Читать книгу Their Very Special Marriage - Kate Hardy - Страница 8

CHAPTER THREE

EXCEPT things didn’t work out quite as Oliver planned. Surgery overran and the florist was closed when he got there, so he had to make do with what was left at the supermarket. Not the ideal choice, but the thought was what counted, wasn’t it?

‘Thank you,’ Rachel said politely when he handed her the huge bunch of carnations. Then she gave him a suspicious look. ‘What are they for?’

What did she mean? He’d bought them because he knew she liked flowers. ‘Do I need an excuse to buy my wife flowers?’ he demanded.

‘No-o.’

But she didn’t sound that sure. He tried to remember when he’d last bought her flowers—except for birthdays and anniversaries—and drew a blank. Hell. No wonder she looked leery. She probably thought he was going to tell her that he’d promised to cover someone else’s shifts and he’d bought the flowers out of guilt.

Well, he had bought them out of guilt.

‘I thought maybe we could, um, spend some time together, tonight. Talk,’ he muttered.

‘Oliver, I can’t. It’s the school PTA committee meeting tonight and I have to be there—I’m the chair. I can’t just back out at the last minute and let everyone down.’ She sighed. ‘It’s been booked for weeks. You know I write everything on the calendar.’

The one that hung by the phone. The one he never really took any notice of.

‘Why don’t you ever look at it?’ she asked, almost as if she’d read his thoughts.

Because, if there was anything important, Rachel always reminded him. She hadn’t bothered this morning. So it wasn’t his fault he’d forgotten, was it? ‘Some other time, then. Soon,’ he added.

But when? Not tomorrow—that was his trauma medicine course. Thursday was the practice late night. Maybe Friday, then.

When had life become so complicated? When had he and Rachel stopped having time for each other? More to the point, how were they going to fix it? Right now, he didn’t have any answers.

* * *

On Thursday morning, Rachel was surprised to see Megan Garner halfway through the morning. The practice antenatal clinics were held on Wednesdays, and she’d seen Megan last week. ‘Hi, Meg. I thought I was seeing you next Wednesday?’

‘You are.’ Megan’s face was ashen and there were dark shadows under her eyes—more than Rachel expected to see, even though Megan was probably having the usual difficulty sleeping in late pregnancy.

‘What’s up?’

‘It’s Jasmine. She’s got chickenpox.’ A tear trickled down Megan’s face. ‘I haven’t had it. Ever. I played with all the kids in the village and I never, ever got chickenpox. And my mum’s friend said chickenpox can—can ki—’ She broke off, her breath shuddering, clearly too distraught to say the word, and scrubbed at her eyes with the back of her hand.

‘Hey.’ Rachel took her hand. ‘Of course you’re worried. And I’m glad you came to see me. First things first, we don’t know you haven’t had chickenpox.’

‘Mum said I didn’t.’

‘It’s possible that you had it so mildly, you only had one or two spots and your mum thought they were gnat bites,’ Rachel reassured her. ‘Studies show that eighty per cent of people who can’t recall having chickenpox are actually immune. And chickenpox in pregnancy is really rare—only about three in every thousand pregnant women get it.’

‘What about the baby?’

‘Yes, there is a risk of the baby developing problems such as skin scarring, eye problems and neurological problems, but that’s only a risk if you get it between thirteen and twenty weeks. So you can stop worrying about birth defects because you’re well past twenty weeks.’ She paused. ‘When did Jasmine go down with it?’

‘She got the first spots yesterday. She was in the bath and I saw them.’ Megan shook her head. ‘I’d heard you can literally see chickenpox spots coming out, but I thought people were exaggerating. But I could see them popping up on her back.’

Rachel nodded, calculating mentally that Jasmine became infectious four days ago. The incubation period was between ten days and three weeks, so if Megan did develop chickenpox it would be somewhere between the end of the following week and the next fortnight. ‘Right. You’re due to have the baby in ten days’ time. If the baby’s late, that could mean you’ll deliver the baby in three weeks’ time. Jasmine’s spots will all have crusted over by the end of next week, so there shouldn’t be any risk to the baby from Jasmine.’

