh, yes, it comes and goes. I’d been pretty good lately. Always forget how rotten this feels! Doctor, I’m just getting real bloody sick of it, if you want the truth.’
‘I know.’ Rebecca nodded helplessly, wondering if Dad would have had something better to say than this, something more concrete and useful to offer. ‘I know,’ she repeated. ‘Look, I’ll prescribe a diuretic. That should take the swelling down and help with your waterworks. Dad’s got flu today, unfortunately. I’ve ordered him to bed for the whole weekend. I know you probably wish—’
‘I’m sure you’re just as good as your dad, love.’ With an effort, Georgina leaned forward and patted Rebecca’s hand with her own uncomfortably swollen one. ‘Just as long as I get my script for the tablets.’
Rebecca stayed for another ten minutes, writing out the precious prescription and checking all the usual things. Blood sugar still too high. Bowels still giving a lot of trouble.
‘Here’s your soup, gorgeous,’ Frank Bennett said to his wife, just as Rebecca was ready to leave. ‘I’ve made you some toast soldiers to dip in it, too, so get to work, OK, beautiful, before you fade away to a shadow. Thanks, Doctor,’ he added to Rebecca in an aside, then said to his elder son, Brian, who’d just entered the house, ‘Walk Dr Irwin to her car, would you, mate?’
‘No worries,’ nodded the dark, good-looking twenty-four-year-old.
But Brian had plenty of worries, which tumbled out as soon as they were out of his mother’s hearing. ‘Is it just going to go on like this? Mum’s great, but she’s getting so sick of it. Is there ever going to be a cure?’
‘Oh, Brian, one day,’ Rebecca answered. ‘That’s what we all hope, isn’t it? Medical research is constantly working to try and understand SLE better, but—’ she had to be honest ‘—I doubt there’ll be any significant breakthroughs in time to help your mother. We just have to keep going with what we’ve got now.’
‘Yeah, OK,’ he agreed. ‘Still, this bad patch’ll end eventually, and she’ll feel a lot better then. That’s how it always goes.’
Back at the surgery, Harry knew Rebecca had been to see Georgina and asked her about it as she stood in the little kitchen, making herself some tea and heating some leftovers in the microwave for her lunch.
‘Not very good at all today,’ she had to reply. ‘Apparently it’s part of her normal cycle of exacerbations and remissions, but if I hadn’t known that…’ She shrugged.
‘You might have packed her off to hospital?’ Harry suggested.
‘Probably.’
‘The disease does have a gradual downward course. What you saw today would have been part of that.’
‘I know. But I’ll get Dad to make an extra visit as soon as he’s back on board.’
‘I’ll do it, if you like, if Marsh isn’t back by Monday.’
‘Thanks. I’ll take you up on that,’ she answered, forgetting about the tension and uncertainty that existed between them. It had no place in anything that involved patients.
‘Not doubting your judgement, are you, Rebecca?’ His tone took away any suggestion that he thought she should have such doubts.
And she wasn’t. Not really. ‘Just wishing there was more that could be done. As are her husband and sons.’
‘Hate it when you can’t pull that miracle rabbit from your medical hat?’
‘Exactly!’
‘I’ve been thinking,’ Harry said now. ‘If you want to stay with your dad tonight, we can get the kitten tomorrow or Sunday instead. Now that my parents know he’s going to you two, they won’t mind keeping him longer.’
‘No, Dad hates being pestered when he’s sick,’ Rebecca answered. ‘He’d rather be left alone, and not have me fussing around. Let’s leave the arrangement as it is.’
He nodded. ‘Whatever suits you.’
There was something guarded in his voice and body language suddenly as he loped casually from the room. It was nearly a week since last Saturday’s memorable game of golf, and today was the first time they’d seen each other for more than a few seconds in passing. What she’d said to him in the clubhouse had given him no encouragement to think of something like a kitten for her father’s birthday.
He could have punished her a lot harder than he had for her blunt words, and yet he wasn’t. There was no aggression or hostility emerging from that dense, athletic frame, only the guardedness which was, surely, just what she’d asked for.
Hugging her arms around herself to suppress a sudden, reasonless shiver, Rebecca went into her office to eat a hurried and solitary lunch, wondering why she was so dissatisfied with her own responses lately.
