Читать книгу Fairytale on the Children's Ward - Meredith Webber, Meredith Webber - Страница 7

OLIVER RANKIN hated being late. He was a man who believed there were no acceptable excuses for it, and condemned the rudeness of it. But he was undoubtedly running late, due mainly to car trouble on his drive from Melbourne to Sydney—trouble that had delayed him twenty-four hours while a part was sent, apparently by camel train, from Melbourne to the Victorian border.

Then there was Sydney peak-hour traffic—un believable!

Eventually, however, the latest fellow appointed to Alex Attwood’s paediatric cardiac surgical team pulled into the parking lot at St James Hospital for Children, abandoned his car in a board-members-only parking spot and raced into the building.

Fortunately he’d spent a month with the team earlier in the year so he knew where to go, but he still only made the meeting with a couple of seconds to spare.

Relief swamped him!

Until—

The world whirled before his eyes. Low blood pressure—all the rushing…

He dropped into a chair as Alex introduced him to Angus, the new surgeon on the team, and reminded him he’d already met Kate. Then he closed his eyes, and opened them again.

Carefully.

The apparition had come right into the room, later than he was.

A totally beautiful, totally mind-blowing apparition…

‘And this is Clare Jackson, our new perfusionist,’ Oliver heard Alex say. ‘I’m more delighted than I can tell you to welcome Clare to our team as she trained in the US at the same hospital as Theo, and the oldies on the team will know how good he was.’

Oliver battled to sort out the disbelief in his head, to actually accept that the woman who still, from time to time, haunted his dreams was right here in this room.

Impossible!

Except it wasn’t! There she was, head tilted towards Alex, so he saw her in profile, and caught the long line of her neck—the neck he’d loved to—

Clare Jackson?

He’d had the list of team members’ names for a couple of weeks, but as she’d shown up on that as C. Jackson and most perfusionists he’d worked with had been males, he hadn’t given a thought to the coincidence of surnames.

Alex was talking, but the words didn’t penetrate Oliver’s brain. Not only was Clare right here in this room, but apparently she was a team member. He’d be working with her.

She was a perfusionist?

From actress to lifesaving medical equipment expert in ten short years?

‘Clare!’ he’d managed to blurt out when they’d been introduced.

She’d nodded, lustrous dark hair swirling around her head, brown eyes half hooded, long eyelashes hiding any emotion those eyes might reveal at this unexpected reunion.

‘Oliver,’ she’d said, her voice still so familiar a tremor of excitement had shaken his body.

He tried to concentrate on Alex’s introductions to the rest of the team, but how could he? He snuck a glance at Clare, and was annoyed to see that she seemed totally unfazed by this incredible coincidence.

* * *

Clare held her body very still, glad she’d learned how to do this years ago—back when she was a drama student at university, back when she’d first met Oliver.

Besides, if she held her body very still it might not fall apart, which was what it was threatening to do any moment.

Her body and her mind!

That he should be here—on the same team—was so unbelievable she had to wonder if it was some giant conspiracy of the Fates. Of course, even ten years ago, Oliver had been headed for a paediatric specialty, but he’d never mentioned surgery.

Whatever, it was indisputably Oliver sitting on the other side of the room, ignoring her in the politest possible way. Although what could he have said?

Long time, no see?

Not for Oliver the trite phrase, nor even idle conversation. The problem was that eventually the meeting would end and they would have to leave the room and some kind of conversation would obviously have to take place!

He’d come to claim Emily!

Nausea roiled in her stomach as the thought struck like the flick of a whip, but common sense prevailed. He’d obviously been as shocked to see her as she was to see him, and if he’d wanted his child surely he’d have got in touch back when she’d told him about the pregnancy.

Or in the intervening years?

And the fact that he hadn’t—that he obviously didn’t want to know his daughter—hardened her heart against him once again.

She could handle this! She could handle anything!

Easy to think, harder to do. Fear for her daughter fluttered in her heart, fear for Em’s emotional stability.

