Marion Lennox - Midwives On Call - Stealing The Surgeon's Heart

‘I’m not pregnant.’

‘Do you have your period?’

‘No,’ Harriet croaked.

‘So when is it due?’

‘Soon.’ Blushing to the roots of her hair, she tried to focus on dates to respond to this necessary but excruciatingly embarrassing question in as matter-of-fact a way as she could muster. ‘Actually, it was due a couple of days ago but—’

‘Hmm.’

‘I’m not pregnant.’ Meeting his doubtful eyes, Harriet shook her head firmly on the pillow. ‘I’m definitely not pregnant.’

‘You are on the Pill?’

Harriet gave a small nod, hoping that would be enough to mollify him but knowing that it was futile.

‘The Pill isn’t always a hundred per cent effective.’

‘I’m just not pregnant, OK?’ Wrenching the beastly gown down over her stomach, she prayed for her blush to fade, prayed for this interrogation to end. ‘So I haven’t got an ectopic pregnancy and neither do I have appendicitis. I just want to go home to my own bed—’

‘Harriet, I know that this is embarrassing for you.’ Perching himself on the trolley, he took her hand, the touch so unexpected, so surprisingly tender she felt tears prick her eyes, his glimpse of kindness providing no balm, more a sharp sting to her bruised emotions. ‘It is always awkward when staff are ill, but the fact is you have not looked well since you first came on duty and you are getting progressively worse. It clearly needs to be dealt with. Now, as uncomfortable as these questions are, they have to be asked. In a young woman, with abdominal tenderness, vomiting and a late period, it would be criminally negligent of me not to consider that it could be a ruptured ectopic pregnancy. So can you tell me why I should rule out that diagnosis? Are you unable to conceive, is there anything in your medical history…?’

And she didn’t want to voice it, didn’t want to admit it even to herself let alone anyone else, but knowing the truth was needed, drawing strength from the kind eyes that stared in concern, the warmth from the hand holding hers, Harriet let go of the horrible truth she had held in so tightly for so long now, admitted, perhaps for the first time, the hopelessness of her own situation.

‘I’m using the only completely reliable form of contraception.’ Swallowing hard, she forced herself to say it, to just get this the hell over with. ‘Abstinence! I can’t be pregnant because I’m not sleeping with my husband.’ She saw the flicker of confusion in his eyes, second-guessed what was coming next. ‘We haven’t slept together for months now, not since Drew got this job and we moved to Sydney. So, you see, I couldn’t possibly be…’ Tears that had been held back for so long were now finally trying to come forth and holding them in hurt her ribs almost as much as the pain in her stomach did.

‘You are allowed to cry, Harriet.’

‘No, Ciro, I’m not.’

‘You don’t have to hold it all in,’ Ciro insisted.

But she did.

Had for so long now it came as second nature.

‘When David decided his name should be changed to Drew I had to grin and bear it,’ Harriet snarled. ‘And when Drew needs a pair of designer jeans for an audition I just work an extra shift, when he misses out on a part that should have been his I’m the one who has to deliver a pep talk…’ The floodgates were opening now, years of suppressed anger bubbling to the fore, and she didn’t care. For the first time in her entire adult life, Harriet couldn’t give a damn about someone else’s feelings. She blurted out her anger and frustration because it helped and, she decided, choking through her vented fury, he didn’t have a clue what she was going on about. Her rapid spate of furious words was way too fast for him to understand.

All he had to do was hold her hand—which he was.

Nod at her very occasional pauses—which he did.

And give an occasional sympathetic murmur when her voice shrilled—rather regularly.

And through it all he didn’t say a word, didn’t attempt to say he understood as Harriet ranted on. ‘Since he got this bloody job, I’m not good enough,’ Harriet raged. ‘Not thin enough, or demure enough, not quite the happening young metrosexual’s partner.’ She registered his frown.

‘He is gay?’ Ciro finally spoke.

‘No.’ Somehow Harriet managed a strangled gurgle of laughter. ‘Metrosexual, it’s the buzz word for today’s kind of man. A man who doesn’t mind admitting he takes care of himself.’

His frown only deepened.

‘He has facials, dresses well, has his hair coloured, his eyebrows…’ Her voice petered out.

‘And he doesn’t sleep with you?’ There was just a hint of innuendo to his voice that really wasn’t helping matters.

‘He’s under a lot of pressure at the moment,’ Harriet offered in her husband’s defence. ‘He has to get up at the crack of dawn for early shoots, it’s the only time the beach is empty.’

Which mollified him not! Clearly the Spanish didn’t need a full eight hours in the cot for a performance! Clearly the Spanish didn’t give a hoot about eyebrows and waxing and face creams. And it would have been so much easier if Ciro was ugly. If his eyebrows joined or he smelt of garlic, if she could just somehow eke out a hint of justification as to why Drew needed to spend so much energy and money to be a man, when this very unpampered male sat opposite her.

‘I’m sorry!’ She gave a rather ungracious sniff. ‘If it was embarrassing before, it positively—’

‘It’s fine.’ He smiled. ‘You’re not the first patient I’ve had tell me her marriage is in trouble.’

‘I wouldn’t exactly say that it’s in trouble…’ Harriet started, but her voice trailed off as she conceded the point. ‘OK, it’s in big trouble.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Ciro responded politely. ‘But at least it means that we can rule out an ectopic! Now…’ Sensing her need to change the subject, he stood up and adopted a rather more professional distance. ‘Which means we have to consider that you could have appendicitis.’

‘No.’

‘Are you going to tell me that your appendix and you haven’t been getting on for a while, that it’s been treating itself to massages while you weren’t looking? That it’s been so neglected there isn’t any chance it could be inflamed?’

A tiny smile wobbled on her pale lips.

‘I’ll need to examine you properly, Harriet, there’s absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about.’

There was everything to be embarrassed about. He could be as matter-of-fact as he liked, pull on a pair of gloves as casually as if he were about to do the dishes, but there was no way, no way, she was going to let Ciro Delgato examine her there. She’d never in a million years be able to work with him if she allowed him to. Quite simply, she’d have to resign.

‘I’ll go to my own GP tomorrow,’ Harriet begged, desperate suddenly for the lyrical sound of her lovely GP’s voice as she chatted about her children and grandchildren, a GP who somehow made even the most uncomfortable procedures as routine as a gossip at the supermarket checkout—not like this Spanish dynamo that she’d have to work with again.

‘What is it about me that all my patients wish to suddenly leave and see their own GPs in the morning?’

‘It isn’t you,’ Harriet lied. ‘It’s just…’ She struggled for an explanation. ‘I want to go home, Ciro, to my own bed. If this had happened at home I wouldn’t have even come into hospital.’

‘What if I call down one of the surgeons to examine you, see if there’s a female doctor on?’

‘I just want to go home. Drew will be there. If I get worse, he’ll bring me straight back.’

‘I thought you said—’