‘Oh, he’s just gorgeous!’ Rebecca said, taking the half-grown ball of tabby-striped fur into her arms.
‘His stitches are still a bit sore,’ Peter Jones said, ‘so be careful around his left hind leg. He was lucky it didn’t break, but he did have quite a gash there when the Meads brought him in.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘Well, we don’t know. It didn’t look as if he’d been savaged by a dog—no obvious bite marks. They found him injured in the gutter so it was probably a car or a motorbike. Whoever it was, though, either hadn’t noticed or hadn’t cared enough to bring him in. His body temperature had dropped dangerously by that time, and we only just pulled him through.’
‘Poor little muffin,’ she crooned. ‘Oh, you’re purring for me! Oh, thank you!’ She remembered how Gus had tried to purr for her in Harry’s car during his last minutes of life, and that he hadn’t quite had the strength. This little tabby puss, just starting out in life, had been found near death too, but he’d been luckier. He was going to be fine, and it felt right to have him…not quite to replace Gus, but to make up for his loss.
She looked up, still smiling, to find that Harry was watching her as he stood at his father’s side, and there it was again. Sheer magnetism, which she was helpless to do anything about.
‘Now, Harry says you stopped at a supermarket on the way here and got food for him, and you have a basket and a blanket at home?’
‘Yes, which I’ve washed since Gus used it.’
‘Cats have sensitive noses. He’ll probably find some animal smell still lingering around the house, but at this age it won’t upset him. Now, he’s used to a litter tray…’
‘Yes, we got some litter, too, and I have a plastic tub to put it in.’
‘And here’s a cardboard cat box to transport him in. Since we didn’t know anything about his history, I’ve given him a cat flu injection and a worm tablet, and he’ll need the follow-up flu injections at one-month intervals. And it’s probably not necessary to say this, since I’m sure you have a responsible attitude to cat ownership, but do get him desexed before six months, won’t you?’
‘Definitely! We live across from Centennial Park, and the last thing I’d want is to have him fathering a new generation of feral cats there.’
‘All set, then!’
‘Oh, Peter, you can’t let them go off without a cup of tea!’ Rhonda said, coming through from the private part of the house. ‘And I’ve got lemon cake, too, Harry.’
‘Lemon cake? How can I resist?’ he teased.
‘Seriously, though…’
‘Seriously, it’s up to Rebecca.’
All three members of the Jones family turned to look at her with their brown eyes, which gave her little choice. ‘I’d love a cup of tea,’ she agreed weakly.
So they all trooped through to the living-room, which contained an eccentric mix of chairs and couches, upholstered in different fabrics which should have clashed but somehow didn’t. Peter immediately slumped into the deepest and squishiest of the seating options with a grunt of fatigue and relief, Harry began to prowl and Rhonda said brightly, ‘I’ll pop the kettle on…’
‘I’ll help,’ Rebecca offered promptly, wanting to get away from Harry for reasons which she firmly refused to dwell upon.
She regretted her offer once alone in the kitchen with Harry’s mother, however, as the latter was well imbued with maternal instinct when it came to her son bringing the same woman to the house twice, even if both times it had been on legitimate catorientated business.
Not that her questions were in any way pointed. She was much too well mannered and just plain nice for that, but…Well, it wasn’t something you could put into words. Rebecca knew that Rhonda was wondering what role she filled in Harry’s life, was probably concluding it was something significant and was already in the process of trying to decide how she felt about it.
And the really crazy thing about it, Rebecca thought, is that I want her to feel great about it! Which is idiotic when I feel terrible about it myself, and when there’s nothing going on in any case…
It didn’t change either as they sat in the lounge-room with their tea and cake, only this time Harry’s father jumped on the bandwagon as well. Men were perhaps quicker at making up their minds in these situations. He was soon beaming at her, as if there’d just been an engagement announcement, and the atmosphere of expectancy was so palpable that Harry actually apologised for it as soon as they were alone with Muffin in the car.
‘Sorry about all that…’ The fact that he didn’t bother to explain what he was saying sorry for wasn’t exactly reassuring.
