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Campbell’s persistent gaze was unsettling. She didn’t have to look at him to know he was staring. She could feel it. The intensity of his scrutiny was almost a physical caress. She doubted he’d heard any of the discussion. He certainly hadn’t contributed.
All Claire could do was continue to pretend he didn’t exist. She deliberately kept her eyes averted, staring directly at Martin with what she hoped was rapt attention. She shook her head slightly and the heavy curtain of her dark bob swished forward, obscuring some of her face. It was a move designed to hobble his interest. She had to put him off. She just had to.
Despite this, there seemed to be an energy channelling between them that was hard to ignore. Claire could stand his attention no longer. It was doing strange things to her body. She felt like she’d been for a light run, instead of sitting idly. It was totally ridiculous—she’d just met the man!
‘Excuse me, Dr Shaw.’ She interrupted him in mid-flow.
‘Yes, Sister?’ He peered over his glasses at her, obviously startled by her intrusion.
‘I’m sorry to interrupt.’ Claire knew he was unused to interruption. ‘I really can’t stay for much longer. Do you think we could discuss the birth centre now?’
She was pushing her luck but Claire didn’t really care at this precise moment. She had to get out of this room as soon as possible. Before she did something absurd, like stare right back at Campbell Deane.
‘Yes, all right, Sister. You have the floor.’
Claire was relieved to stand and stretch her legs. She took a moment to collect herself. A lot was riding on how she presented her case. It was imperative she hold onto her temper.
‘Gentlemen, I think we all know why I’m here. I know that opening up a birth centre here at St Jude’s hasn’t been popular among the obstetric staff. But the hospital board has approved—’
‘That’s only because it was raised at a board meeting with no obstetric representative, Sister West … by you, I understand.’
Claire stalled at the polite accusation. She couldn’t deny it. She had deliberately waited for the most opportune moment to present the proposal to the board. Claire had known they’d run with it once the idea had been raised, especially as it was extremely cost-effective for the hospital. Money talked.
‘Nevertheless …’ she smiled nervously, very aware of Campbell Deane’s quiet stare at the periphery of her vision ‘… this project has taken a lot of work and the centre is virtually ready to open. We’ve accomplished a lot at a negligible cost to St Jude’s. All we need now is for one of you—or more,’ she joked, yeah right, ‘to agree to provide a referral service for our clients. As part of the protocol we’ve developed, we need an obstetrician to see our ladies first, assess their level of risk and then refer them to us if they fit our criteria.’
‘Sister West, I believe you know how we feel about this issue.’
‘Yes, Dr Shaw, but the board feels otherwise.’
‘What the board says means nothing if you can’t get an obstetrician on your team,’ he pointed out, and Claire felt her anger boil at his smugness.
‘You forget, Dr Shaw, the reason we’re offering this service is consumer pressure. The women of Brisbane want a birth centre.’
‘What? So they can give birth hanging from the rafters?’
Claire ignored his sarcasm. The obstetric staff had been sent copies of the birth centre philosophy, including alternative birthing positions. His exaggeration was typical.
‘Shouldn’t women be allowed to give birth hanging from the rafters, if that’s how they feel most comfortable?’ she asked with saccharine sweetness.
‘And if something goes wrong?’
‘That’s the beauty of the centre,’ she said, clinging to the slender thread of her patience. ‘For the very small percentage of women who need it, medical attention is only seconds away. It’s the best of both worlds—a home birth in a major hospital. That’s all we want. It’s not some conspiracy to make an obstetrician get down on his hands and knees to deliver a baby.’
‘A most unsuitable position,’ tutted one of the other doctors.
‘There are other positions much more amenable to giving birth besides the stranded beetle,’ Claire snapped. She’d seen too many women forced to give birth lying on their backs. She could feel her patience wearing thinner.
‘It’s the easiest,’ he replied angrily.
‘No, it’s the most convenient for doctors.’ Claire took some deep breaths, trying to rein in her anger. ‘Look, gentlemen, some women want natural births with no drugs and no or minimum medical intervention—’
‘You have something against medical intervention?’
Campbell Deane’s rich voice broke into the debate. She spun and looked at him, surprised that he’d decided to add his two cents’ worth. Oh, hell, she thought. He’s one of them.
‘No. Not if it’s necessary.’ Her voice sounded weak and flustered, even to her own ears. She cleared her throat, determined to inject the passion this subject always engendered in her. ‘I do, however, oppose the medicalisation of what is, after all, a very natural process. Women have been giving birth since time began without the complex equipment and procedures we can’t seem to do without today.’
‘Women used to die, too.’
