Читать книгу The Consultant's Christmas Proposal - Kate Hardy - Страница 9

IT WAS nearly midnight before Toby came back. ‘I stayed to see Lyd onto the plane,’ he explained.

Only Toby would be that thoughtful. ‘You must be shattered. And starving,’ Saskia said.

‘I’m past it now—I couldn’t face the fajitas. I hope you didn’t wait for me.’

She shrugged it off. ‘I wasn’t that hungry anyway. Hey, I’ll make you a hot drink. If you have coffee now, you won’t sleep—so would you rather have camomile tea or hot milk?’

‘They’re both vile,’ Toby grumbled. ‘Nah, I’ll be fine, but thanks for the offer. What shift are you on tomorrow?’

‘Early. You?’

‘Early. But I’ll fix it so I can go in an hour later than you. I’ll drop the kids off, you pick them up.’

‘Sure. I’ll book a taxi to drop me at work, and I’ll pick my car up later.’ She smiled. ‘I made up your bed in the spare room.’

‘Cheers. I’m ready to drop.’ He handed her a small, bright pink case. ‘I’m glad nobody saw me with this. Pink luggage. Now, that’s embarrassing.’

She grinned. ‘Don’t be such a baby.’

‘I sorted out a couple of shirts, two suits and two pairs of shoes.’

And underwear, she hoped. The idea of Toby picking out her underwear…She shook herself. No, this was her best friend. Not her lover. Not the man she wanted to surprise her with a confection in silk and lace. Not the man she’d dress up for.

Though she was aware it sounded as if she was trying to protest a little too much.

‘Thanks. See you in the morning, then. Um, do you want the shower first?’

‘Ladies first,’ he said gravely.

She laughed. ‘You’ll regret that when I’ve hogged the bathroom for an hour.’

Mmm, and he could think of exactly how she could spend that hour. In the shower. With him. He shook himself. Hell, he must be more tired than he’d thought. He usually managed to suppress his fantasies about his best friend.

Usually.

Then again, he didn’t usually live with her. OK, so they weren’t sharing a room. Weren’t sharing a bed. Other than that, they were living together as stand-in parents. Arranging things around the kids, like any other couple with a family. They’d even be making Christmas decorations together with Billy this year…

He reined in his thoughts. If he didn’t watch it, he’d do something stupid. Like kiss her. Or sweep her off her feet. And then he’d lose her for good. No, he’d stay with the softly-softly approach. It would work, in the end. He just knew it.

‘See you in the morning,’ he said, and headed for his room before he gave in to temptation.

By the time Toby had showered and changed next morning, Saskia had already fed the children, strapped the car seat into Toby’s car, made a pot of coffee and found out from Vancouver that Paul’s operation had been a success.

‘You’re seriously scary,’ he said, accepting a cup of coffee gratefully. ‘And I love you for it.’

‘Good.’ A horn beeped outside and she looked out of the living-room window. ‘Yes, that’s my taxi. I’d better go.’ She kissed the children goodbye. ‘Be good for Uncle Toby,’ she told Billy. ‘I’ll see you both this afternoon. And I’ll see you…’ she waved at Toby ‘…some time at work, so we can synchronise our duty rosters. Lunch?’

‘I’ll ring you,’ he promised.

‘Ciao.’ And she was gone.

Toby tried to stifle his disappointment. As if she’d been going to kiss him goodbye, as well as the children.

But it would have been nice.

Odd, odd, odd. Saskia was used to not sharing her breakfast table. No crumbs or cereal on the floor, no spilled milk all over the table, and she could do the crossword and listen to the news on the radio in peace without having to make conversation with anyone else.

But it had been…well, nice. Helping Billy to smear butter and Marmite on his toast, having Helena blowing raspberries at her, seeing the children’s faces light up as soon as Toby had walked in. It had never been like that when she’d grown up. Just a succession of nannies and then her parents, who’d insisted on complete silence at the breakfast table while they’d read the newspaper or a case brief.

