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‘As you said yourself, you’re here to learn.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘I’m not going to abandon you, Annie,’ he said gently. ‘I’ll sit in—put in my pennyworth if you need it—but I think it would be a useful exercise, don’t you?’
She obviously didn’t, and he could see her point. Throwing her in at the deep end on her very first clinic was deeply unfair. It was also, as it turned out, a revelation.
The minute Carol Bannerman walked in, Annie became a different woman. Gone was the nervous, apologetic person he kept meeting, and in her place sat a calm, understanding professional. A professional who gently and simply outlined the two procedures, showing not a trace of impatience or irritation whenever Carol asked for clarification.
Which made her decision not to immediately apply for a junior doctor’s position after she’d finished med school all the more puzzling. She was bright, confident—just so long as he wasn’t around—so why had she put her career on hold for four years?
It was a mystery, and one he intended solving, but not right now. Not when it seemed that Carol had finally come to a decision.
‘I want to have the laparoscopic myomectomy,’ she declared. ‘I know Mr Caldwell said my fibroids might come back if I had that, but to have a hysterectomy…’ Tears filled Carol’s eyes and she blinked them away quickly. ‘I’m only thirty-six, Dr Hart, and my partner and I really want a baby.’
Annie glanced across at Gideon, but his face gave her no clue as to what he was thinking. Her brother always said that consultants who performed hysterectomies for fibroids were lazy surgeons, but if it was Gideon’s preferred choice…
Go for it, Annie, she told herself. He asked you to advise Carol Bannerman, and if he doesn’t like what you say, so be it.
‘I see no reason why anyone should have a perfectly healthy uterus removed just to get rid of some benign tumours,’ she said firmly.
‘Then you agree with me?’ Carol said uncertainly. ‘You think I should have a myomectomy?’
Deliberately Annie avoided Gideon’s gaze. ‘Yes, I do. There’s only one thing I should warn you about,’ she continued when Carol let out a sigh of relief. ‘If you do become pregnant after the myomectomy, you’ll almost certainly need a Caesarean section to deliver. The procedure tends to weaken the uterine wall, you see.’
‘A Caesarean sounds good to me,’ Carol observed with a shaky laugh. ‘Eliminate all that painful huff, puff and pant stuff, and just get the baby out.’
‘If it was as simple as that, every mum-to-be would opt for one.’ Annie smiled. ‘But a Caesarean’s not something to be undertaken lightly. It’s an operation—a big one—and most women take six to eight weeks to recover from it. Not a very attractive proposition if you’ve a young baby to look after.’
‘I’ll cross that bridge when—if—I ever get to it,’ Carol declared. ‘How long will I have to stay in hospital?’
‘I…um…’ Annie glanced across at Gideon in mute appeal and he leant forward in his seat.
‘A couple of days at most, and if everything goes to plan you should be back at work within a fortnight. It’s not a difficult procedure,’ he continued when Carol looked surprised.
But was it what he would have recommended? Annie wondered as he made a note in his appointment book. Surely it must be, or wouldn’t he have contradicted her advice?
But he didn’t say anything—not even after Carol had gone. To be fair, there wasn’t really the time—not with a waiting room full of anxious, nervous women—but she thought he might have said something. Even if it had only been, ‘Annie Hart, you’re an idiot.’
‘So what did you think of your first clinic?’ was all he said when the last of their patients had finally gone.
‘I enjoyed it,’ she replied. ‘Especially meeting your IVF patient—Mrs Norton. She was so thrilled to be pregnant.’
‘I’m surprised she wasn’t a little smug.’
‘Smug?’ she repeated in confusion.
‘I wanted her to stop when her third IVF treatment failed. It’s so emotionally devastating, you see, when the procedure doesn’t work, but Jennifer was determined to give it one last try, and as it turns out she was right and I was wrong.’
He’d given her the opening she needed, and she took it. ‘Carol Bannerman—the lady with fibroids. I was right, wasn’t I, to suggest she opt for a myomectomy?’
His eyebrows rose. ‘I think the more important question here is, do you think you were right?’
‘But—’
‘But me no buts, Annie. Do you think you advised the best possible course of treatment for her?’
Quickly she mentally reviewed Carol Bannerman’s case notes, then took a deep breath. ‘Yes. Yes, I do.’
For what seemed like an eternity he said nothing, then his lips curved. ‘So do I.’
‘Then why didn’t you say so?’ she protested, letting out the breath she hadn’t even known she’d been holding. ‘I’ve been sweating buckets all morning—’
‘I noticed.’
‘Why, you…you rat!’ The words were out before she could stop them, and she flushed scarlet. ‘I’m so sorry—’
‘Please—oh, please, don’t apologise,’ he exclaimed, his face creasing into a broad smile. ‘You’re absolutely right. It was a rotten thing to do, but I was curious to see how long it would take you to crack and say something to me other than “Sorry”.’
