Читать книгу Paddington Children's Hospital Complete Collection - Kate Hardy - Страница 36

CHAPTER FIVE

‘DECAF THIS MORNING, please, Tony.’

The friendly barista shot her a disbelieving look. ‘Is not coffee, mia bella.’

She gave him an apologetic shrug. ‘Please.’ The last thing she needed was caffeine. It was barely seven and she was running on adrenaline. Her heart pounded, her chest was so tight breathing felt like lifting weights, she was as jumpy as a cat and she felt the telltale burn of reflux. That was always the stress marker.

Occasionally, when she thought work was going well, she’d be surprised to get the liver-tip pain telling her that her body wasn’t as calm as her mind. Today, she didn’t need her medical degree to know the exact cause of her extreme agitation. She’d relived the reason over and over and over last night until exhaustion had somehow managed to claim her, providing a few hours of fitful sleep.

She’d woken with a start to a foggy dawn and the weight of reality crushing down on her so hard and heavy she was surprised she wasn’t lying on the floor. Real life had decisively ended a wonderful dream where she’d felt unusually safe and secure. A utopia where she’d been able to be herself without the constant and nagging worry that someone was going to find out that despite all her hard work she was always only one step away from failing. Those tantalisingly peaceful feelings had vanished a second after she’d woken. Tranquillity had been torpedoed by the visual of her nestled in Alistair North’s lap, kissing him like he was the last man standing after the apocalypse.

She’d jumped her boss. Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God.

Hours later, she still wasn’t totally certain how it had happened.

Oh, come on. Be honest. Bottom line, you abandoned your principles, you opened your mouth and took what you wanted. You sucked Alistair North’s marrow into you like he was oxygen.

She barely recognised the woman she’d been last night, and she knew if it had been an option, she’d have climbed inside the man. Never before had she let go like that, giving up all thought and reason, and existing only for the streaming sensations of bliss that had consumed her. It was if she’d been drawing her life force from him. She’d certainly never kissed anyone with such intensity before.

You’ve never been kissed like that before.

Her mind retreated from the thought so fast she almost gave herself whiplash. Truth be told, despite her thirty-four years, her kissing experience was fairly limited. During her teenage years, her brother’s footy mates had considered her far too bookish and reserved to bother trying to kiss and her peers thought she was weird for studying so hard, so when she’d left Gundiwindi bound for Adelaide Uni, she’d been a kissing virgin as well as a sexual one.

It had only taken one medical students’ society party to remedy the kissing situation. She’d discovered that having a tongue shoved unceremoniously down her throat by a drunk second year had been enough. Then and there she’d determined to wait until she met someone who, A, she actually liked and, B, had some experience and panache in the art of kissing.

Michael had literally walked into her life five years later when she’d been hiking the Milford Track in the spectacular South Island of New Zealand. After two days spent laughing and talking together, and with him proffering the occasional hand to balance her as she crossed creeks and clambered over fallen trees, he’d kissed her on the sandy shore of Milford Sound with the backdrop of the indomitable Mitre Peak.

It had been the most romantic thing she’d ever experienced. For a while, all of Michael’s romantic gestures had deluded her into thinking she was worthy of love after all. When the cracks started appearing, the more she worked to shore them up, the worse things had got. His parting words still haunted her. You’re too hard to love, Claire.

Her alarm had chosen that moment to shrill, pulling her thoughts sharply and blessedly away from the past and dragging them firmly into the present. She’d run to the shower and left the flat half an hour later, walking directly to Tony’s in the ubiquitous London mist.

The barista handed her the usual half dozen coffees pressed snugly into their cardboard carrier along with one extra. ‘What’s this?’ she asked as her left hand wrapped around the single cup.

‘A proper latte, doctore.’

‘But, Tony, I wanted decaf.’

He tapped the cup with a D scrawled on it. ‘Is here. But you drink it and I know you wish you get your usual.’

‘Thanks.’ He wasn’t to know that if she were any more wired she’d shatter. She handed over some pound notes but he waved them away. ‘The doctors at the castle, they fix my Serena when she born with her bad foot. Sick bambinos need the hospital. I happy to help.’

‘That’s very generous of you. I know the protestors on the night shift appreciate your coffee.’

She heard the gentle clearing of a throat behind her—the British equivalent of Hurry up.

‘Bye, Tony.’

‘Ciao, bella. You have a good day, yes.’