Her mind ran wild.

Now he was here, wouldn’t he want to see his daughter—to get to know her?

And if he still refused to acknowledge her, how would that affect Em?

Thinking about her daughter opened up a void so deep and black Clare felt as if she was teetering on a precipice, about to be plunged into a bottomless abyss.

Yet how could she not think of Emily, not put her first?

She’d have to talk to Oliver, find out what he wanted and whether Emily was part of it. Then she—perhaps they—could work out how to get father and daughter together—or not—with the least possible upheaval in Emily’s life.

She sneaked another glance at the man causing such havoc in her mind, and this time felt her heart turn over. Silver threads had infiltrated his sandy hair at both temples, lending him an air of distinction, but Oliver had always been a distinguished-looking man—tall, lean, tanned, with dark brows above those startling pale green eyes. In profile slightly hawkish, the long thin nose tipped down just slightly at the end.

Pointing to his lips?

That had been a stupid fantasy of hers in her youth, for Oliver Rankin had the most beautiful mouth she’d ever seen, on a man or woman.

Oliver!

Huge inward sigh!

She tried to concentrate on Alex’s words, but her mind was way back in the past.

With Oliver…

How had things gone so disastrously wrong between them? How had she been stupid enough to walk out on him?

Because he didn’t want the child you yearned for, she reminded herself. Didn’t want a child at all and definitely not right then for all it would have been an ideal time as far as you were concerned. But part of the stupidity had been thinking he’d come after you, and that somehow the two of you could have patched things up.

That hadn’t happened!

She’d spent a miserable Christmas at home on the farm with her family, then the realisation had dawned that, wanted or not, she was going to have a baby.

Tentative delight…

Quickly quelled at the thought of Oliver’s reaction.

Which hadn’t come!

Unable to contact him by phone or email, she’d finally written, but when he hadn’t answered her letters—had ignored her unexpected news—she’d decided she’d have to forget all about him, which, she’d admitted to herself even then, was easier said than done. Until the diagnosis of her father’s illness had turned her family’s life upside down and concern and grief for him had swamped the pain of losing Oliver. Then, within weeks of Em’s birth, life had changed so irrevocably Oliver had been the last person she’d been thinking of.

No, that was wrong. She’d longed for him—for his presence, his support, to have him there to share her dread and fear.…

And not having him, she’d turned to the man who was there—

She shuddered as she shook the memory away, and concentrated on what Alex Attwood, the team leader, was saying.

‘Oliver, Kate and Clare, you’ll all be working with Angus tomorrow. Clare, I know you’ve settled into your flat, so maybe you could show Oliver where his is. Did I tell you he’s taking the other flat in Rod’s house?’

Of course Alex hadn’t told her! Excited as she’d been at coming back to Australia and getting a job in such an elite unit, she’d still have remembered if someone had said, Oh, and a chap called Oliver Rankin will be living next door! Not only remembered, but packed up and left.

No, she didn’t run from men any more, but she’d have had time to at least think about this situation, to prepare herself.

To prepare Emily?

Oh, sweet reason, what was she going to do about Emily? For one crazy moment she thought of phoning the school and asking if they could take her as a full boarder rather than a weekly one, but it was hard enough on both of them to be separated five days a week.

Alex had turned to Oliver, and was explaining. ‘The flat I arranged for you is in my father-in-law’s house just down the road from the hospital. Rod Talbot, my father-in-law, is in a wheelchair so he has the ground-floor apartment and has turned upstairs into two small but comfortable flats. Of course, you don’t have to stay there. Once you get to know the area, you might find somewhere that suits you better. Because of the proximity to the hospital, the flats are easy to let—not that Rod needs the money.’

‘Rod Talbot?’ Oliver repeated, his voice stirring so many memories in Clare’s body she found herself shivering. ‘Is he the writer?’