She shook herself as she realised that they were at the hospital and the cabbie was waiting for the fare. Now was not the time to start fantasising about having a family. She had a job to do.

She paid the cabbie, gave him an extra tip to make up for her dozy behaviour, took the stairs to the maternity unit and started her ward round. No complications on the ward, so she did a quick round of the delivery floor.

‘Saskia, I’m glad you’re here. I could do with a second opinion.’

Saskia went straight onto red alert. Georgina Wilson was their senior midwife, and her instincts were always spot on. ‘What’s up?’

‘Clare Fellowes. First baby, due eleven days ago. We induced her yesterday morning with prostaglandins—two lots—and she was only just three centimetres dilated at a quarter to one this morning.’

Usually induction meant a fast labour—this one was unusually slow.

‘Larissa broke Clare’s waters at six this morning. It doesn’t seem to have speeded up her labour at all.’

‘OP?’ The best position in labour was when the baby faced the mother’s back. In OP, or occipitoposterior presentation, the baby faced the mother’s front, so the head didn’t press down as efficiently on the cervix, the baby’s head needed to rotate further and labour tended to take longer.

‘Yes. No sign of meconium.’ Meconium was the baby’s first bowel movement, a thick, greenish-black substance made up of bile, mucus and intestinal cells. If the baby passed it into the amniotic fluid, it generally indicated that the foetus was in distress—and sometimes the baby could inhale it when he started to breathe, when it would block his airways.

‘That’s good. What’s the baby’s heart trace doing?’

‘Slightly tachycardic, with late deceleration.’

This told Saskia that the baby’s heart rate was faster than normal, then dropping after the peak of Clare’s contractions—a sign that the baby wasn’t getting enough oxygen. ‘Have you taken a blood sample from the baby’s scalp?’

‘Just about to. I’ve put the mum on her left side and given her some oxygen.’

‘Well done. Let’s stop the oxytocin and do a blood sample.’ Saskia frowned. ‘If it’s not good, we’re looking at a section. Does it say anything in her birth plan?’

‘The usual. She wants a normal birth with minimal pain relief, hubby to cut the umbilical cord, and she’d rather not have an episiotomy if she can help it.’

Saskia winced. ‘Please, don’t tell me she’s been going through a labour this long on just gas and air or a TENS machine.’

Georgina shook her head. ‘When it was obvious she was in for the long haul, we talked over the idea of an epidural.’

‘I hope she went for it. Giving birth is a tough enough job—why add to it by struggling with pain when we can help?’

Georgina smiled. ‘You’re preaching to the converted.’

‘Yeah, I know.’ Saskia smiled back.

Saskia introduced herself to Clare and her partner, explained what she was about to do and that it wouldn’t hurt the baby at all, and took the blood sample. To her dismay, the pH value was 7.21, lower than it should be. Saskia examined Clare and realised immediately that the labour simply wasn’t progressing as it should have done.

‘Clare, you’ve done really well to get this far,’ she said gently. ‘You’ve had a tough first labour and you’ve been really heroic about it. But your baby’s starting to show signs of distress, and his blood’s slightly acidic. I’d recommend that you have a Caesarean section.’

‘But…we wanted a natural birth.’ A tear trickled down Clare’s face. ‘A normal one.’

‘Sometimes you need a bit of extra help. It’s your choice, but your labour’s very, very slow and you’re tired. The longer it goes on, the more the baby’s at risk of having problems. At the moment, I’m concerned he’s not getting enough oxygen.’

Clare swallowed. ‘Does it mean I’ll have to have a general anaesthetic?’

‘Not if you don’t want to. You’ve already got an epidural, so we’ll just top it up a bit for the operation. Your partner can still come in with you to hold your hand all the way.’ She smiled at Clare’s partner. ‘And you can still cut the cord, if that’s what you want to do.’

‘And the baby’s going to be all right?’ he asked.

‘If we deliver soon.’

Clare nodded. ‘All right.’