Rebecca’s fount of conversation dried up completely, and all she could think about was the fact that here she was again, alone with Harry—kittens didn’t count—and aching for him, with no idea how to act on the unwanted, frightening feeling or how to make it go away.
‘Lovely!’ Dad rasped from his bed. ‘Will he stay and keep me warm? Oops, no, he’s lively, wants to go exploring. The red ribbon was a nice touch, gypsy, but let’s take it off now. Look at him, he’s pawing at it. I don’t think he likes it. Now, does he have a name?’
‘He’s your birthday present, Dad.’ She and Harry had decided against saving the gift until Sunday. Ill though Dad was, he’d probably notice a miaowing voice and the sound of wild kitty paws thudding down the corridor. ‘You need to name him,’ Rebecca finished, and Harry, standing in the background with his hands thrust deep in the pockets of his old jeans, nodded agreement.
‘You don’t expect any inspiration on that score tonight, I hope!’ Dad responded.
‘We can wait a few days.’
‘No, at three months he’s been too long without a name already. I’ll delegate the task to you.’
‘Well, I did call him a poor little muffin at one stage so I started thinking of him as Muffin in the car.’
‘Muffin. OK, we’ll go with Muffin. Are you staying for a bit, Harry?’
‘Better head off, I think,’ he answered, and, as happened far too often, there was something in his tone that made Rebecca’s glance flick automatically towards his face.
What she saw there echoed the full complexity of her own feelings and she thought miserably, He’s as resistant to this heat between us as I am. He doesn’t want it. I don’t want it. Why won’t it go away?’
‘I’ll see you out,’ she muttered, and they walked in silence down the stairs.
Reaching the door first, she held it open for him, then stood back so he could go through without any risk of an accidental touch. ‘Thanks,’ she said, ‘for thinking of the kitten. Dad was really pleased, even if he was too ill for it to show.’
‘It did show,’ Harry countered. ‘I think I’m reasonably good at picking up signals, even if they’re not put into words.’
Hell! She flinched and his insides seemed to cave in. He hadn’t meant it as a reference to their own relationship, but it had come out that way and she was as aware of the double meaning as he was.
That was the last thing he wanted at the moment, when all he aimed for in their dealings with each other was that they get through each exchange without him burning for her with such need that cold showers—frequent cold showers, on top of his cold morning swim—did absolutely nothing. And, if that wasn’t bad enough, he was starting to understand that the physical part of what he felt was the least of the problem.
‘Anyway…’ he growled now, with no clear idea in the least about what he was saying. ‘No need for thanks at all. The opposite. My parents were grateful to you for taking the little guy, and so am I. I’ll see you soon, OK?’
‘OK, Harry. Goodnight.’
She closed the door between them, and as he reached the front gate he imagined her gusting out a shaky sigh and fighting to still the tremble of physical need in her body, just as he was doing.
On Sunday morning, Dad was still feeling too ill to stir from bed and hadn’t managed to finish his single slice of toast. Rebecca had already exacted from him the promise of another day in bed, so when the phone rang at half past eight she vowed not to disturb him with the call, no matter who it was.
But when she heard Frank Bennett give his name…
‘Georgina can’t get her breath, Doctor. It’s like breathing underwater, she says. And the swelling’s got even worse.’
Breathing underwater…all that swelling…kidney failure.
But she’d been right. There was no point in disturbing Dad for something like this.
‘Get her to hospital, Mr Bennett. Straight away. I’ll…I’ll meet you there.’
It was a foolish promise, really. There would be nothing she could do. Georgina Bennett would be in the hands of doctors far more experienced with such an emergency than Rebecca was. She would be given a powerful diuretic intravenously, and have her potassium level measured. She’d be assessed for kidney dialysis and probably be placed on a dialysis machine this afternoon. None of this was Rebecca’s province at all. Still, she felt responsible.
And to blame? she wondered as she drove down Anzac Parade towards Southshore Hospital. ‘Should I have seen this coming on Friday, with the swelling and loss of appetite?’
The half-hour she spent with the Bennetts passed in a jumble of questions and waiting and more questions, then there was nothing more she could usefully do. She’d explained to the family what was going on, and spoken to the specialist, telling him all she knew of Georgina’s history and current problems.
