The Surgeon's Proposal Page 4

  ‘I’m not defending him.’ Am I? ‘I’m just letting you know that he’ll probably phone you, too. I don’t know why he came to me first.’

  Silence.

  ‘So, should we talk about—?’

  ‘There’s absolutely nothing to talk about at all,’ Alex snapped. ‘It’s out of the question to have him pay for the reception.’

  ‘Well, yes, that’s what I thought, but since it was your money, I didn’t want to—’

  ‘And it’s out of the question to talk about scheduling another ceremony. I won’t get over this in a hurry, Annabelle. You’re the last person I would have thought the type to trail chaos and melodrama in your wake, but now I’m wondering how many other ex-boyfriends—’

  ‘Dylan Calford isn’t an—’

  ‘Or would-be boyfriends I can expect to crawl out of the woodwork. I was embarrassed to the core last night. People, no doubt, are already talking and making conjectures. And I don’t even think I could look at you at the moment, Annabelle.’

  The reproachful crash of the slamming phone invaded Annabelle’s left ear, and stinging tears flooded her vision. Today, this hurt in a way it hadn’t hurt last night. Last night she’d been angry, and in shock. Now came the full realisation that Alex had dropped her like a hot coal, as if she were tainted in some way.

  He’d almost said as much. He’d called her a ‘type’. Not the type to attract scandal. Not the type to compromise his reputation and his ambitions. Political ambitions. She knew he had them. President of the Australian Medical Association. Queensland State Minister for Health. But she’d believed herself to mean much more to Alex than a suitably well-bred and stain-resistant political wife, just as he meant more to her than a way out of her family problems.

  Annabelle stuffed her knuckles into her mouth and sobbed wildly, until she remembered Duncan in the next room. He would be worried and confused if he saw her like this—red-eyed, swollen-nosed. He had a caring little heart, when he stood still long enough for it to show.

  She heard the clatter of his feet as he bounced off the couch to come looking for her, and quickly turned to the kitchen sink to wash away the worst of the mess her face was in. By the time he appeared, she was wearing a smile.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ANNABELLE and Duncan reached Gumnut Playcare just as it opened, at six-thirty on Monday morning. Annabelle was rostered in Theatre with a seven o’clock start, and timing, as usual, was tight.

  ‘Got your backpack?’ she prompted Duncan, then watched as he dragged it slowly across the back seat of the car.

  His little face looked sullen and closed and not at all cute.

  She helped him put the backpack on, then took his hand and tried to lead him up the path to the front door, but he stalled, pulled out of her grasp and ran off to examine some interesting leaves on a nearby bush.

  ‘We can’t look at those now, love,’ she told him brightly, but he ignored her. ‘I’ll be late,’ she finished, knowing the concept—and the consequences—were meaningless to a little boy.

  Since it was all too likely that either Alex or Dylan, or both of them, would be operating in Theatre Three today, she was doubly anxious to arrive on time.

  ‘’Eaves,’ Duncan said. His tone was stubborn.

  ‘I know, they’re lovely leaves, but we just can’t look at them now. This afternoon, OK?’

  She hoped, guiltily, that he’d forget. It would be six or later before she got back here, as Mum had a doctor’s appointment. Annabelle had cleaned and done laundry for her yesterday, but today, in addition, they would need to stop at the shops on the way back from the doctor. If the doctor was running late, or if she herself was late off work…

  A twelve-hour day was too long for a two-year-old.

  ‘’Eaves,’ he said again.

  ‘Not now, sweetie.’

  She picked him up and carried him inside, ignoring the way he wriggled and kicked. He’d been a darling all weekend, sitting rapt and attentive on the couch yesterday afternoon while Mum read to him, ‘helping’ to hang out the laundry. Today, she already knew he was going to be a demon.

  Inside the child-care centre, once she had put him down, he streaked off and began running noisily around the room, without responding to the overly cheerful greetings of Lauren and Carly, the two staff on duty. Annabelle signed him in, unsurprised to find that he was the first name on today’s page.

  Just then a second child arrived—a four-year-old girl named Katie, prettily dressed and obediently holding her mother’s hand. As soon as she saw Duncan, she said in a loud voice, ‘That’s the naughty boy who bit me, Mummy.’