‘What about if I have the baby early? Or if I get it?’

‘Let’s not panic yet. There’s a very high probability that you’re already immune—remember, around ninety-five per cent of adults have already had it—so I’ll do a blood test and ask the lab to rush it through for me. If you’re not immune, I can refer you to the hospital for preventative treatment—they can give you something called VZIG and give the baby the same thing when he’s born.’ She smiled. ‘That stands for “varicella zoster”—chickenpox to me and you—“immunoglobulin”. They’re antibodies which will protect you and the baby against developing chickenpox.’

Megan was shaking slightly. ‘But if I do get it—or the baby?’

‘If you get it before you have the baby, we can give you an antiviral medication called acyclovir. We can also give the baby antibodies and the antiviral medication.’ Rachel thought it prudent not to mention that ten per cent of pregnant women with chickenpox went on to develop pneumonia—Megan didn’t smoke, so that cut her risk anyway—or how serious chickenpox could be for newborns. Until they knew whether Megan was immune or not, Rachel didn’t want to panic her patient. ‘How’s Jasmine?’

‘Miserable.’

‘If she’s got a temperature, you can give her some infant paracetamol or ibuprofen to bring it down.’

‘She hasn’t said she’s hot, just itchy. I keep telling her not to scratch, but she can’t help it. Mum says I should put calamine lotion on her.’

‘That’ll help to stop the itch—though there’s something out now that stops the itch for a bit longer and isn’t quite as messy.’ Rachel scribbled a note on her pad, tore off the top sheet and handed it to Megan. ‘You don’t need a prescription for this. If Ian at the pharmacy doesn’t have it, he can tell you who does stock it or what’s the next best thing. Putting a bit of bicarb soda in a tepid bath can help, too. If it’s affecting her sleep, bring her to see me and I can give her some antihistamines to stop the itch and help her sleep. She might have a sore throat, so give her plenty of cool drinks. Otherwise, I’d recommend keeping Jasmine’s nails really short and doing things with her that keep her hands occupied so she can’t scratch. Make sure you get enough rest, though.’ She smiled at Megan. ‘Do you want a glass of water before I do the scary needle thing?’

Megan shook her head, smiling back. ‘No, I’m OK. At least you don’t leave bruises. Lucy does.’

‘Poor Lucy. She’s paranoid that half my mums ask her to let me do the blood samples instead of her.’

‘So, has Sophie had chickenpox yet?’ Megan asked, looking away as Rachel deftly took the blood sample.

‘No. I saw the notice up at nursery this morning. I’ll be watching her for the next couple of weeks.’ Rachel put her hand flat on the desk. ‘Touch wood, we haven’t had the nits notice up for a while.’

‘Oh, no. Don’t talk that up!’ Megan groaned.

‘Nits scare me a lot more than they scare Soph. She refuses to let me put her hair in a ponytail. And she hates even a detangling comb in her hair—I dread to think what she’d be like with a nit comb,’ Rachel said ruefully. ‘OK, you can press on the cotton wool for a few seconds.’

‘You’re done already?’

‘I’m done. Not so bad, was it?’ Rachel wrote out the lab form. ‘I’ll ring you as soon as I get the results through. It probably won’t be until Monday, but don’t spend the weekend fretting about it. There’s a very, very strong chance that you’re immune—and if you’re not, we can protect you and the baby.’

‘Thanks, Rachel.’ Megan took a deep breath. ‘I feel a bit better now.’

‘Good. If you’re worried, talk to me or Lucy, OK? That’s what we’re here for.’ The calmer Megan stayed, the better her blood pressure would be—and the better it would be for the baby.

When Rachel had finished surgery, she checked with Rita that Oliver didn’t have a patient with him, then knocked on Oliver’s door. At his ‘Come in’ she put her head round the door.

‘Good or bad time?’ she asked.