‘We’ll let you know, shall we?’ he offered. ‘If anything changes?’
‘Yes, please.’
The phone call came sooner than she expected, at five in the afternoon, when she’d just got home from a late and chemistry-less lunch with David Shannon and had tiptoed upstairs to find Dad asleep, as he’d been for most of the morning.
Mrs Bennett had died, renal specialist Liam Reilly told her, of heart failure during dialysis. The family were with her now, and all the arrangements were in hand.
‘Thanks for letting me know,’ Rebecca said uselessly, and put down the phone.
She couldn’t stay in the house. Dad was still asleep. Instead, an instinct and a need which she didn’t stop to analyse took her straight out to the car and into a moderate swell of traffic coming home from the beach. Several minutes later, she was in Harry’s street and driving past his house.
Like the other terrace houses in the street, it gave away little to the passerby—no hints as to whether its occupant was out or at home even, let alone any clue as to what he might be doing or what sort of welcome she’d receive if she turned up at his door and told him—Impossible. She couldn’t possibly confront him in this state, with a childish demand for reassurance.
I know it’s not my fault. I know it’s just the way things happen. Georgina herself would have said that. And it’s part of the profession I chose. I can’t expect anyone—not Harry, not Dad—to provide me with pat answers and easy reassurances on a bad day. The Bennetts have lost their wife and mother. Dad’s lost a patient he cared about. Let me go home, see if he’s awake yet and give him the news as best I can.
Rebecca was to have her mettle tested in this way again just five days later. This time, however, although it still wasn’t truly her own sorrow, it was even worse.
‘The baby’s pounding me to pieces,’ said Lisa McNeill at ten-thirty on Friday morning, coming out of Grace’s office after her routine pre-natal. ‘Only another five weeks of it, thank goodness. Girl or boy, I’d say this one’s going to be an athlete like Shane! Bye, Dr Gaines.’
She stopped at the front desk to make another appointment for the next week, leaving just as Grace herself came down the corridor in search of her next patient.
There was something odd about Grace’s manner. Rebecca noticed it at once, and put down the file she’d just picked up, swallowing back the patient’s name that had been on her lips.
‘Everything OK, Grace?’ she asked.
The place was quiet this morning. Dad had been well enough to come to work by Monday morning, and had attended Georgina Bennett’s funeral on Tuesday, but early this morning he’d flown to Melbourne for a long weekend centred around his friend’s daughter’s wedding. Harry wasn’t here either, as he was visiting some patients at Hazel Cleary Lodge. He was due back any minute.
Grace was holding her fingers lightly against her bulging abdomen, the colour had drained from her face and she was concentrating intensely. She didn’t answer Rebecca’s question.
‘Is it the baby?’ Rebecca persisted. She didn’t need to calculate dates. Lisa McNeill had just reminded her. Grace had five weeks to go. Premature, yes, but these days there was a near hundred per cent chance that the baby would be fine.
‘Come into my office, Rebecca,’ Grace said at last in a strange tone.
‘What’s wrong?’ Rebecca demanded more urgently, as soon as the door had closed behind her. This whole thing was starting to alarm her now. Grace looked terrible.
‘What Lisa said.’ She was still splaying her fingers over her abdomen. ‘About the baby kicking her to pieces. I’m trying to think. I—I can’t remember when I last felt my baby move.’
She was starting to shake now.
‘We’ll get the Doppler out,’ Rebecca said, a hollow feeling opening in her stomach, though she tried to remain professionally calm. ‘Listen for the heartbeat.’
‘Yes,’ Grace nodded. ‘I mustn’t panic.’
But she was.
‘Lie down, Grace, and lift up your dress.’ Rebecca plugged in the device as she spoke. Amplifying the sound of the foetal heartbeat, it would provide more dramatic and convincing reassurance than a stethoscope or the ambiguous sensations of slight movement.
Grace was forcing herself to breathe normally. ‘Wednesday night. There was movement on Wednesday night. I remember, because Marcus said—’ She stopped.
Rebecca had the microphone-like instrument on her stomach now, and Grace’s own heartbeat, half the speed of the baby’s, was coming through clearly, as were her normal digestive sounds. There was a background hiss and crackle, too. Nothing else.