Alex nodded, and while Oliver talked about how much he enjoyed Rod Talbot’s books—Oliver having time to read?—Clare muddled over the other information she’d received. The bit about Oliver being in the other flat in Rod Talbot’s house—the flat with the door right opposite her door. Oliver living so close, sleeping so close…

A tremor of memory ran through her body before she brought her mind firmly back to the major problem.

Oliver spending his weekends next door to her and Emily!

Once again her reaction was flight. They’d go back to the States; she’d always find work there. But she steeled herself against such weakness—flight wasn’t an option. She wasn’t an emotional young woman any longer; she was a grown-up, mature—a qualified and respected career woman with an important position in a team that saved children’s lives.

Even if she did feel like a teenager right now, with all the confusion and angst and dreadful insecurity that came with the transition from child to adult.

The meeting was breaking up, the anaesthetist from the second team taking the new surgeon off to the child-care centre. Dear heaven, had Oliver married again? Would he have children?

No, he’d been adamant about that, about never having children. That was why they’d split up. To a certain extent Clare had understood, because it had been soon after he’d found out a little about his own past, found out his life had been built upon a lie.

Thinking about that time—how hurt Oliver had been—diverted her thoughts from Oliver’s marital arrangements, although if there was a wife, what would she think about Em?

It was all Clare could do not to wail out loud. How could this be happening to her? And now, when both she and Em were so excited to be back in Australia?

She pulled herself together with an effort.

Best not to think about Em! Not here, not now…

And it was useless to be speculating about Oliver’s marital state, let alone whether he had children or not, although Rod had told Clare hers was the larger of the two flats, so a wife and children could hardly fit into the other one.

This realisation made her feel a little easier for all of five seconds, until it occurred to her he could have left his wife and kids—if he’d weakened on the children stand—in Melbourne while he settled in.

‘Clare.’

Her name in his voice, a sound she’d never thought to hear again. No-one said her name as Oliver did! And no-one else, with just that one word, could send those stupid shivers down her spine.

After ten years?

It was unbelievable.

She’d heard of muscle memory—sportspeople talked about it. Was there such a thing as nerve memory, that every nerve in her body remembered…?

He was close now, waiting for her. The composure he wore like a well-cut suit to hide the emotional Italian inside him was so familiar she wanted to reach out and touch him, to feel the warmth of the man beneath that cool facade.

Was she mad?

Touching Oliver would be disastrous—had always been disastrous!—because one touch had never been enough.

She dug through her memory for an image of that last morning, not long before Christmas, when, all composure gone, fury and resentment had flared from his body and burnt in his eyes. That was the Oliver she needed to keep in mind.

Which was okay as far as resisting his appeal went, but what about the rest? What about Emily?

Clare felt physically sick, nausea spreading through her body. How could this have happened? She pulled herself together with a mammoth effort, hoping outwardly at least she might look composed.

‘So we’re to be neighbours,’ she said, offering a polite smile, while her bewildered heart beat a wild tattoo inside her chest, and her thoughts ran this way and that like mice in a maze.

‘It seems that way.’

Were his words strained? Was Oliver feeling the same mix of disbelief, and confusion—and surely not excitement?—as she was?

Of course he wouldn’t be. For one thing, Oliver didn’t do confusion.

Her heart skittered again but this time it was nothing to do with excitement—more like dread and fear and trepidation. She had to say something.

‘I did write to you, you know.’

It sounded pathetic but at least it caught his attention.

‘When?’ he demanded, his voice hard and tight.

So hard and tight the tiny bit of courage that had prompted Clare to tell him faded, which meant the next words came out all breathless and confused.

‘End of January, and again later in the year.

‘You wrote to me at the end of January? Wasn’t that a bit late, considering it was before Christmas you walked out? I’d definitely moved on by then, physically and emotionally.’

Pain stabbed through Clare’s body at the last words, but what was he saying?

‘You didn’t get any letters from me—then or later?’

Glacial green—that’s how Oliver’s eyes could look…and were looking now.

‘No.’