‘Thank you. I just need you to sign a consent form. And in about thirty minutes, you’ll be holding your baby.’ She smiled again, and signalled to Georgina that she wanted a word outside. ‘I’ll find an anaesthetist to top up the epidural for the section. Can you ring Paeds and ask them to send someone up, please?’

‘Sure.’

Once the anaesthetist was arranged, Saskia had another chat with Clare, explained what would happen in Theatre and answered Clare’s questions.

Just after she’d made the incision, a masked doctor in scrubs walked into Theatre. She recognised his outline immediately, and smiled to herself. The baby was going to be in good hands, then. Toby’s hands.

She worked swiftly but, as she’d dreaded, the baby had passed meconium. Inhaled some, too, by the green staining around his nose.

‘You have a lovely little boy,’ she told Clare. ‘The paediatrician’s just going to check him over, and then you’ll be able to have a cuddle.’

She concentrated on sewing up the wound she’d made, though every so often she glanced over towards Toby. He was good at his job—very good—but the more time passed, the more likely it was that the baby was in trouble.

Finally, to her relief, she heard what she’d been waiting for. A baby’s cry.

‘One perfect little boy.’ Toby brought the wrapped baby over to Clare. ‘He’s lovely. Well done.’

‘Is he all right?’

‘He’s going to be fine,’ Toby reassured her. ‘He did in hale a bit of meconium, but we’ve got rid of it and there won’t be any long-term damage. Congratulations.’

‘My little boy,’ Clare said, and burst into tears.

‘I love happy endings,’ Toby said a couple of hours later, as he unwrapped his sandwich. ‘I think we should have cases like that every day.’

‘Meconium inhalation isn’t my definition of a good day,’ Saskia said dryly. ‘How were the kids?’

‘Fine. They had the play-dough out at nursery, so Billy couldn’t wait to go and make something. You’re still OK to pick them up?’

‘Yep. Did you bring your diary?’

‘You’re such a slave-driver.’ He pulled a face at her. ‘How does your ward put up with you?’

‘They’ve learned how to be efficient,’ Saskia said sweetly.

He pulled his diary from his jacket pocket. ‘OK. I’ve got two days I can’t switch—meetings that can’t be moved—but otherwise I can be flexible.’

Saskia took a quick look at his schedule and compared it with hers on her organiser. ‘Actually, we won’t have to do that much switching. Say it’ll be two weeks until Lyd comes home. If you can change your late to an early on Friday, and I swap my Monday late for an early, we’re about there.’

‘Done. Now can I eat my sandwich in peace?’

‘We haven’t done the cooking rota yet. And, before you say it, no, we are not living on take-aways, Toby Barker.’

‘How about whoever’s home first cooks dinner, and whoever’s on a late has it heated up when they get in?’ he suggested.

‘Fine. I’ll be home first tonight, so I’ll cook.’ She handed him a key. ‘Here.’

‘What’s this?’

‘My spare car key. We’ll need to swap Billy’s seat between our cars, depending on who’s doing the nursery run.’ Helena was still in an infant carrier, which made it easier to transport her.

‘My spare car key’s at home.’ He sighed. ‘And you don’t have to nag me. I’ll make a detour and pick it up after work. And I’ll drop his car seat up to you before you go.’

‘Attaboy.’ Saskia took a sip of her coffee. ‘Ah, bliss.’

Toby had other definitions of bliss that definitely didn’t involve coffee. But he would have liked to put that expression on Saskia’s face.

Maybe one day.

The rest of the day passed without incident. Toby remembered to collect his spare car key and some more clothes. But when he let himself into the house, he stopped dead. Saskia was sitting on the floor in the living room with Helena asleep on her lap, and Saskia and Billy were both waving chiffon scarves around. In the background, a CD of rippling piano music was playing. Billy’s face was bright with excitement and he was chattering away, and Saskia was answering the little boy’s questions, looking relaxed and happy. They looked like any mother and child, clearly adoring each other and enjoying some special time together until Daddy came home.