A good day. Oh, yeah. It was going to be one for the ages. More than anything she wanted a time machine so she could return to last night and change everything that had happened, starting with preventing little Ryan Walker from having a large brain bleed. At least the gods were on her side today in as much as it wasn’t an operating day. The thought of having to stand next to Alistair—Mr North, Mr North, Mr North.

You’re kidding yourself if you think using his title is going to give you any protection.

It’s all I’ve got.

That and hiding from him as much as possible. Only she knew hiding was a pipe dream. The whole point of her scholarship was to work hand in glove with the man and learn as much from him as she possibly could. Last night, she’d left the hospital the moment the difficult interview with the Walkers was concluded. In fact, she’d been the first one to leave, with a brisk goodnight to her consultant in front of the distraught parents, blocking any chance of him saying anything to her about the kiss.

The only reprieve she had today was that straight after rounds he was working from home, preparing his paper for the neurosurgery symposium.

Yesterday morning when she’d read that entry in the electronic diary, she’d rolled her eyes. In not unexpected fashion, he’d left it pretty much to the last minute to get it done. If she’d been presenting a paper, she’d have had it fully edited, bound and memorised a week ahead of time because medicine had a habit of throwing curve balls. All it took was a couple of emergencies or some staff illness to throw out a timeline. She always padded her deadlines with a lot of wriggle room, as much to allow for her own set of learning challenges as well as for external ones.

Today, however, there was no eye rolling at Alis—Mr North’s laid-back procrastination, only unbridled relief. It meant the only time she had to see him today was at the ICU and Koala Ward rounds. Given they’d be surrounded by staff and students and their focus would be on patient care, how hard could that be? He was hardly going to say anything to her about last night in front of everyone and she sure as hell wasn’t going to mention it. Not now. Not ever. In regards to last night, her plan was to pretend and subsequently believe that it had never happened. She could only hope that Mr North felt the same.

Lost so deeply in her thoughts, she was surprised to find she’d arrived at the hospital. As she distributed the coffees, she made sure to mention to everyone they were a donation from Tony’s Trattoria. Chatting with the protesters and learning more and more stories about the legacy of the castle was fast becoming a favourite part of her day and she listened with delighted fascination. A woman was telling a tale about her grandfather who’d been a surgeon during the Second World War. Claire was so busy listening to how he’d risked his own life to save others by operating in the basement of the hospital during the Blitz that she lost all sense of time.

Hearing someone’s watch chime the hour, she gasped. Late! She hurriedly excused herself, ran through the gates, pelted up the D wing stairs, flung herself through the door and arrived on Koala Ward a panting and gasping mess.

Andrew Bailey gave her a wide-eyed look. ‘You okay?’

She was desperately short of breath but she dug deep and summoned up a husky ‘Fine’ as she tried to fill her lungs with air. At the same time, she worked on quelling the rising tide of frantic dread that threatened to swamp her like a massive wave at Coogee. Being a few minutes late for rounds with a consultant who considered ten minutes after the hour as being ‘on time’ wasn’t an issue. Being twenty minutes later than her usual arrival time was a disaster. It meant she had no time to read and memorise the overnight reports. It meant she’d be flying blind during rounds.

Panicked, she rounded on her house officer. ‘Have you read the reports?’

‘Was I supposed to?’ Andrew asked, half bemused and half confused. ‘I thought that was the point of rounds.’

Still trying to catch her breath, she huffed loudly and caught the injured look in her generally congenial junior’s eyes. He was absolutely correct—for most people that was the case. ‘True, but it never hurts to be ahead of the game and impress the consultant.’

A grin broke across his round face. ‘Is that why you’re here early most days?’

She dodged the truth with the skill of a secret keeper. ‘Something like that.’

The rumble of many feet against the linoleum floor made her turn. Alistair North was striding along the corridor with the nurse unit manager and the nursing and medical students hurrying along behind.

Claire pressed her glasses up her nose and blinked. Alistair North didn’t ever wear a white coat but he generally wore one of what she’d come to realise was a selection of fine wool Italian suits. Generally, he started the day in a jacket and tie, although the ties were never serious. They were almost always prints of animated characters from kids’ TV shows, which the little patients loved. Claire’s favourite ties were from a fundraising range sold by the castle’s auxiliary. Some clever clogs had come up with the idea of printing the children’s drawings of doctors, nurses and auxiliary staff onto silk. She particularly liked the one of a doctor wearing a head torch and a big smile.