  Annnabelle’s stomach flipped. She turned to Lauren. ‘You didn’t tell me…’

  ‘There’s a note in his pocket.’ Lauren gestured towards the bright row of cloth ‘pockets’ running along the wall, where children’s artwork and notes for parents were placed. Duncan’s was brimming with untidily folded paintings, and Annabelle thought guiltily, When did I last remember to check it? Wednesday?

  When she picked him up, she was always so keen to get out of here quickly.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’ll speak to him about it.’

  Which would be pointless with a two-year-old, when the incident had occurred several days earlier. Katie’s mother was glaring at Annabelle, however, and she felt obliged to act tough. Inside, she was crumbling.

  ‘And it’s not the first time either, I’ve heard,’ the mother said coldly.

  She was right. It wasn’t.

  But it only ever happened at child-care.

  ‘Can I make an appointment to talk to you?’ Annabelle asked Lauren desperately.

  ‘This afternoon?’

  ‘I can’t today. I have other commitments.’ And tomorrow wasn’t any better. ‘I’ll have to look at my diary. Duncan, Mummy has to go, OK?’

  She had to say it twice to get his attention, but when she did, he rushed over and flung his arms around her legs.

  ‘No!’

  ‘You have a great day, OK?’

  ‘No. Don’t go.’

  ‘I’ll see you later.’ Aeons later. ‘And we’ll have spaghetti for dinner.’

  Duncan burst into tears and clung to her legs as she dragged herself towards the door. Lauren intervened, picking him up and talking brightly about blocks and puzzles. He began to kick and struggle, and the brightness was more forced. ‘We don’t kick, Duncan,’ she said.

  The little girl’s mother walked past, in the wake of a sweet-voiced and perfectly contented, ‘I love you, Mummy!’

  ‘I love you too, Katie, my sweetheart angel,’ she called back. Smugly, it seemed to Annabelle.

  ‘Just go, Annabelle. He’ll be fine in two seconds,’ Lauren said.

  They both knew it wasn’t true.

  ‘Thanks,’ Annabelle answered.

  Unlocking her car, she heard the little girl’s mother muttering pointedly about discipline and aggression and behaviour problems. She was still shaking and queasy as she drove out of the parking area and into the street.

  The whole of today’s list in Theatre Three consisted of hips and knees, Annabelle discovered when she arrived at Coronation Hospital. Dr Shartles had two hip replacements, then Alex took over for two quite complex knee operations and another hip procedure sandwiched in between, with Dylan assisting. All three were private patients, which meant that Alex would involve himself more thoroughly than he did with public patients having the same surgery.

  Dr Shartles’s hip replacements went without a hitch, which served as a necessary settling to Annabelle’s focus. She enjoyed this aspect of surgery—the fact that there was a standard framework to the whole thing, so that even when something went wrong the surgical staff still had procedures in place for dealing with it.

  Today, however, she felt like the meat in a sandwich. As soon as she’d calmed down and dragged her mind away from Duncan, she had time to think about the encounter with Alex which lay ahead. Nice if Dylan hadn’t been part of th
e equation as well!

  Dr Shartles left it to his registrar to complete the final procedure, the patient was wheeled out to Recovery and Annabelle and the other theatre nurse, Barb Thompson, prepped Theatre Three for the next operation. Annabelle was an experienced scrub nurse, gloved and sterile like the surgeons, and worked closely beside them.

  Just beyond the swing doors, she heard Alex’s voice, and wasn’t surprised at the sharpness in it.

  ‘No, not yet. I have some calls to make first. When Calford gets off the phone.’

  So they were both here.

  Knots tightened in her temples, and she thought, I wish I was on a beach. With Duncan. I wish we lived on a beach. On a tropical island. Eating coconuts and mangoes and yams. I don’t want to be here.

  ‘Next patient just got cancelled,’ Barb reported. ‘Don Laycock. Dr Sturgess’s patient. Third time. He’s…’ She glanced over at Annabelle and quickly amended her sentence. ‘Not happy.’