‘Yes, some women did,’ Claire agreed. ‘That’s why we have obstetricians.’
‘I believe St Jude’s has a natural birth rate of seventy-five per cent. That’s very good, Claire.’
About to launch into another diatribe on her pet subject, she halted abruptly at the use of her name. Not just that he’d used it but the way he’d said it. It slipped slowly down her back, as if he’d stroked his finger down her spine. She felt her skin feather with goose bumps.
‘Ah … yes,’ she floundered, trying to collect her thoughts. He smiled at her, an encouraging smile, and she tried not to stare at his mouth as she picked up her train of thought. ‘But that still leaves twenty-five per cent of women who are having some form of medical intervention, and half of them are Caesareans.’
‘You don’t believe in C-sections?’ he queried.
‘Not unless they’re necessary medically.’ Claire wanted to scream. Why was it so hard to get through to these people? Campbell Deane might be younger than his colleagues but he seemed to be tarred with the same brush. ‘In this day and age women can and should have a choice over how they deliver their babies. They want an elective Caesarean? Fine. An epidural? Fine. Truckloads of drugs? Fine. I just don’t think women are given an informed choice. For example, how many of the twelve per cent would have progressed to a C-section if they hadn’t had a whole gamut of medical intervention first? We all know it tends to have a spiralling effect. And C-sections done for obstetric convenience only are deplorable.’
‘Convenience? Such as?’ asked Martin testily.
‘Golf games,’ she snapped.
To Claire’s absolute surprise Campbell threw back his head and laughed. His glorious hair flopped back, the golden highlights catching the afternoon sun streaming through the window behind him.
‘I hardly think that’s fair comment,’ Martin blustered.
Claire knew Martin played off a three handicap. You needed to spend a lot of time on the greens to be that good.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Claire, annoyed at having let her temper sidetrack her from the issue. ‘That was uncalled for.’
‘I should think so,’ Martin muttered.
‘You’re missing the point,’ Claire said, with barely concealed impatience. ‘It’s all set and ready to go. Whether you agree with it or not, it’s a done deal. The birth centre is here to stay. What the board wants, the board gets.’
‘I’m sorry, Sister West.’ Martin shook his head. ‘We’ve discussed this in great detail. Now, I can’t speak for Dr Deane, but I know the rest of us agree that we’re not comfortable with such a role. It’s a big responsibility. Our medical insurance skyrockets every year as it is.’
Claire looked around the table as all of them, with the exception of Campbell, nodded in agreement.
He remained silent. His stare seemed to be weighing her up. She had known that this meeting wasn’t going to be easy, but she’d also been sure she’d be able to sway at least one of St Jude’s six obstetricians. It was a board initiative. It had been funded and set up—they couldn’t refuse. But they had.
Claire felt the heat of her anger flare and rage inside her. ‘Well, thank you, gentlemen,’ she said with icy sarcasm, gathering her papers, ‘for nothing. I don’t have time to stand here and beat my head against a brick wall. I guess we all know where we stand.’
Quelling the urge to glance Campbell Deane’s way one last time, Claire turned on her heel and marched out of the room. She knew it was childish but she slammed the door after her for good measure.
* * *
‘Wow.’ Campbell expelled a long whistle, stopping about the same time as the windows stopped rattling. She had been magnificent. Obviously passionate about her cause and ready to do what it took, take on whoever it took to see her plans come to fruition.
Not that he’d actually heard a lot of what she’d been saying. It had been difficult to concentrate when so much of the blood that usually dwelt in his brain had found its way to another part of his anatomy. He hadn’t had such an instantaneous response since that time when his eighth-grade maths teacher had bent over to help him and he’d had a glimpse of her lacy bra.
If anything, this time was worse. She hadn’t had to flash any underwear, just one impassioned diatribe, and he was almost dizzy from the lack of oxygenated blood to his brain. He noted the other men’s laughter and was secretly amused by their relieved expressions. Sister Claire West has left the building!
‘She married?’ he asked. They laughed again, louder this time. Yep—definitely more relaxed now.
‘I don’t think you’re her type.’
‘Too old? Too young? Too obstetrician-like?’
‘Too male,’ said Martin, and the group laughed again.
The answer confused him momentarily. Campbell felt his hackles rise as realisation dawned.
‘It seems she likes to wear comfortable shoes,’ someone else said with a snigger, amused at his little joke.
‘Oh, I get it.’ Campbell’s icy voice cut through their little-boy laughter. ‘Because she doesn’t fall at our feet and fawn all over us, she’s a lesbian?’
‘So the rumour goes,’ agreed another, and grinned conspiratorially.