Just admit it. You like that one because it’s Alistair.

Not if my life depended on it.

By late afternoon most days, he was seen on the ward in scrubs, or if it was a non-operating day, he’d have discarded the jacket and tie. An open-necked business shirt was as casual as she’d ever seen him, but today there was no sign of a suit, nor smart casual weekend wear or even jeans. He was striding towards them wearing a T-shirt that stretched across his wide chest and perfectly outlined the rise and fall of his pectoral muscles. The shirt read Epilepsy Warrior Run. Her gaze instinctively dropped.

Damn. No compression tights.

Shut up! She hated the zip of disappointment that wove through her that the rest of his body wasn’t delineated in fine detail by tight fabric. His running shorts, however, only came to mid-thigh, giving her plenty of opportunity to admire his taut quads.

Look up, look up, look up.

‘Morning, Mitchell. Bailey,’ he said with his usual nod of greeting. ‘Missed the two of you at boot camp this morning.’

‘Boot camp, sir?’ Andrew said faintly. The rotund house officer wore the look of one who went to great lengths to avoid any sort of physical pursuit.

‘Yes, Bailey. All Koala Ward staff are participating in the Epilepsy Warrior fun run. Morag—’ he turned to the highly efficient unit nurse manager ‘—you sent the diary entry to everyone about this morning’s training session?’

‘Of course,’ she said briskly in her thick Scottish brogue.

Claire pulled out her phone and immediately saw the reminder on her screen. Her stomach fell through the floor. She’d been so obsessed by the fact she’d landed in Alistair’s lap last night and tickled his tonsils that she’d totally forgotten about boot camp.

Andrew’s face drained of colour. ‘Surely someone needs to be on duty on—’ he read the black and purple writing on his boss’s T-shirt ‘—the tenth. Happy to volunteer, sir.’

‘Already got that covered, Bailey,’ Alistair said in a tone that brooked no argument. He swung his clear sea-grey gaze to Claire.

Be professional. She clenched her fists and willed herself not to drop her gaze. Willed herself to act as if this was just a regular morning instead of the one after her worst ever career folly. Memories of last night—of the way his eyes and then his mouth had fixed on hers—rolled back in, foaming and bubbling like a king tide.

Let it go. It didn’t happen.

Oh, but it did. She had the sweet and tender bruises on her lips to prove it.

Now, faced with all six foot of him standing there in front of her wearing athletic gear and with the scent of his cologne invading her senses, it was increasingly difficult to focus on her plan to banish every delicious thing that had happened between them. Remember the embarrassment. Remember he’s your boss. That will do the trick every time.

‘It’s not like you to forget an appointment, Mitchell,’ he said, using her surname in the British public school way as he did occasionally. ‘It’s important we all attend for team spirit,’ he added politely.

Despite the well-modulated parameters of his very British accent, she heard the unmistakable tone of an order. Was this his way of saying that he agreed with her that last night was an aberration? That it was a shocking mistake they both needed to forget and move on from? That it was over and done with and she needed to remember that the cohesion of the workplace team always came ahead of everything?

Please let it be so. ‘We won’t let you down again,’ she said brightly. She sent up a plea that Alistair had caught her double meaning and knew that she understood they were both on the same page about last night. ‘We’re looking forward to the next boot camp, aren’t we, Andrew?’

Andrew stared at her as if she’d completely lost her mind. ‘Wouldn’t miss it,’ he said glumly.

Alistair grinned and clapped his hands together once. ‘Excellent. Let’s start rounds.’

As they walked towards the first bay, Morag handed Claire a tablet computer. Archie McGregor’s medical history was open on the screen, but before she could silently read the first sentence, Alistair was saying, ‘Lead off, Dr Mitchell.’

Eight sets of eyes swung her way. Even before her mouth had dried, her tongue had thickened and her throat had threatened to close, the words on the screen had jumbled into an incomprehensible mess. Long ago voices boomed in her head, deafening her.

Moron. That girl’s a sandwich short of a picnic.

Panic eddied out from her gut and into her veins, stealing her concentration. She broke out in a cold sweat. Her greatest fear, which lurked constantly inside her and was never far from the surface, surged up to choke her. You knew you’d get found out one day. This is it.

