‘Sir, I am so sorry. It was a momentary error in judgment—I meant no offence.’
‘I’m afraid sir isn’t right, either.’
‘I’m sorry?’ I repeat, this time in a completely different tone. Sir and Ma’am might not be as commonly used as back home, but I’ve never been told the address is wrong.Weird, yes. Wrong? Never.
‘The correct form of address isMy Lord,’ he says, with a slight air of long suffering. ‘Sir is for someone much further down the peerage list. The bastard son of a Viscount or something,’ he says with a vague wave of his hand.
Like a cartoon character, I shake my head, hoping to restart my exhausted brain. I have no idea what he’s saying, though I’m mostly certain he’s not flirting with me. Or trying to impress me. And then the realisation dawns.
‘You—you’re Lord Travers?’TheLord Travers. I’d heard one of the hospital consultants was a Lord—an actual peer of the realm—but I’d expected someone in a three-piece suit, maybe holding a cane. Someone with a face like a wrinkled bulldog, not someone who’d look at home gracing the cover ofGQ.And if he’s older than thirty-five, I’ll give up M&M’s!
‘You mean Tammy didn’t mention it?’ His wry response deepens the heat in my already scalding cheeks. As a reprimand, it’s pretty mild. Especially when I consider last week, one of the consultants at my permanent job yelled at me in front of a six-month pregnant patient while implying I should go back to medical school as if my life is somehow a game of Monopoly.Go straight back to medical school—do not collect $200!
Yep, it was bad, but also why I feel more like a scolded child right now somehow. He must be the sadistic type, like a cat who likes to play with a mouse before tearing its head off and spitting it out. As he opens his mouth to deliver what must be my stinging reprimand, I mentally steel myself, but the only thing that sounds is the ear splittingly loud crash call.
Dr Pussy—Dr Travers. I meanMrTravers. Fuck,LordTravers, takes off down the corridor, his long legs eating up the space between the nurses’ station and the patient’s private room with the ominous red flashing light outside of the door. It takes me a beat to realise I should be following him. I do so, almost tripping over the hem of my borrowed scrubs.
~*~
‘Ever seen a dystocia before?’
Thirty minutes later, standing outside of the room, covered in my third lot of amniotic fluid and birth gunk for the day, I shake my head at Dr/Mr/Lord Travers’s question. The exhilaration of emergency work mode in assisting in the delivery has drained away, though I’m not sure if it’s awe or exhaustion that renders me almost mute this time.
I’ve worked in obstetrics for a while. I’ve seen a lot of things, but I’ve never witnessed a birth like that. His patient was delivering a big baby, eye wateringly big—the kid had a head like a watermelon, even if it was barely visible on account of her shoulder being stuck. As is often the case more times than you might imagine, one minute babe was fine, the next she was in distress. Dr/Mr/Lord Travers tried everything, including the McRoberts manoeuvre and Woods Screw, but that babe was not budging. The poor mom was on all fours, on her back, and I thought for one horrible minute he was going to have to perform a symphysiotomy, or in other words, break her pelvis. I’ve never felt as frightened or as ill as watching this scene play out in front of me, but Lord Travers? He was as cool as a proverbial cucumber. Sleeves rolled to the elbow, he didn’t seem to have a hair out of place. And then, with one last attempt, he somehow managed to move the babe, and she seemed to shoot out of her mother’s body, almost knocking my boss on his butt. I don’t know what was the better sound, his deep, surprised laughter, or that of the baby’s indignant bellow.
‘That.. . ’ That was amazing. Absolutely terrifying and amazing all at once. And those are the words my brain sends to my mouth. It’s just a shame my mouth fails to deliver. ‘That’s why they call you Dr Pussy.’
His tentative smile turns to a barking laugh, which I suppose is better than being called an idiot. Even though I stillfeellike an idiot.
‘Absolutely. I’m like the proverbial snake charmer, only instead of charming snakes—’
‘You charm pussies.’Oh, no. I feel myself physically recoil from the words. I don’t ordinarily have problems with my brain-to-mouth filter, but even I can tell these words are a step too far. My shoulders slump, and I think my eyes might have rolled closed were it not for the fact that my body is refusing to let them in case I go to sleep on my feet.
‘I think that’s the Red Bull talking,’ he says. Gone is his light-hearted tone, though I fancy that the glint of humour is still detectable in his gaze.
‘Oh, God.. . ’ The words come out on a pained sounding sigh. ‘That’s not what I meant.’ Despite what I think Tammy was implying. ‘I just meant you’re really good at what you do.’ I hope my tone sounds as sincere as I mean it to because I really do think this—how could I not after what I just witnessed. ‘And-and, look at me,’ I add, glancing down at my scrubs. I only hope he takes pity in the panic I’m clearly exhibiting. ‘A-and look at you. There’s something charmed about the fact that you could go to the theatre or a fancy dinner right now while I look more like an extra from a slasher movie.’
‘Go home, Dr Taylor, you’re drunk.’ Of course, because this day isn’t done with me, this is the point our new father chooses to leave his wife’s room. And his face? I may as well writemalpracticeall over it in Sharpie—get the lawyers down here right now. ‘Red Bull drunk,’ Lord Travers amends. ‘Those things will give you kidney stones, you know.’
The father’s expression lightens. ‘I’ve heard passing kidney stones is no laughing matter,’ he supplies. ‘Though maybe a little easier than giving birth to a thirteen-pound baby.’ The man suddenly turns a shade of grey—a little like putty—sweat breaking out on his brow. ‘How do you do that?’ he asks, his words pained and a little warbly as his hand reaches out to grip my shoulder. ‘How do you do it?’ I get the sense that he’s not talking about my job, though I’m not absolutely sure as my gaze flicks from his glassy ones to that of my boss. ‘Where does all that strength and resilience come from?’ Tears trip over his lids, and I begin to wince as his grip tightens on my shoulder. ‘I’d have done anything to have taken the pain from her—watching the one you love suffer for something you’ve done is horrific.’
‘But look at the outcome,’ I say, catching his elbow as his body slumps.
From bright and glistening, his glaze turns blank. I push him against the wall as it becomes clear to both Dr P and I that he might be about to pass out.
‘I helped make her—and I saw her take her first breath,’ he whispers... right before he vomits over my third set of scrubs for the day, passing out in a heap.
Please, God, let this fuckstick of a day be done.
Chapter 19
BEN
For three days we’ve barely spoken beyond curt greetings and her scarcely audible murmurs of thanks as she’d noticed one or two changes around the house. One or two? Try a dozen or more as I fill my days with manual labour so as not to think of her. The kitchen cabinetry is almost finished, the dining room floor sanded where it was only half completed before. While she worked last night, I stripped the ancient wallpaper from the chimney breast of her bedroom before hanging the roll depicting birds in cages I’d noticed propped against the wall. I’ve gardened—pruned thorny bushes and mowed lawns, though I doubt Nell has noticed even half of this as she barely seems to lift her head. At least, while I’m around. And as I’d lain in bed last night, staring into her empty room, I’d decided I really don’t like that there aren’t any doors in this house.
A man should be allowed to be alone with his thoughts.
A man also shouldn’t have to come home to find flowers on the front doorstep. If her tosser of an ex thinks he’s in with a chance, he’s way off fucking base. There was no card to confirm my suspicions, so I did what any nice neighbour would do. I gave them to Mrs H, then forgot to mention them to Nell