This was what his life could be like if…

Stop. Don’t rush her, he warned himself. You know her background. She’s pathologically scared of the marriage-and-family bit. Let her get used to this, then maybe, just maybe, she’ll consider trying something like this permanently.

‘Having fun?’ he asked lightly as he walked into the living room.

‘We’re doing seaside music,’ Billy told him. ‘Look, Uncle Toby, we’re making waves.’ The little boy was waving the scarf up and down, in perfect time to the music.

‘Very creative,’ he said to Saskia. ‘Maybe you should switch specialty—we could do with someone like you in Paeds.’

An odd expression—one he couldn’t read—flitted across her face. Then he wondered if he’d imagined it, because she smiled. ‘I can’t take the credit for this. Billy learned it at preschool music class—I’ve taken him a couple of times when I’ve been off duty.’

He hadn’t known that. This really wasn’t what he’d expected from Saskia, but he liked this side of her. The side she kept hidden. It made him wonder what else he had to discover about her after all these years.

‘You can do music with us, Uncle Toby.’ Billy rummaged in a bag and presented Toby with a white scarf.

‘Sure.’ He sat down and joined them. ‘I like this music.’ It wasn’t Saskia’s normal style. She normally listened to rock. Loud and fast. Just like Saskia herself.

‘It’s Ludovico Einaudi—Le Onde. “The Waves”,’ she explained. ‘Think yourself lucky we’re not doing Saint-Saëns’ “The Aquarium” from the Carnival of Animals.’

‘Aunty Saskia made us some special seaweed for music class, out of a dustbin bag. And shiny fishes,’ Billy said. ‘You have to hold the fish and dance to the music.’

Toby raised an eyebrow. ‘You kept that quiet. What else are you hiding, Saskia?’

To his surprise, she blushed. ‘Nothing. Hey, Billy, do you want to sing your new Christmas song to Uncle Toby?’

‘Yeah!’ Billy stood up and started to sing ‘Christmas Shamrock’ to the tune of ‘Frère Jacques’.

‘Shamrock?’ Toby whispered in Saskia’s ear. ‘Since when has shamrock been Christmassy?’

‘They’re doing world cultures at nursery,’ Saskia muttered back.

Billy finished up with a rendition of what he called the ‘Sneezy Song’—‘When Santa Got Stuck Up the Chimney’—with a little bit of prompting from Saskia when he forgot the words.

They both clapped him when the song ended, and he beamed. ‘I can sing it to Mummy tonight.’

‘You certainly can.’ Saskia smiled at him, and turned briefly to Toby. ‘It’s my turn to cook tonight.’ She hugged her godson. ‘Billy, do you want to draw a picture for Mummy with Uncle Toby while I cook tea?’

‘I’ll get the felt pens!’ the little boy said gleefully, and raced off to fetch them.

‘I’m doing pasta,’ she whispered to Toby, ‘so I can disguise vegetables in the sauce. Tomorrow, it’s your turn to come up with a clever strategy to get him to eat something other than chicken nuggets. I told Lyd we’d do the impossible.’

‘You would,’ Toby said, resigned. ‘Right. I’m going to draw Billy a super rocket. And we’re going to call it after you.’

‘Oh, ha.’ She grinned, and headed for the kitchen.

As soon as Saskia was out of Toby’s view, she massaged her fingers and took some painkillers. Was this a flare-up? And would the flare-ups become more frequent as time went on? she wondered.

‘Not going to happen. It’s not.’ If she could stop the disease in its course by sheer will-power, her hands would stop hurting right now.

She flexed her fingers. Unfortunately, will-power wasn’t going to cure rheumatoid arthritis. And there wasn’t much chance of getting a cure in her Christmas stocking either. Damn, damn, damn. She’d managed in Theatre earlier today without any problems. But, right at this moment, no way could she have held a scalpel. She couldn’t have supervised a junior surgeon either—because if the younger doctor got into a mess, she wouldn’t be able to step in and take over.

