Spanish Doctor, Pregnant Nurse Read online

  ‘Did you have a lot to drink?’

  ‘Apart from mineral water, no.’ Standing, attempting not to wince with the pain that small exertion caused, she attempted a brisk smile. ‘I’d better get back out there.’

  ‘You are in no fit state to be working.’

  ‘I’m much better now,’ Harriet muttered.

  ‘I disagree. I have already spoken with the nurse supervisor and she is arranging cover for you.’

  ‘You’ve what?’ Appalled, she glared at him. ‘How dare you?’

  ‘I dare because I am the doctor in charge tonight and I need my colleagues, especially my senior ones, to be completely on the ball. There is no room for error in Emergency.’

  He was right, of course, Harriet knew that deep down, but it didn’t make her feel any better.

  ‘Now, are you going to let me examine you?’

  ‘No,’ Harriet answered tartly. ‘You should be in with Alyssa, instead of worrying about me.’

  ‘The paediatricians are in with Alyssa now. Everything is under control.’

  ‘Including me.’ Harriet bristled. ‘I’m going to wait for the nurse supervisor to arrange cover and then I’m going to take some paracetamol and lie down for an hour or so until I feel well enough to start working again.’

  ‘You shouldn’t take anything until you know what’s wrong with you. I’m not going to give you anything.’

  ‘You really are the limit, you know!’ Embarrassment was turning into anger now, furious at his control, his authoritative air—well, it might quiet his patients but it damn well wasn’t going to silence her into submission. ‘Well, Dr Delgato, as it happens, I have some painkillers in my handbag, painkillers that don’t require some over-inflated doctor’s signature to take, unless there’s a rule that’s suddenly been invented that I don’t know about, unless I’m not allowed to go into my locker without your consent, unless I’m not allowed to open my bag and take my own tablets without your permission!’

  ‘You are being childish,’ Ciro responded, not remotely fazed by her outburst. ‘But as you’re now off duty, that is entirely your prerogative.

  ‘Now, I suggest you put on a gown, lie down on the trolley and rest for a while. Then, with your consent, I will come in and examine you once I have spoken to Mrs Harrison to let her know what is going on.’

  She wasn’t sure if it was deliberate, but the mention of the Harrisons made her protests about refusing to put on a gown and be examined rather feeble, childish even, and Ciro seemed to sense the change in her.

  ‘How do you feel now that you have vomited?’

  Which wasn’t exactly the sweetest line to deliver a woman, but Harriet knew that his medical brain meant well.

  ‘A bit better.’

  ‘Good! Then rest and I’ll be back shortly.’

  She gave a reluctant nod. ‘How are Alyssa’s results?’ She knew, just knew, he was about to shake his head and tell her that it was no longer her problem, so Harriet added quickly, ‘I really would like to know.’

  ‘Her potassium is dangerously low, as is her albumin, her renal function is decreased, she’s extremely malnourished, which is why she has the peripheral oedema. I’ve spoken with Pathology and it would seem those vitamins that Mrs Harrison’s been giving to her daughter are, in fact, diuretics, which of course are used to get rid of oedema, but that’s the trouble with self-prescribing…’ He gave her a tight smile as Harriet blushed. ‘As you know, some diuretics need to be taken with a potassium supplement. Instead, Alyssa’s potassium has dropped so low she is in danger of having a serious cardiac arrhythmia and possibly a cardiac arrest. I’ll let you know how it goes when you’re feeling a bit better.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  It was horrible, horrible, horrible being on the other side of the curtain. Horrible lying in a flimsy gown with the ties missing, on a hard trolley. Horrible having a probe stuck in your ear and your blood pressure taken, but that didn’t even begin to compare to the humiliation of lying back and closing one’s eyes while someone as divine and toned and clearly fit as Ciro told you to stop trying to hold in your stomach so that he could examine you properly.

  She didn’t even want to think about the sensible knickers she was wearing, supposedly safe in the knowledge she had been going to work.

  ‘Tender?’ Ciro asked as Harriet gave a stifled moan.

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘And here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  The dreaded ‘hmm’—the sound doctors worldwide made as they broached a tentative diagnosis.

  ‘You are tender in the right iliac fossa. I think it could be appendicitis or possibly an ectopic pregnancy.’

  ‘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 openin
g 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—’

  ‘We’re having some problems, Ciro, but he’s not going to leave me rolling around in agony, it’s not that bad!’

  He stared at her thoughtfully for a long moment and just when she thought he was about to read the Riot Act, amazingly he conceded—albeit reluctantly.

  ‘If it worsens, you are to come straight back to the hospital.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘And even if you feel better, you are to see your GP first thing in the morning.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can I at least take some blood and I’ll fax the results over to your GP? You can give me his name.’

  ‘Her name,’ Harriet needlessly corrected. ‘And yes.’ She’d have agreed to anything just to get the hell out of there.

  ‘Would you like me to call your husband to come and fetch you?’