‘Your entire clinic apparently,’ she said ruefully, and his smile widened.
‘That’s better. That’s what I’ve been wanting to see—some lightness about you, some humour.’
She bit her lip. ‘I didn’t realise I was so grim.’
His brown eyes caught and held hers. ‘Not grim. Just tense, and nervous, and there’s no need for you to be. I’m not an ogre, you know.’
No, he wasn’t, she thought as she gazed up at him and felt her own lips curving in response to the smile on his. He was nice, and understanding, and…
This is a mistake, her mind warned. A big, big mistake. You’re starting to like him. Not as your boss, but as a man, and remember what happened the last time you liked your boss—the heartache it caused, the devastation when he walked away. Do you want that again?
‘Annie—’
‘Good grief, is it a quarter to two already?’ she exclaimed, catching sight of the clock on the wall behind him. ‘I have to go.’
‘But I was hoping we might have lunch together in the canteen,’ he protested. ‘I know you’re supposed to go off duty today at one o’clock, but you can’t call me a rat and then not give me the opportunity to prove to you that I’m actually a big soft teddy bear.’
Lunch with him in the canteen sounded appealing—far too appealing. Thank goodness she couldn’t. Thank goodness she really did have to go.
‘I’m sorry but I can’t,’ she said, quickly picking up her bag and heading for the door. ‘I have to go shopping.’
‘But, Annie—’
She’d gone, and he threw down his pen with frustration. What the hell had he said wrong now? For crying out loud, all he’d suggested was lunch in the canteen, and yet she’d shot out of his room as though he’d lit a fire under her. To go shopping.
He snorted derisively. He supposed it was marginally better than the old ‘I’m washing my hair’ routine, but why she’d needed to make up an excuse was beyond him. It wasn’t as though he’d asked her for a date, just to join him for lunch in the canteen so they could get to know one another better. And he’d thought they were beginning to do just that when—
‘Gideon, have you got any more of those cervical smear leaflets we give out to patients?’ Helen asked, popping her head round his consulting-room door. ‘There’s none left in the waiting room.’
‘If there’s none left in the waiting room, get onto Admin,’ he snapped. ‘I’m not the local stationery office.’
‘Right.’ She nodded. ‘Sorry.’
‘Hell’s bells, not you, too,’ he groaned, then shook his head when his SHO’s eyebrows rose. ‘Sorry, Helen, but right now I’ve had my fill of people apologising to me.’
‘Rough clinic?’ she said sympathetically.
‘Not the clinic. It’s…’ He struggled to find the right words, and gave up. ‘Helen, do I seem like an ogre to you?’
‘An ogre?’ She stared at him in surprise. ‘Of course you’re not an ogre. Who said—?’
‘Nobody,’ he interrupted hurriedly. Lord, but he wished he’d never started this conversation. Especially not with Helen. ‘It isn’t important. Forget it.’
‘Not on your life!’ she exclaimed, her brown eyes sparkling. ‘Come on—give. Who is she?’
‘She?’ he repeated faintly.
‘Gideon, I’ve known you for almost seven years, and you’ve never terrified a patient in your life, so it’s got to be a girl. Someone you desperately want to make a good impression on, or you wouldn’t care two hoots whether she was terrified of you or not.’
He stared at her, open-mouthed, then shook his head. ‘The processes of the female mind are wondrous to behold.’
‘I’m right, though, aren’t I?’ Helen declared. ‘Who is it? I hope it’s not that busty new nurse in Paediatrics. She’s not your type at all, and that frosty-faced receptionist in radiology would be a disaster.’
‘Helen—’
‘Which only leaves either the new nurse in A and E, or Annie Hart.’
To his dismay, hot colour began to creep across his cheeks. ‘Helen—’
‘It’s Annie, isn’t it?’ she whooped with delight. ‘Oh, Gideon, I’m so pleased. I know how much you loved Susan, but Annie’s a sweet girl, and—’
‘Helen, read my lips,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘I am not—repeat not—interested in Dr Hart other than in a purely professional capacity.’
‘You’ve had a row, right?’ she commiserated. ‘Look, it’ll blow over. All you have to do is be your own sweet self, and she’ll come round.’
And I’m surrounded by lunatics, Gideon thought dazedly as Helen’s bleeper sounded and she hurried off to answer it. All I asked was whether I was an ogre and immediately my SHO’s hearing wedding bells. With Annie Hart, of all people. OK, so she’s a very pretty girl, and she clearly needs somebody to take care of her, but it isn’t going to be me. No way. Not ever.
