Fiona McArthur - Survival Guide to Dating Your Boss

Not sensible. He knelt down and looked quickly at her toe again as she prepared to replace the ice. The bruising was mainly below the start of the nail and he ran his finger along her slender, cute phalanges. He cleared his throat. ‘I don’t think anything’s broken. Just bruised.’

She nodded then looked away from him and he suddenly realised he was still holding her foot. He almost dropped it in his haste to stand up. ‘Well, if nothing else is hurt, I’ll be on my way.’ He unobtrusively wiped his hand on his trousers to rid himself of that warm and tingly feeling.

Big, solemn eyes looked up at him. ‘Thanks for checking on me.’

The sooner he got out of here the better. ‘My aunt would kill me if I didn’t.’

She nodded. ‘Of course. Thanks anyway.’

Marcus left. Quickly.

Tilly watched him go, her toe a dull throbbing ache that was being replaced by a dull throbbing ache from the cold peas, but the rest of her was still dazed from being picked up and carried as if she were a baby.

Scoop and go with no effort at all from him. It had been a very strange feeling to be held against that solid, manly chest and one she would have liked to have savoured for maybe a little while longer just for interest’s sake.

Only to see why women liked it, of course. She al most got the reason. She could still smell the faint scent of virile man. Maybe guys did have some short-term advantages.

She glanced around at the flat-headed copper nails that had spilled out of the box and the hammer lying beside them. No more repairs this morning. Her toe was feeling better already and she’d be sensible to keep it up before work that afternoon.

She needed to remind herself that this guy qualified as an ‘older man’ and he pressed too many of her attraction buttons to be anywhere near safe as a platonic friend.

TILLY‘s toe wasn’t too bad by afternoon, probably that quick packet of peas, because she squeezed into her shoe with only a little tenderness before she caught the bus up the hill to work, rather than walk.

Tilly, along with the rest of the afternoon staff, had just finished their walk around the ward to meet the patients and for clinical handover when the phone rang.

Gina picked it up, listened, and then waved. ‘There’s a patient with foetal distress, first baby, coming in by ambulance.’ Gina assessed the staff on duty. ‘Home birth. Probable emergency Caesarean. You take her, Tilly.’

‘Yep. Thanks.’ Tilly felt the clutch of sympathy in her stomach and glanced at her watch. ‘How far away?’

Gina looked at the wall clock. ‘Ten minutes. Josie Meldon’s the mum, from Randwick, and the midwife is Scottish Mary.’

Tilly was already moving. ‘Who’s the doctor on call?’

‘The new consultant.’

So she’d get to meet the man. ‘I’ll page him and get the papers ready for Theatre.’ More than anyone, Tilly understood the efficiency and reliability of home-birth midwives. And Mary was one of the best.

Tilly’s mother and grandmother had both been heavily involved in the home-birth movement all their lives and Tilly had been born at home, naturally, as well as growing up holding placards at dozens of home-birth rallies.

She’d known Mary for years and if Mary said Caesarean, which she hated with a passion, that was what was needed.

She dialled the pager number for the new consultant then scooped a pile of preprepared theatre papers from the drawer on her way to the filing cabinet.

The cabinet held all the bookings of pregnant women in their catchment. Eastern Beaches Maternity Wing, or EB as it was known, had great rapport with the local independent midwives and in the last six months since Tilly had graduated she’d made extra efforts to liaise between the two areas of maternity care.

Tilly’s goal had been to increase the mutual respect between hospital and private midwives, and while not missing, rapport hadn’t flourished either.

Gina, a progressive manager and long-standing friend of Tilly’s mother, had encouraged her. Now EB had brief admission papers of even the home-birth clients in case of emergencies such as this to streamline unexpected admissions. This benefited everybody, especially the incoming mums.

As Tilly lifted Josie Meldon’s file the phone rang and Tilly picked it up. ‘Maternity, Tilly. Can I help you?’

There was a brief pause and Tilly glanced at the light on the phone to check the caller was still on the line. Then a voice. ‘Dr Bennett. You paged?’

‘Yes.’ She frowned at the fleeting illusion that she recognised the voice and then shrugged it off. ‘We’ve a woman in need of emergency Caesarean coming in from home. Full-term baby. Foetal distress and her midwife is with her. I’m about to ring Theatre.’

‘A failed home birth?’

The thinly veiled scepticism in the new doctor’s response scratched against Tilly’s nerves like a nail on a blackboard and she wouldn’t have called the words back if she could have.

‘Not really the time for labelling, do you think?’

He ignored that. ‘She hasn’t arrived for assessment yet? Hold the alert to Theatre until I assess her.’

Tilly frowned fiercely into the phone. ‘That’s your call but I’ll still prepare the theatre notes.’

Another pause while he digested that and Tilly’s flushed face glared at the phone. She wanted to get Theatre going.

‘Who gave you permission to instigate a theatre call?’

‘The midwife in charge of the case has called it. We’re all working for the mother and baby, but just a moment,’ she said sweetly, ‘I’ll put you onto the midwifery manager.’

Tilly held the phone with the tips of her fingers as if she’d just discovered it was covered in horse manure. No wonder everyone detested this guy. She carried it at the end of a straight arm and handed it to Gina. ‘I think this is for you.’

To Tilly’s surprise Gina smiled wryly as if she’d seen this coming. Gina shooed her away to other preparations and Tilly gave no apologies for possibly upsetting the consultant. It was her job to help protect the women in her area. Thank goodness Gina knew that.

Marcus put the phone down after the brief discussion with Gina. He measured his steps to the door because what he really wanted to do was swoop down to birthing and shake his nemesis.

He couldn’t believe the gnome thrower from next door was a midwife in his ward but he had no difficulty believing she’d champion home birth.

Home birth. The taste of it was metallic in his mouth, his least favourite association with his job, but even he could see that was personal and he shouldn’t let it colour his judgement.

But he’d sort that after he assessed the new admission. ‘Page my resident and registrar to meet me immediately on labour ward, please, Sheryl.’ He spoke as he strode out the door and his new secretary nodded at his back. She was used to obstetricians in a hurry.

He briefly considered the shock he’d received when Matilda had been on the end of the phone. He tried not to think about the fact she would have told them all about the incident at his aunt’s house. He was above out-of-school gossip and could ignore that the staff would snicker at the idea of him being hit by a gnome. And that he’d picked her up from the floor that morning.

Tough. He had more important things to think about.

The midwife in charge, thank goodness, was a sensible woman, but he wouldn’t tolerate lack of respect from anyone, no matter how many windows she’d fixed for his aunt.

Marcus didn’t wait for the lift and loped down the stairs two at a time, each step more forcible than the last, until he realised what he was doing. Calm. Control.