The Pregnant Registrar

Still for tight gits like Corey, her trolley probably did look rather extravagant!

‘This is Adele.’ Corey gave a wide smile as Lydia nodded politely. ‘And this is Bailey.’

Bailey didn’t look up. He was too busy pulling orange juice off the shelves and creating chaos to care about introductions as Adele stood silently, her pretty face almost surly as she eyed Lydia, clearly uncomfortable at the intrusion.

‘Best get on.’ Lydia smiled, moving gratefully into aisle four and immersing herself in two-minute noodles.

They met again at the checkout, Lydia blushing to her roots as Corey counted out the notes to the cashier, checked and rechecked his change with the unfortunate Adele while Bailey helped himself to a large slab of chocolate from the display stand.

‘Poor woman,’ Lydia muttered to the checkout girl as finally they moved off.

‘Oh, I don’t know…’ The checkout girl looked dreamily over her shoulder as the trio departed, didn’t even offer Lydia the mandatory ‘How are you tonight?’ ‘I think he’s kind of cute.’

This was the bit she hated—unloading the groceries from the boot of the car, lugging them up the garden path and heaving the bags into a dark, empty house. No one to come out and offer to help, no one to moan she’d forgotten to get coffee-beans…

No one, full stop.

Not that she minded her own company. When Gavin had still lived there, invariably he’d be away on some course or interstate on some business trip—at least, that’s what he’d said he’d been doing, Lydia thought darkly, filling her freezer with her purchases. She hadn’t minded a bit—in fact, she’d actually enjoyed it in many ways. Having beans on toast, or just toast for dinner, even taking the said toast into bed and curling up with a good book.

Gavin had hated that.

Come to think of it, Gavin had hated a lot of things in the last few months of their marriage.

Slamming the freezer door closed, Lydia pulled a couple of slices of bread out of the pantry and loaded them into the toaster.

Toast, a good book and bed.

What more could a girl want?

‘I’ve saved you a ticket.’

Frowning into the telephone that seemed to be permanently glued to her ear these days, Lydia looked up.

‘For what?’

‘The special care unit Christmas fundraising ball. It’s held every year at the beginning of December and it usually turns out to be a great night.’

‘No, don’t put me back on hold,’ Lydia yelped as finally a human voice responded, but as the music droned on Lydia settled back for the long haul, digging in her pocket for a proverbial ten-dollar note then baulking as she eyed the gold-rimmed ticket more closely. ‘Two hundred dollars!’

‘It’s a black-tie do.’ Corey shrugged. ‘And the money goes to a good cause.’

‘It’s a bloody rip-off.”

He thought she was joking. Looking up, she watched him laugh, waiting for her to pull out her cheque book, to sign herself up for taxi fare both ways and a maternity ballgown that would make the ticket price pale into comparison, but for the first time in her adult life Lydia couldn’t do it, couldn’t write a cheque for the sake of it, couldn’t rob Peter to pay Paul. Suddenly money mattered when it never had before.

‘I’ll let you know.’ Frowning into the telephone, Lydia turned away but still he persisted.

‘You’re not working.’ Corey grinned. ‘I’ve checked, so there’s no excuse.’

‘How about this for an excuse?’ Swinging her chair around, Lydia met him face on, her cheeks burning with embarrassment at having to admit the appalling truth, her voice too harsh, too sharp as she choked on the pride she was being forced to swallow yet again. ‘For someone who’s so up on the price of orange juice, for someone who checks their change three times before moving off from the checkout, you’re terribly careless where other people’s money is concerned.

‘Did it never occur to you that just because I’m a registrar, just because I’m supposedly affluent and raking it in—maybe that isn’t the case?’ She watched his eyes widen, watched as he attempted to beg to differ, but Lydia was on a roll now. ‘Would you be quite so accepting if your wife strolled home with a two-hundred-dollar ticket in her hand?’

‘I don’t have a wife.’ Corey shrugged.