  ‘No,’ Harriet answered immediately, imagining Drew’s mood if she dragged him out of bed at one a.m. because of a stomach pain when he had a photo shoot in the morning.

  ‘You’re not driving yourself home.’

  ‘Then I’ll take a taxi,’ Harriet responded, with absolutely no intention of doing so, given she felt so much better.

  ‘OK, I’ll draw some blood and leave you to get dressed.’

  But any thoughts of dashing to the car park were soon laid to rest when Ciro insisted on walking her to the taxi rank outside Emergency and ensuring she was safely in a taxi, even reminding her, as if she were a child, to put her seat belt on.

  ‘Do you escort all your patients to their vehicles?’ Harriet bristled.

  ‘Only if I believe they’d be stupid enough to ignore my instructions. If you get any worse, you’re—’

  ‘To come straight back. I know, I know.’

  As the taxi pulled off, despite her reddened eyes and nose, despite the pain in her stomach and the appalling mess of her marriage, Harriet felt a feeling so unfamiliar it took a second or two to register what it was.

  Peace.

  A tiny corner of peace in her soul.

  Finally she’d told someone, finally she’d admitted the truth, and the world hadn’t stopped turning. In fact, the world had carried happily on. Ciro hadn’t stared at her, utterly appalled. Instead, he’d told her a simple truth.

  She wasn’t alone.

  The world might be happily turning but she wasn’t the only one facing this type of problem and somehow it comforted her, somehow it gave her strength.

  Paying the taxi driver, Harriet rummaged in her bag for her keys, turning them slowly in the lock and trying to creep in the front door without waking Drew, only this time it wasn’t because she was afraid of confrontation but because, quite simply, she wasn’t up to dealing with it right now. But when this was over, when her stomach was better, she was going to sit down with Drew and talk, really talk for once, find out where their marriage was exactly, and where, if anywhere, it was going. It was time to face the truth.

  Literally!

  Seeing them lying together, Harriet witnessed at first hand the passion that had been missing in this bed for so long now, that long blonde hair tumbling over the pillowcase, her pillowcase, the one that she, Harriet, had washed, ironed and put on! Facing a fact more appalling than any she had considered, for the second time that night, Harriet choked back bile, only a grumbling appendix had nothing to do with it.

  ‘Harriet!’

  Shocked eyes, which she’d thought she’d known, snapped open as she turned on the light, her own eyes widening in disgusted horror as the blonde, thin beauty beside him uncoiled her tanned long limbs and taking in the scene had the gall to smirk somewhat defiantly over at Harriet.

 
‘Please, don’t try and tell me that it’s not what I think.’ Furious, embarrassed, Harriet turned and ran, taking the steps two at a time, shaking Drew off when he caught up with her, a hastily wrapped towel around his waist.

  ‘Harriet, please, don’t just walk out. We need to talk.’

  ‘Talk to me through your solicitor, Drew.’ She shook her head as if to clear it. ‘That’s why you were nice to me tonight. All that crap about getting me a hot-water bottle, pretending that you care, when all the time you were just glad I was going to work so your tart—’

  ‘Harriet, don’t be like that.’

  ‘What is she, then? What lady would get into someone else’s marital bed while the wife was out working? My God, Drew, I’ve worked my backside off to put you through acting school, put up with all your moods and insecurities when all you could get was a couple of walk-on parts, even upped and moved yet again, so you could take this job. And this is how you treat me. Don’t expect nice here, Drew, don’t expect me to smile and say it’s OK, as I have done over the years when you treat me like dirt…’

  ‘You need to calm down,’ he said. ‘We need to work out what we’re going to do—’

  ‘You mean we need to work out what we’re going to tell people?’ Harriet retorted bitterly. ‘Why? Are you worried that if the press find out that your new agent mightn’t be pleased, worried that your popularity ratings might dip for a week or two? That’s it, isn’t it? You don’t give a damn what this is doing to me, all you’re worried about is how it’s going to affect you! All those nights I’ve been working for us!’

  ‘You’ve been working because you love your job,’ Drew sneered.

  ‘Not that much, Drew!’ Harriet retorted. ‘Not sixty-hour weeks just so that you can pursue your dreams. The difference between you and I is that I didn’t constantly moan about it, didn’t assume the world was against me because I had to earn a living the hard way.’

  ‘Hard!’ Drew blazed. ‘Have you any idea what my work involves? The constant demands, the pressure to always look the part. All you have to do is pull on a uniform…’

  On and on, the same old song she had danced to over the years, only this time it was a different tune. This time Harriet didn’t automatically back down, because the reason she was home at two in the morning was making itself known, the misery that had brought her to this moment was repeating itself, only this time when nausea struck she didn’t make a blind dash for the bathroom—she knew that there was no one to guide her, and it should have been mortifying, should have been the indignity to top them all, but seeing the horror in Drew’s eyes as she threw up on the smart cream carpet made her, for some inexplicable reason, want to laugh.