‘I’ll move it lower,’ Rebecca said, but again no rapid foetal heartbeat sounded to compete against Grace’s.
They both went on listening as Rebecca moved the instrument from one spot to another, but it was no good. There was no heartbeat, and with the baby just five weeks from birth there was no doubt about what this meant.
Grace had not moved from the table. She lay inert, with one hand shielding her eyes, although she hadn’t yet cried. Rebecca knew there was nothing she could say or do that would help. Instead, wordlessly, she took Grace’s other hand between both of hers and pressed it, and they both stayed that way for a minute that seemed to last for ever.
Finally, Rebecca said quietly, ‘I’ll ring Marcus, Grace.’
‘No!’ Her voice was harsh and strident. ‘I don’t want Marcus. I want Mum!’
Shaken by the vehemence of the words and the tone, Rebecca could only mumble, ‘All right.’
Grace sat up at last—she looked like a ghost—and said, ‘My address book is in my bag. The number’s there. Under K. Kent, my maiden name. It just says “Mum”, but her name is Margaret.’
‘OK, I have it.’
She left the room at once, to find Harry in the waiting-room and Deirdre and Bev getting edgy.
‘Nothing wrong, is there?’ Deirdre asked in an undertone at once, leaning close so that her striped blouse brushed Rebecca’s arm. ‘Where’s Grace?’
There was no point in trying to soften the truth. ‘She’s lost the baby in utero,’ Rebecca said. ‘She realised she hadn’t felt any movement since Wednesday, and when we listened we picked up her heartbeat but not the baby’s. I’m afraid there’s no doubt. She wants me to ring her mother. And one of us will need to drive her to Southshore so they can induce labour.’
‘But what about Marcus?’ Bev said. ‘He could come and get her. Surely—’
‘She doesn’t want Marcus,’ Rebecca had to report. ‘She wants her mother.’
The next half-hour was terrible. Grace’s mother, Margaret Kent, was in tears on the phone, and so upset that Rebecca had to urge her to take a taxi if she couldn’t calm herself enough to drive. Deirdre and Bev had to apologise to waiting patients. They’d quickly decided to explain that Dr Gaines had been taken ill. Several people, fortunately, had routine problems and elected to reschedule their appointments for another time. Harry, meanwhile, would see as many people as he could, while Bev phoned those of Grace’s patients that she could reach and Rebecca took Grace to hospital.
They were all wondering what could have gone wrong. Rebecca knew that cord strangulation was the most likely explanation. It happened in a small percentage of healthy pregnancies. But today that cold statistic she’d learned during her obstetric diploma seemed particularly cruel.
Grace said little on the short journey to the hospital, and Rebecca dealt with as many of the formalities of admission for her as she could. She was a little relieved that at least Grace was given the most secluded of the delivery rooms, far from the nursery and from the sounds of women labouring to produce a living child.
‘I’ll be in here for a couple of days, I suppose,’ Grace said when she was gowned and in bed. ‘I’ll send Mum home to bring some things.’
There was a numb, distant quality to her manner now, and Rebecca realised that Grace was trying not to think about the reality of this. She blurted aloud, ‘Can’t I contact Marcus for you? He may even be here…’
But, as it had been in her office, Grace’s reply was sharp and immediate. She shook her head so that her halo of newly cut red-brown curls fluffed out. ‘No! I won’t see him! Our marriage is over, and it’s taken this to make me realise it. I’ll be moving out of the house as soon as I can. Perhaps I should have done it months ago!’
‘Oh, Grace…’
‘You need to get back to work, Rebecca.’ Her voice, once again, was harsh, and Rebecca realised that she didn’t want to talk about anything now.
A nurse had arrived to put up a drip, and she reported, ‘Dr Marr will be here to see you soon. He wants you to think about an epidural.’
‘No.’ Grace shook her head firmly. ‘I’d like to try a natural birth.’
She was gearing up for the hard and futile work of labour. Rebecca squeezed her hand once more and left, knowing there’d be a huge backlog of patients by now.
As she’d anticipated, she and Harry worked all day to catch up and fit in those of Grace’s patients who couldn’t be contacted or cancelled. They missed lunch and still had a full waiting-room by late afternoon.