  ‘No, he wouldn’t be,’ Annabelle agreed. She tried to speak calmly and casually, but it didn’t quite come off.

  Everyone had already heard about the cancelled wedding when she’d got in this morning, although the hospital friends who’d been at the reception had all told her they wouldn’t say anything. She wasn’t surprised. It was the kind of news that travelled fast, and perhaps Alex himself had told people. Annabelle hadn’t had to deliver the little speech she’d prepared for this morning, and which she knew she’d have garbled despite the preparation.

  I’m not the only one who’s tense, she realised now. Everyone is wondering how this is going to go.

  Badly.

  They all knew it as soon as the swing doors crashed open.

  ‘Gram positive cocci in his blood sample,’ Alex said. A systemic infection, in other words, disqualifying the patient for surgery. ‘I don’t know why we have to wait until now to hear it. Next patient isn’t prepped yet, so I’ll be back in half an hour.’

  He disappeared again before anyone could acknowledge his words in any way, and he hadn’t given the slightest sign that he’d known Annabelle was there. He did know it, though. She was in no doubt of that. In his wake, the swing doors vibrated like drum skins.

  The knots in her temples grew tighter.

  ‘Take lunch?’ Barb suggested.

  ‘Quickly,’ anaesthetist Sharon Curtis agreed. ‘Because some people’s half-hours are shorter than others.’

  She meant Alex, although she was careful not to say so.

  Until Friday, Annabelle had rather enjoyed the feeling that she was the only one of the theatre staff to know how different Dr Sturgess could be away from this environment. Now, as she left Theatre and headed for the surgical staff tearoom, she suddenly found herself thinking, But this is the environment where he likes to be. Does he like the excuse to terrorise people, and to know that his whims are law? I think he does…

  ‘Dr Calford, you’ve heard about Don Laycock getting cancelled?’ Barb said.

  Dylan had just put down the phone, and joined Annabelle and Barb as they headed down the corridor to the tearoom.

  ‘Yes. Third time.’ He nodded. ‘Poor guy. He’s a nervous patient. I think he felt reprieved when he heard—I was checking out another patient in the next bed at the time—but it just prolongs the agony, since he’ll have to key himself up all over again once the infection is dealt with.’

  He flicked a quick look across to Annabelle and she went hot. Was he thinking the same thing she was? That the same applied to the way she felt about Alex? Keyed up to stand next to him over an operating table. Half an hour’s reprieve before she had to key herself up again.

  Just before they reached the tearoom, Dylan held her back with a hand on her arm. She wanted to fight his touch, but knew she’d only draw more attention to the way it affected her.

  ‘Wasn’t sure if we’d see you today,’ he said.

  What was it that Mum had said on Friday night? Oh, that’s right…‘Life goes on,’ she answered.

  ‘As I told my lawyer this morning,’ Dylan said, ‘when I accepted Sarah’s suggested settlement package.’

  The cynical drawl didn’t suit him, and Annabelle felt an absurd urge to tell him, Don’t judge the whole world differently because of a bad marriage. I hate to see you this way.

  She kept her mouth firmly shut, of course.

  ‘Alex knocked back my offer of paying for the reception, by the way,’ Dylan continued.

  ‘You didn’t seriously think he’d accept?’

  ‘No. I didn’t.’ He added in a low tone, ‘Still wondering what I can get you to accept. Something, Annabelle.’

  ‘Nothing,’ she countered quickly. ‘I don’t want it. Just forget it.’

  ‘I’m on standby if you change your mind. Meanwhile, I’m at least taking you out to dinner, OK?’

  She shook her head. ‘Booked up. Sorry.’

  ‘You need some time to yourself. You’re stressed out.’

  ‘I know. But there’s no time available.’

  ‘Hmm.’ He looked at her narrowly for a moment, then went across to the urn and made himself some coffee, turning his back to her as if she wasn’t there.

  In well-washed theatre gear, his body was impressive in a way she’d never noticed before, and didn’t want to notice now. The muscles in his back were clearly defined and solid, although the total impression was one of athleticism rather than bulk. He moved comfortably. A lean and stretch to the left to reach for a mug, an efficient scoop and flick with the spoon in the coffee-can.