He pulled a face. ‘Not brilliant.’

‘OK, then, I’ll keep it short. Chickenpox is doing the rounds again. The note’s up on the nursery door. If Soph gets it, we’re going to need locum cover for one of us where our shifts overlap.’ It would probably be her, but she’d give Oliver the option of nursing their daughter if he wanted to.

Oliver rolled his eyes. ‘That’s all I need. Good locums are—’

‘Like gold dust,’ Rachel finished. She’d heard him say it so often. ‘That’s why you’re getting advance warning. So you can be prepared. I’m not saying Soph’s definitely going to get it.’

‘But it’s one of the most infectious viruses, it spreads by droplets in the air, and ninety per cent of susceptible contacts get it.’ Oliver sighed. ‘I hope she doesn’t get it as badly as Rob did.’

‘Me, too.’ Rachel paused. ‘Um, it’s Sophie’s full day at nursery today. Want to meet me for lunch in the Red Lion for one of their bacon and Brie baguettes?’ If that didn’t tempt him, nothing would.

‘Sorry, I can’t. I’ve got a pile of house calls, plus I’m seeing a drug rep, and I’ve already put him off four times.’

‘Right.’ So it was nothing, then. She shrugged. ‘Just thought I’d ask.’

‘Rach—’

‘Doesn’t matter.’ She wanted to get away before the tears pricking at the back of her eyelids got any worse. Stupid, feeling rejected by her own husband. He was busy. She knew that. But all the same she wished he’d just grab a little bit of time to spend with her. She forced a smile to her face. ‘See you at home.’

‘Don’t forget, it’s late surgery tonight for me,’ he reminded her.

As if she could forget. Oliver spent more time at the practice than he did at home nowadays. ‘Sure,’ she said, hoping that he didn’t hear the wobble in her voice, and left his consulting room.

* * *

When Oliver came home after evening surgery, he handed Rachel a box wrapped in gold paper and a matching ribbon. ‘For you,’ he said with a smile.

Belgian chocolates. Her absolute favourites. She knew she ought to throw her arms around him and say thank you, but something stopped her. Why was he buying her chocolates? It wasn’t the sort of thing that Oliver did.

Unbidden, the words from the magazine article floated back into her mind. Your partner buys you lots of gifts because he feels guilty about betraying you and showering you with presents makes him feel better. Before she could stop herself, the words were out. ‘Flowers on Tuesday, chocolates tonight... Is there something I should be worried about?’

Oliver bridled. ‘Look, I just felt guilty that I couldn’t have lunch with you when you asked me. For God’s sake, I thought you’d like them. But I can’t do anything right where you’re concerned.’ He scowled. ‘Maybe you ought to start taking evening primrose oil.’

‘What?’ She stared at him. What was he driving at?

‘It’s meant to help mood swings.’

He thought she was having PMT? Or, even worse, early menopause? For goodness’ sake, she was only thirty-four! She shook her head. ‘Oliver, I’m not having mood swings.’

‘Look, I understand about PMT. I’m a modern man, not a dinosaur.’

‘Yeah, right.’

He frowned. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Just leave it. I’m going to have a bath. There’s ham and salad in the fridge, and French bread in the bread bin. If you want dinner, you can get it yourself.’

‘Rach—’

‘Leave it,’ she said again, and walked quickly away. Oh, God. This was unbearable. If Oliver really was having an affair... She shivered. And if he wasn’t, and she accused him of having an affair, it would deepen the gulf between them.

How was she going to bridge that gulf? Because if she didn’t, there was a good chance her marriage would be over by the end of the summer. They couldn’t go on like this.

Oliver didn’t come in to talk to her while she was in the bath, and she didn’t bother taking a mug of coffee into his office—what was the point, when he’d only snap at her for interrupting? She tried and failed to read the latest thriller from a writer who usually gripped her. All she could think about was Oliver, and how her marriage was crumbling before her eyes and she didn’t know how to stop it.