Campbell thought of his sister Wendy and how rumour and innuendo had dogged her because of her sexual preference. Such archaic attitudes made him angry. It flared in his eyes as the other men laughed, oblivious.
‘Knocked back every available doctor in the hospital. A couple of not so available ones, too.’ Martin laughed. ‘She was involved with a guy years ago but I know for a fact that she lives with a woman now—Mary. I think that’s her name anyway. Shame really. Beautiful girl. Damn good midwife, too. Just doesn’t know her place.’
‘Well, now, that won’t do, will it?’ Campbell’s voice was caustic.
‘I say, old chap,’ blustered Martin, the mirth slipping from his face. ‘Just a bit of harmless fun.’
‘Excuse me, gentlemen,’ Campbell said politely. He pushed back his chair and grasped it firmly in case the growing urge to wipe the superior looks off their faces suddenly overwhelmed him. ‘I have other business.’
* * *
Claire steamed into the deserted staff dining room and made herself a cup of coffee. It was too early for afternoon tea so she had the large room to herself. Good. At least she’d be able to hear as she silently berated herself. In half an hour the noise level in the room wouldn’t allow for mental self-flagellation.
She flicked impatiently through her notes as she sipped the hot drink. Neat, concise, calm, reasoned. Absolutely nothing like her performance in the boardroom. She shut the folder in disgust. Try insulting and inciting. She’d blown it! Her agenda had been to flatter a few egos and gently persuade. Instead, she’d gone in with a caustic tongue and a sledgehammer.
Where they would go from here, she really had no idea. It would have to go back to the board and they would have to apply pressure. Claire had no doubt that eventually the obstetricians would have to back down. The board could be an immovable force when it wanted something badly enough. Fortunately, it believed in the birth centre.
But it all meant more time. As if the process hadn’t been slow enough already. This latest development delayed things further. Damn them, Claire thought as she stared into the murky depths of her coffee. Her eyes were a matching colour as she worried her bottom lip.
Unbidden, Campbell Deane’s face entered her mind—again. His red-blonde hair, his green eyes, the intensity of his stare. The way he said her name.
‘Claire.’
His voice startled her, causing the remainder of her coffee to swish perilously close to spilling into her lap.
‘May I sit down?’ He gestured to the seat opposite.
Still smarting from what had happened in the boardroom and irked by the way her hands were trembling, Claire wasn’t feeling very charitable.
‘Something wrong with all the other tables in this joint?’
Despite her deliberate rudeness, he threw back his head and laughed, and Claire was reminded how he had laughed at her golf faux pas. She felt her scalp tingle.
‘You’re not sitting at them.’ His laughter sobered to serious contemplation.
Claire felt her breath stop in her throat as their eyes locked and held. Cinnamon brown drowning in sea green. She pulled her gaze away with difficulty.
‘It’s a free country.’ Claire shrugged her slim shoulders. She had to be nonchalant, cool. She couldn’t let him see that somehow he’d created a chink in her defences. He mustn’t find out.
‘I’ll do it,’ he stated, pulling out the chair and sitting down.
‘What?’ She eyed him dubiously.
‘I’ll be the admitting obstetrician.’
Claire’s first reaction was to reach over and kiss him. But her ever-present sensible side cautioned her against wild impulses.
‘Why?’ she asked, trying to keep her bewilderment at this sudden turn of events in check.
‘Because the birth centre philosophy is everything I believe in. I’d love to be part of it.’
‘Didn’t sound that way in the boardroom.’
‘I was playing Devil’s advocate.’ He shrugged. ‘I wanted to test your conviction. See how passionate you were about your cause. Very, as it turns out.’
Claire blushed. She’d certainly left nobody in that boardroom in any doubt about how passionate she was about the centre. She regarded him seriously. Dared she hope? Could Campbell Deane be trusted?
‘You won’t be popular,’ she stated.
‘I’ve never really cared for what other people think.’
He shot her such a dazzling smile Claire wanted to reach for her sunglasses. He was flirting, she realised with dismay. Claire had been flirted with enough to recognise the signs. Oh, dear. This wouldn’t do at all.
‘You’re not doing this to … be popular with me?’ she asked.
‘Would it work?’ His green eyes sparkled with humour.
‘Definitely not. I don’t date.’
‘Oh? And why is that?’
‘Didn’t they tell you about me? About my sexual preference?’ Claire watched as Campbell valiantly tried to swallow his mouthful of coffee instead of spluttering it all over her crisp white uniform. ‘I’m not stupid, Campbell. I know what people say about me.’
‘I guess I didn’t expect you to be so open about it,’ he mused, facial contortions now under control. ‘So, is it true?’
‘What do you think?’