  His hair was cut short at the back, and was thick enough to hold its shape without being stubbly or spiky. His nape looked soft and sensitive, the perfect place for a woman’s fingers to stroke and linger. When he started humming a chart-topping song tunelessly under his breath, and tapping a bar or two of its beat with his fingers on the counter-top, Annabelle turned firmly away and stopped listening.

  It was as if Alex’s petulant suspicions about an affair between herself and Dylan had changed something in her own perceptions. In some part of her, an invisible line had been crossed. Dylan wasn’t just a colleague any more. For good or ill, their relationship was personal now.

  When he sat down, she made her own tea and sat as far from him as she could, pretending to read a magazine while she gulped down her sandwich. It was nothing but pretence. In reality, she noticed every time he re-crossed his legs, and every time he brought his mug to his lips and pouted them a little to drink.

  Twenty minutes later, she was back outside Theatre Three and ready to scrub, while an orderly talked to the incoming patient, drowsy from her pre-med.

  Alex didn’t reappear.

  ‘Does he want us to wait?’ Barb asked. ‘Do you know, Dr Calford? Dr Curtis? I got the impression…’

  No one was sure.

  Dylan found himself thinking, Whatever we do, it’ll turn out to be wrong.

  Not for the first time, he wished that Alex’s well-deserved reputation as the best knee surgeon in Queensland hadn’t wooed him into coming back here last year to work with the man again. If he’d known Sarah had been on the point of calling it quits with their marriage, he might have gone further afield. There were excellent knee surgeons in Sydney and Melbourne, too. Sarah was the one committed to living in Brisbane, with family here and a career in public relations.

  When I’m at Alex’s level, I’m not going to waste my own energy and everyone else’s in terrorising the staff, he thought. I don’t believe people perform better when they’re on edge the way we all are today.

  Aloud, after another two minutes had ticked by with no senior surgeon in sight, he decreed, ‘We’ll start. Page him, if necessary, but we shouldn’t have to.’

  He was just going in for the first incision when Alex appeared at last.

  ‘Go ahead, Dr Calford,’ he invited at once, but there was something in his drawling tone which signalled clearly to Dylan that he was on trial with this one. Yes, he’d done the procedure numerous times. Yes, he�
�d been told by Alex himself that his hip replacement technique was excellent. But every patient was different, and when Alex was in the mood to quibble…

  He felt Annabelle beside him, her tension communicated in some mysterious way that he couldn’t quite pinpoint. The way she was moving, perhaps. It was more abrupt than usual, and the clatter of the instruments in the trays seemed louder, as if she was fumbling. Normally, her hands were neat and efficient and graceful, unconsciously inviting a man to think about other ways in which she’d use them well.

  Dylan wanted to tell her to relax but knew that if he did so, he’d be admitting what everyone already knew but no one wanted to say.

  Alex has got us walking on knife blades.

  ‘Hold it, James,’ Dylan said to the resident, whose main job was to observe and keep the elderly woman’s leg where Dylan wanted it. He gave a more technical instruction about position, and James Nguyen nodded then lifted the inert leg higher and rotated it outward.

  ‘No,’ Alex said immediately, and made a minute adjustment. It called Dylan’s own positioning into question and left James struggling with taking the heavy weight of the woman’s leg at an awkward angle.

  Annabelle stared down at the table, the bright operating lights shadowing her face, which was already hard to read because of her mask and the cap that came low on her forehead. As a gesture of support, Dylan nudged his leg against hers, but he should have realised it wouldn’t be taken as reassurance.

  She moved away at once, and he coached himself, Forget it. Concentrate. Do the job.

  The nuances of emotion flying across the operating table were like bats. He wanted to fight them off, but it was better to leave them alone.

  Alex kept saying, ‘No!’ And every time they’d all freeze, until he’d dealt with the alleged mistake. Wrong scalpel. Wrong cement mixture prepared. Wrong this, and wrong that. Dylan’s scalp tightened with anger and frustration that he had to keep bottled inside while he went doggedly on with the delicate procedure. The patient was elderly, and wouldn’t bounce back easily from a botched job or a persistent infection.