But it felt good when you were holding her, didn’t it? his mind whispered. Every time she’s tumbled into your arms it’s felt right, almost as though she somehow—oddly—belonged there. And what about the feel of her slender waist beneath your fingers, the soft curve of her breasts—so high and surprisingly full—and—
He swore under his breath as his body suddenly reacted with unbridled enthusiasm to the picture his mind had just created. How long had it been since he’d been out with a woman—two, maybe three years? It had obviously been far too long, but he’d been so busy since Susan had died with all the interminable meetings that were part and parcel of his job. The clinics, the operations, the ward rounds…
Excuses, Gideon, his mind whispered as he strode out of his room, and not very good ones at that. You haven’t dated anyone since Susan died because you’re scared to get close to anyone again in case you lose them, too. It’s fear that’s kept you celibate, not work.
‘Oh, shut up,’ he muttered just as Tom Brooke came out of his room. ‘No, not you, Tom,’ he continued when the specialist registrar looked startled. ‘I’m just having a bad day, that’s all.’
‘Join the club,’ Tom sighed. ‘Are you coming down to the canteen for lunch?’
Gideon shook his head. ‘I think I might just do a quick ward round, then get off home.’
‘Good idea.’ Tom nodded. ‘You look as though you could do with some rest.’
He sure as heck needed something, Gideon decided after he’d toured the ward then made his way down to the car park. And it wasn’t Helen sticking her oar in. OK, so his long-dormant hormones seemed to have unexpectedly kicked into life, but that didn’t mean he had to act on them. It didn’t mean he was interested—in the sense of being interested—in Annie Hart.
He had a lot more important things to think about anyway, he told himself as he drove down Rottenrow, then along Richmond Road and into Duke Street. Like getting home, for a start. He should have left the hospital earlier, of course. The traffic was always murder on a Friday afternoon, and today it was even slower because of the icy roads and driving sleet.
At least he was warm and cosy in his car, he thought as he drummed his fingers absently on the steering-wheel, waiting for the van ahead of him to move. Not like the poor people out on the street. People like…
Annie. He’d have recognised her anywhere, and she hadn’t been lying about the shopping. She was lugging four obviously very heavy carrier bags up the road, and she looked wet, and cold, and miserable.
Without a second’s thought he cut in towards the pavement, ignoring the cacophony of car horns that greeted his manoeuvre, and parked beside her.
‘M-Mr Caldwell,’ she stammered as he got out of his car. ‘Is there something wrong—at the hospital—?’
‘The name’s Gideon, and nothing’s wrong at the hospital, but you look in serious need of a lift home.’
She shook her head. ‘It’s kind of you to offer, but I just live round the corner in Thornton Street.’
Which was a good half a mile away if he remembered rightly, and all of it uphill. He opened his passenger door. ‘Get in, Annie.’
‘No, honestly, there’s no need—’
‘Annie, I’m illegally parked on double yellow lines, so unless you want me to get a ticket from that traffic warden who’s bearing down on us, please, get in the car.’
She did so with obvious reluctance, and when they arrived in Thornton Street she even more reluctantly allowed him to carry her groceries up to her top-floor flat.
He wasn’t surprised. Given how edgy she always was in his company, he’d have been amazed if she’d welcomed his offer of help, but what did surprise him—horrified him, if he was honest—was her flat.
‘It has a lovely view of the cathedral,’ she said defensively, clearly sensing his dismay as he carried her groceries through to the tiny kitchen. ‘And it’s near to the hospital.’
Yes, but it’s the most depressing place I’ve ever seen, he wanted to reply. OK, so it was clean and tidy, and the few pieces of furniture gleamed with much polishing, but its dark green wallpaper would have given him nightmares, and as for the chipped and peeling paintwork…
‘How long have you lived here?’ he asked.
‘Two months.’
Two minutes would have been more than enough for him. ‘Annie—’
‘Would you like a cup of coffee before you go?’
Subtle she wasn’t, but he had no intention of leaving. Not yet, at any rate. Junior doctor’s salaries weren’t exactly lavish, but surely a single woman could have afforded something better than this?
‘I’ll help you unpack first,’ he said firmly. ‘And, yes, I know you don’t need any help,’ he continued when she opened her mouth, patently intending to protest, ‘but just humour me, please, hmm?’
Gideon didn’t wait for her reply. Instead, he determinedly began emptying her grocery bags, but the more packets and tins he placed on the kitchen table, the more confused he became. Spaghetti hoops, Twinkie bars, lollipops. What kind of weird diet was she on?
‘Far be it for me to criticise,’ he observed, reaching down into one of the bags to retrieve what looked like Beanie biscuits, ‘but if this is a sample of your eating habits, I think you badly need some nutritional advice.’
She opened her mouth, closed it again, then seemed to come to a decision. ‘They’re not for me. They’re…they’re for my son.’