He shook his head to emphasise the word and, knowing he would never lie to her, Clare felt a stab of deep resentment—not to mention pain—as she realised he didn’t know about her pregnancy. He didn’t know he had a daughter, a daughter who would be right there in the flat next door to his come Friday!

She had to tell him!

Easy enough to have the thought but how to do it?

And when, and where?

This was hardly an appropriate time or place and, what’s more, he was talking to her again, saying something, although with the wild furore going on her mind it was a struggle to make out the words.

Forcing herself to focus, she realised his conversation was nothing more than the polite inquiries of old acquaintances catching up.

‘But a perfusionist? What made you change course? What happened to life on the stage?’

Clare cast an anxious glance behind him, but there was no-one nearby to overhear an almost honest answer.

‘Long story short, I moved to Queensland and studied science. I met a perfusionist who used to work with Alex when he was in Melbourne. I learnt more about it and decided it was the dream job as far as I was concerned. I began my studies in Brisbane, then went to Chicago to get more qualifications and experience, and here I am.’

Oliver knew he was staring at her, replacing his mental image of a twenty-five-year-old soap-star Clare with this more mature adult version—more mature, and even more beautiful. And the reaction in his chest was an ectopic heartbeat, nothing more. Ectopic heartbeats happened to some people all the time, and most people some time in their life.…

But if he read the signs correctly, she was feeling even more strain at this unexpected meeting than he was.

‘Alex was saying we’re going to be neighbours.’

Could he really be having this stilted conversation with Clare? Clare who had laughed and loved and thrown herself into life with enormous energy and enthusiasm? Thrown herself into their relationship, making every moment they were together special and intense.

Until the day he’d told her he didn’t want a baby and, unable to believe he’d never mentioned this before, unable to even discuss it with him, she’d walked out.…

And he’d let her go, furious at her lack of understanding of his situation—his feelings in all of it! How could he have contemplated fatherhood when he didn’t know who his own father was, didn’t know himself? And how could he have considered marriage when his closest experience of it—his mother’s three attempts—had been so disastrous?

He was reminding himself of this justification when Clare spoke again.

‘You were saying you’ve read our landlord’s books?’

‘There’s no need to sound so surprised,’ he grumbled, memories of the past bothering him more than he’d thought possible. ‘I’ve time to read these days.’

She smiled at him and he felt his heart miss another beat. Frequent ectopic heartbeats might be indicative of a problem of some kind, his medical brain told him.

‘You didn’t have time for any relaxation back then,’ she said.

Except with you, he thought but didn’t say, for there was a barrier between them, like a glass wall through which he could see and hear but not touch. Not that he would touch her, of course. No matter how much his fingers tingled at the thought.

Of course there’d be a barrier between them. It had been ten years; they’d split up. There were issues—wasn’t that the word people used these days? So many unresolved issues it was more like a brick rampart than a glass wall between them.

Back to the present!

‘My car’s illegally parked downstairs. Can I follow you to the flat?’

‘You can give me a lift.’

The moment the words were out of her mouth Clare regretted them. She needed to get away from Oliver, not spend more time with him, especially not more time in the privacy a car offered.

She needed time to think things through, to work out how on earth she was going to tell him about Emily.

Not that he deserved to know! He hadn’t wanted a child.

The tiny whisper from one corner of her brain was tempting, but she slapped it down. Of course he’d have to know, and now they’d come together, didn’t Em deserve to know her father? Hadn’t Clare always told Em that one day they’d find him so she could meet him?

But ‘one day’ in Clare’s mind had been when Em was eighteen or so—an adult who would understand the traumatic period of time that had been Clare’s pregnancy, not to mention the aftermath of Emily’s birth!

She should have directed him to the flat; it was just down the road. But here he was, saying he’d be delighted—ever polite, Oliver Rankin—and putting out a hand to usher her towards the door.