‘Well, girlfriend, then,’ Lydia snapped. ‘The poor woman’s received a five-minute lecture into the variances of orange juice prices and she has to show you her cashier’s receipt, yet you don’t bat an eyelid when it’s a co-worker’s money you’re spending!’

Suddenly the temperature seemed to have dropped, suddenly the usually stifling nurses’ station seemed to be taking on arctic proportions. As she watched his face darken Lydia knew she’d gone way too far. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said quickly. ‘That was way below the belt.’

‘It was,’ Corey agreed grimly, and Lydia shifted uncomfortably as he carried on talking. ‘Adele’s not my wife and neither do I have a girlfriend or a son.’ He watched her frown, watched her squirm for an uncomfortable second before continuing.

‘Adele’s my sister, Bailey’s my nephew, and for your information I personally couldn’t give a damn about the price of orange juice, but given the fact my sister was involved in a car accident two years ago and she has changed from an eloquent, educated woman into someone with the personality of an errant teenager, it seems rather more fitting to show her that ten dollars can be spent on staples like bread and orange juice rather than a basket full of crisps and bubble gum or cheap wine and cigarettes.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Lydia’s voice was a faint whisper. ‘I’m so very sorry.’

‘Not as sorry as I am,’ Corey responded curtly, and picking up his stethoscope he shot her a black look before stalking off to his office. She was vaguely aware of a voice on the telephone line, vaguely aware of someone asking how they could help, but mumbling her apologies Lydia hung up the telephone, appalled at what she had done and desperate if not to put things right exactly to at least make some sort of amends.

Knocking on his office door, she neither expected nor received a response. Pushing the door open, she stood for a hesitant moment watching as Corey scribbled furiously on the paperwork in front of him, determinedly not looking up. Lydia rather less determinedly moved the pile of folders herself this time and, after making sure the door was firmly closed behind her, tentatively sat down.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘So you said.’

‘I’d like to explain something—’

‘There’s really no need,’ Corey cut in, fixing her with a most withering glare.

‘But there is.’ Dragging her eyes down, Lydia went to fiddle with the solid gold band around her wedding finger, as she did when she was nervous, but like everything else familiar to her it wasn’t there. ‘What I said out there was wrong. Whether Adele is your sister, wife or girlfriend, I had absolutely no right to pass judgement on you, no right to infer you were mean.’ She was tying her fingers in knots now. ‘Which you’re not, of course, but even if you were, even if you do care about the price of loo rolls…’

‘We were in the soft-drink section,’ Corey pointed out, and if she’d looked up at that point she’d have been rewarded with a ghost of a smile. ‘Where do loo rolls come into it?’

‘They don’t.’ Her eyes did meet his then, briefly, awkwardly and she immediately pulled them away. ‘What I’m trying to say is that I was way out of line.’

‘You were,’ Corey agreed, but more gently this time. ‘But I was probably being overly sensitive.’ Those massive shoulders moved downwards as he gave a ragged sigh, and Lydia saw the lines of concern grooved around his eyes. ‘There’s a lot going on there.’

‘With Adele?’

Corey nodded. ‘She was a lawyer. Hard to believe it now, but she was the epitome of sophistication. Somehow she and Luke made it all look so damn easy.’

‘Luke’s her husband?’ Lydia checked, wincing when Corey continued.

‘Was. He was killed in the car accident. Adele was in a coma for six weeks. We were so close to making that awful decision—to discontinue treatment. She was so sick and there really seemed no hope.’

‘But look how well she’s done,’ Lydia said optimistically, her voice trailing off as Corey shook his head.

‘She suffered massive brain injuries—she’s got frontal lobe damage, which means no inhibitions and no responsibility for her actions. Sometimes I wonder if we did the right thing.’ Strained eyes met hers. ‘You’ve seen Bailey. No doubt you think the kid needs a good smack, to be disciplined…’

Lydia shook her head, but her blush gave her away.