She was going to have to resign. And soon. For her patients’ sake.

But medicine was her whole life. If she gave it up completely, what would she do? How would she fill the empty hours?

It took her ages to chop the vegetables for the pasta sauce. But she persisted—no way was she giving in. She wasn’t ready to give in.

Just as the sauce started to bubble, Billy bounded into the kitchen and shoved a piece of cardboard into her hand. ‘We made you a card,’ he announced.

‘“To the best aunty in the world. Love Billy,”’ she read. There was a picture of a flower on the front, coloured in bright pink and purple, and Toby had drawn Billy’s name in dots for the little boy to join up. Shocked by the tears that rose to her eyes, she blinked them back, hard. ‘Thank you,’ she said, crouching down to give Billy a hug.

The sauce was a success, too. She’d put it in a blender so there were no tell-tale lumps of vegetables. Billy ate his meal without a hint of protest, and scoffed more garlic bread than anyone else. He also managed to get garlic butter in his hair and spaghetti sauce over his face—even behind his ears.

‘Bathtime?’ Toby suggested.

‘Yep. You’re in charge tonight. I’m doing the washing-up.’ She didn’t want to share the chores with him in case he noticed just how long it was taking her to do things—and then asked awkward questions that she didn’t want to answer.

‘Both of them together?’ he asked, looking nervous.

‘C’mon, you’re the paediatrician. And you must have bathed your godchildren at some point.’

‘Nope. You and Lyd always do it.’

True. Saskia adored bathtime with the children, playing splashing games, then wrapping them in a towel ‘like a sausage roll’, as Billy called it. She loved Helena’s gummy smiles of delight as she splashed, the clean, baby-soft scent of the children’s skin after a bath, the way Billy’s hair stuck up in tufts. She loved giving them their milk, a cuddle, a story, tucking them into bed and then reading another story, because she couldn’t resist Billy’s huge eyes and cute smile when he asked so nicely for just one more.

But tonight she physically couldn’t do it.

‘You’ll enjoy it,’ she said, forcing herself to sound happy and bubbly, the Saskia Hayward that everyone at the hospital knew. The super-focused doctor, who partied at night and burned the candle at both ends.

As Toby took the children upstairs, Saskia’s smile faded. It wasn’t going to be that way for much longer. In fact, it’d get to the point where she wasn’t going to be burning candles at all.

Laboriously, she washed up. By the end, she knew that drying up would push her just that one step too far. The dishes could just air-dry tonight.

She couldn’t resist going to see how Toby was getting on. To her amusement, he was on his knees next to the bathtub, holding Billy’s plastic frog and joining in with Billy’s version of ‘Five little speckled frogs’. She couldn’t help grinning at the gusto with which Toby sang ‘Yum, yum’ about the delicious flies the frogs were eating, and ‘Glub, glub’ as the frogs jumped into the pool.

Toby looked just like any other father enjoying bathtime with his kids while giving his wife a break from childcare.

This was what her life could have been like, if…

No ifs, no buts. She’d made her choice a long time ago. It was the right one, the sensible one: she knew that. So she suppressed the surge of loneliness. This was ridiculous. She wasn’t lonely. She had a good life. Good friends, a job she enjoyed and two godchildren that were as close as she was going to get to children of her own. She had nothing to complain about.

As for that little flare of longing, she damped that down, too. Toby wasn’t for her. He’d make the perfect dad: how could she ask him to give up the idea of ever having children? She didn’t want to wreck his life, tie him down to someone who was going to end up hardly able to do a thing for herself. He deserved someone better and, as his best friend, she really ought to be helping him to find Miss Right, not selfishly holding onto him.

Without disturbing them, she walked quietly downstairs again. The minute Lydia and Paul were back from Canada, she’d do something about Toby. Find someone who could make him far happier than she could. Maybe fix him up with someone at one of the departmental Christmas parties. It was the time when people traditionally got together after all. And it would be her own very special present to Toby. She’d find him the love of his life.