It wasn’t easy, and the times when everyone managed to forget Grace in order to focus on the needs of patients were actually the best.
I’m glad it’s Harry, Rebecca found herself thinking. I’m glad it’s the two of us here today.
He touched her or said a quick word every time their paths crossed, and those tiny moments were so intensely nourishing that they actually made her ache.
No news came from the hospital, and by half past four both Harry and Rebecca were shooting beseeching, questioning looks at Bev and Deirdre after each patient. Surely there had to be some news by now? Rebecca’s face felt tight from having to smile at patients, and her neck was stiff and aching.
Finally, at six, with four patients still left to see, Deirdre reported quietly, ‘Her mother rang. Grace delivered half an hour ago. A boy. She’s named him James Kent after her father—she and Marcus had already agreed on that, apparently—and he’ll be cremated privately over the weekend. Marcus has been told. She doesn’t want flowers, but people can make a donation to charity in the baby’s name. And she’d like you to drop in and see her after you finish, Rebecca. She’s feeling that she gave you short shrift today.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ Her throat tightened. ‘As if I’m thinking about something like that!’
‘We can go together, Rebecca,’ Harry said. ‘I have a patient I’d like to see.’
He touched her lightly and deliberately on the arm, and as always her awareness of him flamed through her at once. She longed just to lean against him, bury her face in his neck and drink in the subtle scent of his warm skin…She didn’t do it, of course.
A second later he turned to Bev and Deirdre. ‘As soon as the waiting-room’s empty, you two should go. It’s late, and you’ve got your families. We’ll tidy and lock up.’ Even the way he used the word ‘we’ did something to Rebecca’s insides.
It was after six-thirty by the time they left, each taking their own car. They met up just outside the main entrance, but would soon split up again as Harry was heading to one of the two surgical wards. Then, in the foyer, they both saw Marcus stride out of the lift, and he almost bumped into them, before realising who they were.
Rebecca was hugely relieved to see him. Surely the loss of their child would have brought him and Grace together! What Grace had said about ending their marriage today had been emotion and hysteria, not something real and thought-out. If he was just coming from her room now…
‘How is she?’ she asked him at once.
But the obstetrician’s pale, handsomely chiselled face was haggard and his voice hoarse as he replied, ‘She won’t see me. She says I never wanted the baby in the first place and, my God, she’s right…She’s right…’
He lurched away from them and almost crashed into the automatic doors, moving so fast he hadn’t given them time to part.
‘Hell!’ Harry rasped, then searched Rebecca’s face, his dark eyes narrowed. They were standing very close, as if seeking support from each other. ‘Did you know about this?’
‘We all knew something was wrong,’ she said helplessly. ‘I didn’t know it was this. Grace said today that her marriage was over. I hoped it was just her agony over losing the baby, that she was getting things out of proportion, or—Oh, Harry!’
She pressed her face into her hands, then felt his fingers come to rest lightly on her shoulders and chafe them. ‘Meet you back here?’ he suggested. ‘I’d like to see Grace, too, but she doesn’t need crowds today. Tell me how she is.’
‘OK.’
Rebecca didn’t spend long with Grace. She had been moved down to the gynae ward and had eaten an evening meal. Her mother, Mrs Kent, was currently doing the same down in the hospital cafeteria. Now Grace looked exhausted, and she admitted, ‘They’ve given me something to help me sleep. I—I hope it kicks in soon.’
‘Yes, you need to rest.’
‘Mum’s been so good…’
She didn’t mention Marcus, and Rebecca didn’t ask. Now wasn’t the time. ‘If there’s anything at all I can do,’ she said, and that was the closest she could get to what really mattered. ‘I mean that, Grace, and I know it goes for Dad, Harry, everyone.’
‘I know.’ Grace nodded. ‘Thanks. But I’m fine. It…wasn’t a hard delivery, and Julius said there should be no complications of any kind. I’ll be back at work on Monday.’
‘Grace—’
‘Please. Don’t argue. I need to, Rebecca!’
