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I return the call, raising it to my ear, suddenly assailed by the scent of her on my fingers.I shake my head, pulling it out of sex Sadie-land as the call connects.
I have a patient in early labour. A high risk pregnancy we were hoping to prolong for at least another couple of weeks. But the best laid plans don’t just get buggered up for mice and men, but for babies, too. And that’s serious shit.
I’m not on call today, having worked yesterday afternoon. But with private patients, there are few concessions. After an assessment by a colleague, mum-to-be is being prepped for theatre as we speak. I don’t have time for the conversation Sadie and I need to have.
‘I’m sorry,’ I begin softly. ‘I have to go.’
Sadie looks so forlorn as she turns, her arms crossed over her breasts, her hair in absolute disarray. She awkwardly tries to tidy it without baring herself and I hate that it’s suddenly become uncomfortable.Hate that I’ve done this to her. It’s not like I’ve forced myself on her, but yet I still feel like a deviant.
I tilt my head back and curse the air. I need time. Time to make sure she’s okay. Time to explain the facts and non-facts behind Julian’s barbs. A fucking minute to tell her I know he’s no good. But how? How can I do all this without exposing myself?
Because exposingherto that kind of sordid would be unkind. She’s too sweet. Too good. Too gentle. Too many superlatives to be saddled with the knowledge of the depravities going on in the Den.
And she’s just too good for me.
‘Just... go,’ she says, without looking at me. And while I don’t want too, I don’t really have any choice.Life and death and all that.
So I do leave—leave her standing in Mo’s kitchen looking fragile and alone. And let me tell you, I’ve never felt so fucking wretched before in my life.
But I can’t wallow once in theatre because there’s no space for anything else. Mum’s already had a spinal block, so both she and dad will be with us during the surgery. Game on. No time to think of anything else but the delivery and this scalpel in my hand.
Skin, muscle, uterine tissue, then, swaddled in the goriest of gift wrap, an unborn baby.
Moments later, I’m standing with their firstborn in my hands. Both parents are carrot topped, but this baby has a shock of sticky dark hair. In fact, this tiny thing could well be a little morecafé au laitwhen his skin warms to the atmosphere. But that’s not my issue. My part in nature’s miracle is done.
As I hold the tiny purple thing with the skinny wiggling arms, I find myself wondering what our baby would look like—a child of Sadie’s and of mine. I’d deliver him, of course. Hold Sadie’s hand right up until the very end, then guide him out into the world. Hold both of their hands for the rest of their damned lives.
Oh, fuck my life. Where did I just go?Fucking-Von-Trapp-la-la-land.
‘Will?’
Mary stands beside me, towel in hand and ready to take the child. I come back to myself with a snap. Though maybe that should be a slap, as in the mental slap I need to give myself.
‘Will.’ This time, Mary doesn’t fill my short name with question. She does so with snark, accompanying it with a sharp dig of her soft footed shoe to my shin.
‘Oh.’Oh, shit.My gaze rises from the baby to the couple whose lives are about to change forever. I suddenly realise I’m responsible for their joint rictus expressions, and the death white grip of their joined hands. So I quickly pull my head out of my arse, pass the child to Mary, while shooting them my most professional, reassuring grin.
‘Congratulations, folks,’ I say, as their baby gives a lusty cry. ‘You have a son.’
The breaths they’d held almost fill the room, the redheaded mother beginning to quietly sob as her husband brushes the hair from her face, straining to look over the blue curtain at his son.
His whole world, right here in this room.
A whole world I’ll never get to experience.
In light of my current fucked up brain, I do what all sensible men do when in a dilemma. I phone a friend. Or in my case, two friends. I can’t face Sadie right now. I need to get my story straight—come up with a plan. But instead, I go to the pub with my mates.
Men, am I right?
‘What’s with your face,’ Keir asks, his tone not a kindly enquiry. More a rough sounding taunt. I don’t look up from the pint of blond coloured beer in front of me.
‘Woman trouble,’ asserts Mac. ‘I’d know the face of that pain anywhere.
‘Are you a mind reader now?’ Keir snaps.
‘Just because you din’nae get your dick wet very often—’
‘Listen, Mister Congeniality yourself over there; just because you’ve got Ella doesn’t make you an expert. In fact—’