No! She’d fought too hard for it to end like this. She’d set up strategies so this situation would never happen to her and she wasn’t about to let years of sacrifice go to waste and have it fall apart now. Not here in London where it was too easy for people to make cheap shots at her being a colonial. Not when she was the recipient of one of the most prestigious scholarships on offer for neurosurgery. Not when she was so close to qualifying.

Think!

‘Actually,’ she said, shoving the tablet at her junior houseman with a hand that trembled. ‘Archie is Dr Bailey’s patient. He admitted him overnight.’

Andrew, who’d accepted the tablet without question, glanced at the screen. ‘Archie McGregor, age seven, admitted last night post-seizure and with suspected juvenile myoclonic epilepsy. Observations stable overnight and...’

Claire wanted to relax and blow out the breath that was stalled tightly in her chest but she didn’t have any time to spare. As Andrew was fielding a battery of questions from Alistair, she was trying to calmly and surreptitiously read the next patient’s history.

* * *

An hour later she was helping herself to a delicious currant bun from the nurses’ breakfast platter. As she bit into the sticky sweetness, she gave thanks that she’d not only narrowly avoided disaster, she’d also survived the round. Alistair had appeared happy with both her and Andrew’s treatment plans and now, emergencies excepted, her boss was gone for the day. She was thankfully home free. She had some medication charts to write up, some test results to read and then, fingers crossed, she was going to take advantage of the relative calm and spend some time in the library studying.

‘Oh, good.’ A very familiar voice rumbled around her, its timbre as rich and smooth as a Barossa Valley cabernet sauvignon. ‘There you are.’

Shock stuck the sticky bun to the roof of her mouth and she tried desperately to dislodge it with a slurp of tea. The hot liquid went down the wrong way and she coughed violently, trying to get her breath. The next minute, Alistair’s face was pushed in close to hers with his brows pulled down sharply.

‘Can you get air?’

She shook her head but he misunderstood and the next minute the side of his hand sliced down between her shoulder blades like a karate chop. The snaps on her bra bit into her skin. ‘Ouch.’

‘Good,’ he said, cheerfully reappearing back in front of her. ‘I need you alive today.’

‘Just today?’ she said waspishly as the tangy scent of his sweat hit her nostrils. She worked hard at resisting the urge to breathe in deeply. ‘I rather like being alive every day.’

‘As do I. Live every day as if it’s your last.’

She took a careful sip of tea. ‘I’ve often found people who say that use it as an excuse to be selfish.’

His smile faded and a line of tension ran along his jaw, disappearing up behind his ear. ‘That’s a very jaundiced view of humanity.’

She welcomed the familiar antagonism vibrating between them and relaxed into it, giving thanks that everything was back to normal. ‘Not at all. It’s merely an observation about how some people live their lives with little thought or regard for how their actions impact on others.’

His eyes darkened and he looked as if he was about to say something when he suddenly helped himself to a currant bun. She was oddly disappointed that he wasn’t going to take the discussion further. Sparring in a robust debate with Alistair North was far safer than confiding in him.

Or kissing him.

She suddenly felt stranded standing there in the small pantry. She was far too aware of him and how his mouth, which had savoured hers so thoroughly last night, was now relishing the currant bun. Too aware of how his tight behind was pressed hard against the bench and how his long, running-fit legs stretched out in front of him. She suddenly wanted to invoke the staff dress code she’d been lectured on during her orientation program.

He raised his hand to his mouth and one by one he meticulously licked the sugar from the bun off his fingers. She swallowed a gasp as her body clenched and then sighed in delight. The memory of how he tasted was burned on her brain—spicy with a hint of citrus zip. And hot. Oh-so-flaming hot.

I thought the kiss never happened so why are we doing this?

She cleared her throat. ‘I best go and write up the medication changes.’

‘Bailey can do that.’

‘Excuse me?’

He pushed off the bench. ‘Get Bailey to do the medication changes and chase up the test results. I’ve got some far more interesting work for you.’

A skitter of excitement whipped through her. There’d been a rumour going around that a charity in India was making overtures to the castle in regards to separating a set of conjoined twins. Being part of the multidisciplinary team from the planning stages through to the massive operation and postoperative care would be the chance of a lifetime.

‘Oh?’ she said, far more casually than she felt.

‘We’re giving a paper at the spring symposium.’