Harry and Rebecca arrived back in the main hospital foyer within a minute of each other, and it felt so good just to see him that Rebecca let her feelings show openly on her face. He, too, wasn’t attempting to hide what he felt after the draining emotions of the day. His gaze washed over her, searching and heated, and as soon as they were standing together he touched her, reaching out to tangle his fingers lightly in hers. She could feel the heat of her awareness flooding up her arm.
‘OK?’
‘Course not!’
‘No. No, I know…’ Their fingers twined together more tightly and she felt the warmth of his arm against hers.
‘Harry, Dad’s away…I don’t want to spend the weekend alone.’ As soon as the words were out, she knew how they must have sounded, and added quickly, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…That is, just if you’d like dinner, or—’
‘My God, Rebecca,’ he cut in, his voice husky and low. ‘Don’t apologise! If you did mean it, there’s nothing I’d like better!’
‘Oh…good.’ She nodded shakily, then just stood there, still gripping his fingers, staring at his chest and not knowing what else to say.
‘So…Do you want to eat out, or shall we get take-away?’ he asked gently at last.
‘Oh…out,’ she answered at once. Thank goodness he only seemed to be thinking about dinner! ‘I think I need some…some space, or something.’
His grip tightened on her hand. ‘Of course. We both do. Let’s take my car.’
‘Fine.’ It didn’t seem important.
‘We’ll pick up yours…’ he waved vaguely ‘…whenever. It’s in the doctors’ car park, isn’t it?’
‘Mmm.’ She had no desire to argue. ‘Grace says she’ll be back at work on Monday,’ she told Harry as they left the building.
He didn’t seem surprised. ‘She’s tough, Grace, beyond that soft, maternal exterior.’
‘That’s what you think it is? Toughness?’
‘Yes,’ he retorted. ‘She’ll be so tough about this she’ll probably end up breaking into a million pieces, but if you’re suggesting that us making her take…what? A week off? Two? If you think that will stop it from happening, then I doubt it. Whatever this thing is between her and Marcus, and about him not wanting the child, it’s very big and very deep, and losing the baby is either going to get them through it and back together, stronger than before, or break them permanently apart.
‘Either way, I’m not sure that we can do anything, except what Grace says she wants. I’m also not sure that talking and agonising over it is going to do anything for her, or for us. Probably the reverse, in fact.’
‘You know everything, don’t you, Harry?’ she said with biting sarcasm. Why was she angry? Probably because she sensed strongly that he was right.
He turned on her. ‘Hey! Are we going to spend the whole weekend fighting?’
The looming threat of his strong body failed to cow her. ‘We fight a lot, Harry, in case you hadn’t noticed,’ she retorted, while her nipples hardened treacherously as she caught his scent and warmth in her nostrils.
‘Oh, I’d noticed,’ he drawled dangerously. ‘Believe me! But I wondered if perhaps we were getting past that now. Don’t you think we both need to change our perspectives a little?’
‘No.’ She decided to brazen it out.
Useless, of course. He’d started running his palms lightly up her arms and even as she contradicted him she was swaying towards him in a movement of complete betrayal.
He gave a lazy grin. ‘In that case, I have to presume that you like a little conflict in a relationship.’
‘Uh…’ Now his hands had grown bolder and he was stroking her upper arms so that, with increasing frequency, his thumbs began to brush against her breasts.
‘Well, OK, Rebecca, that’s fine with me. Conflict—the right kind—makes heat, and there’s definitely nothing wrong with heat, is there?’
‘No…’ The word got caught in her throat.
He was playing with her—he knew exactly what she was thinking and feeling—and she didn’t care. Let him! Just let him, as long as it meant he still held her like this, still kissed her like this…because he was kissing her now, right here in the doctors’ car park, in the lee of the building, beside his car.
First, with his strong hands coming lightly to rest on her shoulders, he kissed her neck with darting, nibbling, teasing touches of his lips. Next his cheek brushed her face, he made a small sound of need deep in his throat and his mouth moved across her face to meet what he was looking for—her lips, which he began to taste and part and thrust between with a lazy, teasing tongue.
She sighed shakily and gave in to her own longing to put her arms around his neck, feel the strength of his shoulders and the thick softness of his dark hair, and it was only then that one phrase in what he had said a few moments ago came back to her with fresh significance.
‘Spend the whole weekend’? So he hadn’t just meant dinner, after all…