She moved, just in time to avoid contact with him, but knew that as well as the Emily problem, she had to sort herself out, to strengthen her body against the insidious physical weakness just seeing him again had caused. There was too much at stake for her to be distracted by attraction.

‘I need to speak to Alex about something, so I’ll meet you downstairs. The easiest way is to take the blue exit from the car park. I’ll be down there near the gate in five minutes.’

Alex was still at the front of the meeting room, stacking some papers he’d spread out earlier. What excuse could she give? What question could she ask?

Had he noticed her hesitation that he looked up?

‘Everything all right, Clare?’ he asked. ‘Emily settled in at school?’

‘Just fine and dandy, and yes, she loves it,’ she replied, hovering by her chair while Oliver left the room. But Alex’s question had reminded Clare that Alex and Annie knew Emily, and Rod knew Emily—it wasn’t as if you could keep a nine-year-old a secret.

Clare dropped her briefcase, which gave her an excuse to sit down. Knowing she couldn’t just sit, she leant down to retrieve the leather case, fiddling with the catches on it while she tried valiantly to regain the poise on which she prided herself, the composure she’d fought so hard to achieve!

‘I only know of Angus from his colleagues, but Oliver worked with us earlier this year,’ Alex was saying. ‘He’s a fine surgeon, and if Angus is even half as good as people say he is, we’ve got a team that you’ll discover is every bit as good as the ones you’ve already worked with. At least, I hope you find it that way.’

Clare smiled at him. He was so nice! He and Annie, his wife, had invited her and Emily for dinner the previous Saturday, and seeing their relationship—the obvious love they felt for each other—had left Clare wondering why relationships worked for some people and not for others.

Her body tightened at the memory…

Ached…

* * *

Oliver eased his car out of the parking space, thankful he hadn’t been clamped. The signs to the blue exit were clear and easy to follow, but it took some manoeuvring to reach it. Clare came hurrying towards him, the movement blurring her image so he saw the beautiful girl who’d first caught his attention—the girl he’d thought was his for ever—running eagerly to meet him.

He couldn’t fool himself about ectopic heartbeats any longer; his body was reacting to this bizarre reunion, to her presence, although that could be explained away as well. It was a while since he’d had a relationship with a woman, put off women by the words of his most recent lover who’d informed him he was nothing but an empty shell of a man, with no understanding of love whatsoever.

The woman Clare, not the girl he’d known, climbed into the car and pointed ahead.

‘We go through the lights and straight down that road across from the park. I think most of the team seem to live along here, though maybe not the nurses, who’d be local Sydney people. It’s such a pleasant walk to work I haven’t considered buying a car yet.’

I, not we, Oliver thought, then he had to ask.

‘You’re on the team list as C. Jackson? You never married?’

He sensed her withdrawal and knew the glass wall was very definitely back in place.

‘Once, for a very brief time. It was a mistake,’ she said lightly, turning to look out the window at the houses they were passing. ‘We’re four more down, the house with the red door. There’s a common foyer on the ground floor, and stairs up to a landing. The two flats open off that. They’re fully furnished and very comfortable but I guess Alex already told you that.’

She might as well have said, Mind your own business, changing the subject from marriage to accommodation so swiftly, yet the thought of Clare with someone else had sent a shaft of pain through his belly.

Ridiculous, of course; he’d been with other women.

He pulled up outside the house she’d indicated, double-parking as all the marked spaces were already occupied.

‘There’s a garage around the back. Rod has a vehicle that’s been adapted for a wheelchair but there’d be room for another car. Drive on and I’ll show you how to get into the lane. Sorry, I didn’t think of it earlier.’

Clare knew she was babbling as he followed her directions, but sitting in the close confines of the car with Oliver was even worse than she’d imagined. Somehow she’d been transported back to when they’d met and she’d fallen so helplessly in love—to when any time with Oliver was special. Her stupid body was responding to his presence, her physical delight totally uncontrollable no matter how much she tried to overcome it with strong mental warnings.

Even the panic and worry she was feeling over Em did little to dampen her reactions.

