Maggie Kingsley - The Surgeon's Marriage

Now’s the time, now’s the moment, but what could he say? How could he convince her that he loved her, when he was never going to be able to make the kind of flattering speeches that tripped so easily off Mark’s tongue?

Show her, his heart suggested. Show her you care, that the love is still there.

“Helen…” He cleared his throat and started again. “Will you come to bed with me?”

Was it his imagination or had her grip on the magazine tightened?

“Helen, please.” Heavens, he was begging. “Helen, it’s been so long since we made love, and…and I need you.” Slowly she lowered the magazine, and to his utter horror he could see tears sparkling in her eyes. Oh, hell, could he never get it right? “Helen, I’m sorry. Oh, love, don’t—please don’t cry.”

Desperately he reached for her, and she met him halfway, clinging to him with almost frantic need.

“Kiss me, Tom,” she muttered into his chest. “Don’t talk—don’t say anything. Just…kiss me.”

Dear Reader,

When I finished the first book in the Baby Doctors trilogy, I started thinking about Tom and Helen. They seemed to have the perfect marriage in Doctor and Son, but what if Helen doesn’t think they have? What if she feels Tom is taking her for granted as so many husbands can unthinkingly do, and that after ten years of marriage the zing isn’t there anymore? And to really make her life complicated, what if I arranged for a gorgeous specialist registrar to arrive at the Belfield Infirmary who makes it pretty obvious that he thinks Helen is wonderful?

Would she have an affair? Would she leave her husband? She has to make a choice, but does she make the right one?

If you’re as hooked on the Belfield Infirmary as I am, look out for the last book in the Baby Doctors trilogy.

Regards,

Maggie Kingsley

The Surgeon’s Marriage

Maggie Kingsley

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

HELEN stared at the damp towel hanging over the banister. It was strange how something so ordinary, so innocuous, could set your teeth on edge. Especially when it was nothing new. In fact, every morning for the past ten years Tom had come out of the shower and thrown his towel over that self-same banister.

Then why don’t you simply tell him to stop doing it? her mind asked as she lifted the towel and carried it down the stairs to the kitchen. Tell him it’s driving you crazy.

‘Because if I do,’ she told the potted plant on the window-sill, ‘Tom will say, “If it bothers you that much, why didn’t you mention it before?”’

And she’d be forced to admit that it hadn’t bothered her before, but now it did, and Tom would either frown uncomprehendingly or smile in that horribly knowing fashion which meant, Oops, it must be Helen’s time of the month again so I’d better tread carefully.

Tears filled her eyes, and she angrily blinked them away. It wasn’t her time of the month. She wished it was. At least then she’d have some excuse for the odd feelings of dissatisfaction and irritation which had been plaguing her recently. And she had nothing to be dissatisfied about. She had a good marriage, two healthy, beautiful children, a job she loved—

‘Mum, I can’t find my white T-shirt, and I need it for gymnastics.’

She glanced round to see her daughter standing in the kitchen doorway. ‘If you need it for gymnastics you should have told me yesterday.’

‘But I always have gymnastics on Mondays—you know I do. Tuesday’s art, Wednesday’s—’

‘Your green one’s washed and ironed.’

‘But everyone else will be wearing white. I’ll be the odd one out—’

‘Mum, have you seen my trainers?’

‘I’m talking to Mum,’ Emma protested.

‘Big deal,’ her brother exclaimed. ‘Mum, my trainers…’

‘They’re in your wardrobe, John. Which is where you should have put them when you got home from school on Friday, instead of just dumping them down in the hall,’ Helen called after her son as he dashed away.

‘Mum, about my white T-shirt. Couldn’t you—?’

‘Helen, it’s half past eight. Are you ready to go?’

‘Does it look like I am?’ she protested, seeing her husband’s head come round the kitchen door. ‘Emma, I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to wear your green T-shirt, and that’s final.’

Emma wandered unhappily away, and Tom’s eyebrows rose. ‘Problems?’

‘Just the usual Monday morning mayhem,’ Helen said irritably, taking a scrunchy out of her pocket and twisting her shoulder-length blonde hair back into a ponytail. ‘Honestly, there are times when I wonder why we ever had children.’

‘Because of one split condom nine years ago?’ Tom grinned, and a reluctant smile curved her own lips.

That faulty condom had a lot to answer for. For a start it had put paid to their plans when they’d got married not to have children until they were both Obs and Gynae specialist registrars. Tom had made the grade, but it had never been an option for her, not after the twins had been born.

She’d never regretted it. OK, so perhaps occasionally she thought it would have been nice if both she and Tom could have fulfilled their dreams, but the children were a joy and a delight when they weren’t driving her mad, and being an Obs and Gynae SHO was responsibility enough when you had a pair of lively eight-year-olds to look after.

‘That’s the school bus,’ Tom declared as a horn sounded outside. He glanced down at his watch and frowned. ‘Helen, I hate to hurry you, but we really do have to go. I’ll start the car, shall I?’

The smile on her lips died. He couldn’t perhaps have offered to wash the breakfast dishes first, or tidy up the sitting room? No, of course he couldn’t. The dishes would still be waiting for her when she got home tonight, and the sitting room would still look as though a bomb had hit it.

Oh, stop it, Helen, she told herself as she shepherded Emma and John out to the school bus, trying hard to ignore Emma’s reproachful expression which said all too clearly, Everyone else’s mum would have remembered my T-shirt. Tom’s a good husband, a loving husband, and you know he would have washed the dishes in a minute if you’d asked him. Yes, but I shouldn’t need to ask him, she argued back. He should have known.

‘Everything OK, love?’ Tom asked, shooting her a puzzled frown as she got into the car beside him, then fastened her seat belt.

‘Fine,’ she managed to reply, but everything wasn’t fine. Not by a long shot.

Tom would probably have said she was simply suffering from a bad case of overwork, and maybe she was. This last month at the Belfield Infirmary had certainly been a nightmare, what with Rachel Dunwoody suddenly taking compassionate leave because of the death of her aunt, then Annie Hart and Gideon Caldwell getting married.