When she heard Oliver coming upstairs, she considered talking to him—but panicked and pretended to be asleep. She noted with an inward sigh that he didn’t cuddle into her, turning his back on her instead. Worse, judging by his deep and regular breathing, he fell asleep quickly, whereas she stayed awake until the small hours, trying to work out whether she was just being silly or whether she really did have something to worry about.

* * *

When Rachel woke the next morning, her eyes felt gritty and her head felt as if someone had whacked it with a sledgehammer. A cool shower and a hairwash helped, and a couple of paracetamol helped even more.

Robin was already getting himself dressed, so Rachel went to wake Sophie. And stopped dead. There were half a dozen spots on the little girl’s face. Gently, Rachel pulled the duvet back, lifted Sophie’s pyjama top, and saw that Sophie’s torso was covered in spots.

Very recognisable spots, red with a blister in the centre. Chickenpox.

She sighed. ‘No nursery for you this morning,’ she said softly to the sleeping child. ‘I’d better ring them and tell them you won’t be in until all the spots have crusted over. Which probably won’t be for another week.’ She stroked her daughter’s hair. Best to let her sleep while she could—as soon as Sophie was awake, she’d start to itch and scratch her spots.

Rachel walked back to her bedroom. Oliver sat up, rubbing his eyes, then stretched. ‘Is it morning already?’

Oliver never wore a pyjama top. The sight of her husband’s muscular shoulders and bare chest sent a shiver of desire through Rachel. But now wasn’t the time. ‘Bad news. Soph’s covered in spots. I’ll ask Ginny if she’ll take Rob to school with Jack, and I’m afraid you’ll have to get a locum in for me or share my list around today.’

Oliver groaned. ‘You talked it up yesterday.’

‘No. I just warned you it was on the cards. And that meant any time in the next twenty-one days. She can’t go back to nursery until the last spots have crusted over, so I won’t be working for the next week—unless you’d rather stay home with Sophie?’

Sophie would adore having her daddy all to herself. And Oliver would learn all about Pwintheth Mouse—maybe nursing his daughter through her illness was the wake-up call he needed. The thing that would make him start concentrating on his family.

Though Rachel already knew what his reaction was going to be.

‘No, she needs her mum with her.’

Sophie needed her dad, too. So did Robin. But Rachel wasn’t feeling up to a row. ‘If you think it’s best,’ she said coolly.

He raked a hand through his dark hair. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll sort things out at the practice.’ Almost as a second thought, he added, ‘Do you need me to bring anything home for Sophie?’

‘Antipruritic lotion. The itching’s going to drive her crackers, and I can’t make her sit in the bath all day. I don’t really want to take her out until her spots have crusted over, though.’

‘Sure.’ Oliver climbed out of bed and headed for their shower room.

Hell. Why did he have to look so sexy when she didn’t have time to do anything about it? Since they’d had the children, they didn’t spend Sunday mornings in bed any more. Rachel realised just how much she missed it, the warmth of her husband’s body heating hers, tangled limbs, the roughness of the hairs on his chest against her skin.

Then she remembered last night. The guilt-gift—chocolates that she hadn’t been able to face eating, because she knew why he’d bought them and they would have stuck in her throat.

Ha. What was the point of lusting after a man who’d not only fallen out of lust with you, but had fallen in lust with someone else?

She shook herself, and went to make a start on the calls to rearrange the children’s usual routine.

* * *

Distracting a small child from scratching the itchy spots was, well, almost impossible, Rachel thought. She’d tried reading the little girl’s favourite stories, letting Sophie loose with the CD-ROMs on Oliver’s old computer which they kept under the stairs for the kids to use, drawing pictures with her, reading more stories, doing jigsaw puzzles, reading more stories... And now Rachel was more shattered than if she’d gone in to the surgery. The house was a mess—she hadn’t even had time to hang the washing out, let alone tidy up—and Sophie was decidedly grumpy.

‘Daddy’s home!’ Sophie yelled.