A streak of surprise was followed by a trickle of dread. ‘We?’ She hated that it came out on a squeak.

He nodded. ‘It’s the tradition across all the medical departments that the specialist registrar in his or her last year of their fellowship always gives a joint presentation with their consultant.’ He scratched his head and his brow furrowed. ‘Did I not mention this to you when you first arrived?’

No! ‘You did not,’ she said, trying to sound calm. The dread was now spinning her stomach and sending out wave upon wave of nausea. ‘This is the first I’ve heard of it.’

‘Oh, well, not to worry,’ he said with a grin that held a modicum of contrition. ‘Lucky it’s quiet so we should meet tomorrow’s deadline.’

‘Tomorrow.’ Her screech of disbelief could have given a sulphur-crested cockatoo a run for its money. ‘But the symposium’s still weeks away.’

‘The papers are due tomorrow. The admin staff need time to print and bind them and prepare the handouts for the attendees.’

‘We can’t write a paper in a day.’ She hated the squeak in her voice.

‘Of course we can,’ he said with all the easy confidence of someone who’d never had to think twice about reading or writing. ‘Some of the best papers I’ve ever written have happened at that adrenaline-fuelled last-minute deadline.’ Memories filled his handsome face. ‘It’s such a buzz to pull an all-nighter and finish as the fingers of dawn are lighting up the city.’

The very idea made her gag. ‘That’s not the way I work,’ she countered, desperately clutching at straws. ‘I mean, we don’t even have a topic.’

‘Of course we’ve got a topic,’ he said, sounding amused. ‘I wouldn’t do that to you.’

‘I guess I should be thankful for small mercies,’ she said sarcastically.

‘I’m sorry it slipped my mind, Claire. Your predecessor, Harry Banks, was supposed to write the paper, but as you know, he left us the moment things started looking rocky for the castle.’ His face filled with kindness. ‘I’m aware you like things to be ordered and just so, but believe me, stepping out of your comfort zone every now and then makes you feel alive.’

Oh. My. God. He was serious. He honestly thought he was doing her a favour. Her heart thumped so hard she was sure he must hear it. ‘What’s the topic?’ she asked weakly.

His face lit up. ‘Epilepsy surgery’s the most effective way to control seizures in patients with drug-resistant focal epilepsy. I’ve got all the data. It’s just a matter of assembling it and stringing it together with some well-chosen case studies. Don’t panic. Most people prefer to attend the summer symposium on the Continent. The spring one’s the smallest of the three. Think of it as a test run. If the paper’s well received there, we can work it up into something bigger for The Lancet. Too easy.’ He laughed. ‘Isn’t that what you Aussie’s like to say?’

‘Something like that,’ she said faintly. The task he was asking her to undertake would be a significant one for most people, but for her the short time frame made it monumentally huge. Hopefully, she could find a quiet corner in the library where she could spread out the data and work her way through it slowly and methodically. ‘I guess I better make a start, then.’

‘Excellent.’ He gave her warm smile. ‘Give me fifteen minutes to grab a quick shower and then meet me in my office.’

No, no, no! Working alongside Alistair risked exposing her secret and she’d do anything to prevent that from happening. With a decisive movement that said all business, she pushed her glasses up her nose. ‘I’ll work in the library.’

He tilted his head and gave her a long and questioning look. Somehow, despite feeling like a desert plant wilting under the intense scrutiny of summer noontime heat, she managed to hold his gaze.

‘It makes far more sense to work in my office,’ he said, breaking the long silence. ‘All the data’s on my computer and there’ll be far fewer interruptions and distractions there.’

Fewer distractions? She stifled a groan. Her much-needed day of physical distance from Alistair North had just imploded and sucked her down with it. Now, she faced spending the working day with him in the close confines of his office. Every breath she took would carry his musky scent. The air around her would vibrate with his bounding energy and any inadvertent brush of shoulders or hands, which invariably happened when two people worked in close proximity, would only serve to remind her how amazing the strength of his toned muscles and the tautness of his skin had felt last night under her hands.

All of it was one enormous distraction, but in relative terms, her irrational attraction was the least of her worries. Her biggest problem was the challenge of hiding the fact she found data analysis and large writing tasks difficult. Under extreme pressure, it was almost impossible. If her boss discovered that, it could jeopardise her scholarship. She swallowed hard. There was only one solution—she had to get creative and make sure he never discovered her secret.