‘Park here—I’ll get the gate. You can ease the car into the yard while I go in and check with Rod if it’s okay to use the garage.’

Finding the gate shut had been a relief. She all but leapt from the vehicle, opening the two sides of the gate, then hurrying to the rear door of Rod’s flat.

He was in the small conservatory at the back, his gnarled arthritic fingers pecking furiously at the keyboard of his laptop. She knocked on the glass.

‘I hope I haven’t ruined your train of thought,’ she apologised, ‘but Oliver, Dr Rankin, has arrived and has a car. Can he park it beside yours in the garage?’

Rod waved away her apology and wheeled towards her, coming out to meet his new tenant.

‘Can’t help you with your cases, mate,’ he said to Oliver a little later when the car was snug inside the garage and Oliver was heaving two cases from the trunk.

‘I can,’ Clare found herself offering, but Oliver, being Oliver, refused her offer, carrying them both himself.

‘Come through my place,’ Rod suggested, and led the way into his flat, always neat and tidy, the minimum of furniture allowing his chair to move freely through the apartment. He opened his front door, showed them into the foyer and handed Oliver a set of keys.

‘Clare will take you up,’ he said.

‘No papers to sign? No lease agreements?’ Oliver asked.

‘If you’re working for Alex, you’re okay,’ Rod replied. Then he smiled. ‘Actually all the financial details will be in a folder on your kitchen bench. Annie, my daughter, organises all of that for me. Her phone number is there as well as mine, so phone if you need anything or have any questions.’

He then looked from Oliver to Clare before he added, ‘Or ask Clare—she’s been here a week now, settling in, so she knows her way around.’

He turned from Oliver to Clare and added, ‘Have you heard from Emily this week? Does she still think the school’s the best in the world?’

Emily! Emily! Emily!

The name hammered in Clare’s head, but she had to reply.

‘She still loves it,’ she managed to say, although her vocal cords were so tight it was a wonder the words came out.

‘Emily?’ Oliver repeated as he followed her up the stairs.

Could she faint? Clare wondered. Faint and topple backwards down the stairs, possibly breaking her neck which right now, extreme though it might be, seemed preferable to answering Oliver’s question.

‘My daughter,’ she managed, forcing the words through even tighter vocal cords, so she sounded shrill, if not hysterical.

‘Fancy that! So you got the child you wanted,’ Oliver said as they reached the landing. The ice in his voice was visible in his eyes as he looked down at her and added, ‘Got the child and dumped the husband once his usefulness was over? Was that how it worked?’

Clare could only stare at him, her mind a chaotic battlefield, one voice yelling at her to tell him right now, another suggesting physical assault, while a third was advocating flight. She steeled herself against them all, looked him in the eyes and, hoping she sounded far more cool and in control than she felt, said, ‘You never used to be spiteful, Oliver.’

After which she turned away to unlock her door, and dive into the sanctuary of her flat. Oliver’s voice saying her name was the last thing she heard before she shut him out.

She leaned against the door, shaking with the hurt he’d inflicted, trying to breathe deeply, desperate to stem the waves of panic that washed through her mind and body.

Ten deep breaths, wasn’t that the rule—no, maybe that was counting to ten before you murdered someone. Well, there was an idea!

Three deep breaths…

Now think rationally!

Monday was as good as done, which meant she had four more days—four days to find a way to tell Oliver Emily was his daughter before Em came home and almost inevitably met him in person.

Clare’s mind went back into panic mode and breathing deeply didn’t seem to help.

Of course she had to tell him. Forget that his reaction just now had been so hateful. He had to know!

But the hub of it all was Emily. As far as Clare was concerned, Emily’s welfare, her happiness and emotional stability, had to be protected at all costs. Forget how Oliver might feel about Em’s mother, forget how Em’s parents might feel about each other—or whatever kinds of messes they’d made of their respective lives—at the heart of whatever lay ahead was Emily’s well-being.