Since when was delirium a symptom of chickenpox? Rachel wondered. The usual complications were bacterial infection of the spots if they were scratched, ear infections, conjunctivitis and rarely meningitis or encephalitis—inflammation of the brain, which started about four days after the rash first appeared. Any signs of drowsiness, breathing problems, convulsions or a stiff neck and dislike of bright lights and Rachel would drive Sophie straight to the nearest emergency department.

‘Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!’

‘How’s my best girl?’ Oliver’s deep voice asked.

Rachel blinked and glanced at the clock. Lunchtime. Oliver never came home at lunchtime. Ever.

He walked into the kitchen, with Sophie sitting on his shoulders. ‘Hi,’ he said, giving Rachel the broad grin which had made her fall head over heels for him as a student.

Despite the fear gnawing in her stomach—the fear that today was the day when Oliver would bring everything into the open and she’d learn something she really, really didn’t want to know—she couldn’t help smiling back. ‘This is a nice surprise.’

‘I can’t stay long—but I thought you’d be going stir-crazy, being cooped up at home, so if you want to go out and have a walk or something?’

Her fairy godmother had definitely been at work. ‘Thanks. I could do with ten minutes to myself,’ she admitted. ‘Want me to make you a sandwich first?’

‘No need.’ Gently, he lifted Sophie from his shoulders and set her on the floor. ‘I brought supplies. Bacon and Brie baguettes to go, from the Red Lion. Plus the stuff to stop the itching. And something special for my little girl.’ He fetched a carrier bag from the hall, and fished out five comics for preschoolers.

‘Ooh, Daddy! Thank you!’ Sophie squeaked.

‘And for Robin.’ He put a puzzle magazine on the table, and Rachel blinked in surprise. Oliver had noticed that Rob liked doing puzzles?

‘And...’ He brought out a bottle of red wine and a DVD. A romantic comedy—the sort of film he absolutely hated and Rachel adored. ‘Something for us, tonight.’

For us? He was actually planning to spend time with her tonight? Rachel was so shocked that she burst into tears.

Immediately, Oliver put his arms round her and held her close. ‘Hey. It’s OK,’ he said, stroking her hair. ‘Soph’s going to be absolutely fine. Don’t worry about work—the practice will manage without you for today, and I’ve got a locum to cover you from Monday. I’ve known Caroline Prentiss for years.’

‘Caroline Prentiss?’ The name sounded familiar, but Rachel couldn’t think why.

‘She’s just moved back into the area—she was looking for a locum job, so that’s all sorted. And I’ve asked Prunella to chase the lab for Megan’s serum results.’

Which meant they’d get the results double-quick—everyone was scared of Prunella, except Oliver. ‘Thank you,’ Rachel muttered against his chest. ‘Sorry. I’m just being...’ Her voice tailed off.

‘You’ve been cooped up with a sick toddler all morning, and I don’t pull my weight in the house. It’s no wonder you’re feeling tired and tearful.’

And relieved, Rachel thought. This was the Oliver she knew and loved: a workaholic, but one who still found time for those he loved. Maybe he was right. Maybe they’d just been at cross-purposes these last few months. Everything was going to be all right.

‘Why’s Mummy crying?’ Sophie wanted to know.

‘Because she’s feeling a bit out of sorts, too,’ Oliver said. He kissed the top of Rachel’s head, then stepped back. ‘Right, you. Go and get some fresh air for five minutes. I’ll make us a coffee, then we’ll have lunch together. Just like we should have done yesterday.’

When he’d been too busy. And he was even busier today, covering for her as well as doing his own list. Guilt flooded through her. ‘You had to cancel things, didn’t you?’

He shrugged. ‘They can wait.’ He smiled. ‘Five minutes. Or I’ll eat your baguette as well as my own!’

She knew that look. Teasing, loving... Her husband was back. And he wasn’t—absolutely wasn’t—having an affair. He loved her, she loved him, and all was right with her world again.

So why was there still that little niggle in the back of her mind?