The Consultant's Christmas Proposal

Just as she’d seemed to do this morning.

If Billy hadn’t walked in at that precise moment…

Well, it could have been worse. Three seconds later, Toby wouldn’t have even heard the door bang open. He’d have been drowning in Saskia’s honey-sweet depths, oblivious to everything except her and completely unable to stop.

But they’d been interrupted. For long enough to let Saskia think about it and change her mind. How the hell was he going to cope with being just her friend after this? How was he going to cope, living with her until Lydia came back? But he had to. No way could he let Lyd down and leave Saskia to cope with everything on her own.

‘Looks like it’s going to have to be business as usual,’ he told the still-sleeping baby. ‘Pretending I don’t feel the way I do. Pretending I love her just as a friend, as a sister.’ And all the time he’d ache with wanting her, needing her.

Toby didn’t come downstairs for breakfast. Well, if he was going to sulk, fine, Saskia thought crossly. He’d just have to get over it. He wasn’t the only one who was feeling frustrated, not by a long way. But she managed to chatter normally to Billy, drop him off at nursery and do her shift at the hospital without anyone asking her what was wrong. She also managed to sort out the ward’s ‘secret Santa’ present exchange—where everyone who wanted to take part took someone’s name out of an envelope and bought them a present, given anonymously on the shift before Christmas Eve and usually unwrapped on the ward.

But she still couldn’t help thinking about what had happened that morning, and she was distracted enough to have a near-miss on the way home. Her emergency stop left her bumper mere millimetres from the car in front, earning her a rude gesture from the driver and a blast from his horn. Hell. She really had to concentrate on what she was doing, not think about Toby.

Or was it because of Toby? A nastier explanation suddenly occurred to her, Was lack of concentration a symptom of rheumatoid arthritis?

‘Stop it. Don’t be silly. It’s your joints that are affected, not the synapses in your brain,’ she told herself sharply. But the doubt was still there. The panic. Maybe she’d missed something in her research into the condition. Maybe. Maybe.

She was in a thoroughly bad mood by the time she parked her car outside the cottage, only for her temper to collapse again when she walked into the kitchen and smelt baking.

Baking? Since when did Toby make cakes? He was more likely to buy them from the patisserie at the end of his road.

‘We made Christmas cookies, Aunty Saskia,’ Billy told her shyly, and pointed out the plate of star-shaped biscuits covered in blobs of icing, silver balls and sprinkles. ‘Me and Uncle Tobe. We’re chefs.’

‘They’re lovely, darling,’ she said, giving him a hug.

‘And we made you a special cake. A nana cake.’

A cake, for her? She didn’t think anyone had ever made her a cake. Maybe one of the nannies had. But certainly neither of her parents had. She blinked hard to dispel the threatening tears. She hadn’t cried over her childhood for a long, long time, and she wasn’t going to start again now.

‘Want some?’ Toby asked.

Cake, or you? She pushed the thought aside. ‘Thanks,’ she said, not meeting his eyes. ‘I didn’t know you could make cakes.’

‘We were doing a scientific experiment,’ he said. ‘How was your day?’

‘Average. How was yours?’

‘Fun.’ He grinned. ‘I spent this morning playing with Helena while Billy was at nursery and realising how many nursery rhymes I’d forgotten, and this afternoon chucking flour all over the kitchen with Billy.’

She looked at him, this time about to smile at the picture he’d painted for her.

Then he delivered the killer blow. ‘I think I could get used to being a house-husband.’

The smile died on her lips almost before it was born. House-husband. Well, he’d never be able to take that role with her. She couldn’t have children. And it’d get to the point where she wouldn’t be able to work, wouldn’t be able to contribute to the household budget. She’d be completely dependent on him, so he wouldn’t be able to give up work. ‘Best find yourself a career-woman, then,’ she said, hoping that it sounded light but knowing how bitter it felt.

The cake was delicious, but it nearly choked her—she had to force down every mouthful. ‘I’ll tell Mummy what a good chef you are,’ she informed her godson. She glanced up at Toby. His face was unreadable again. She knew him better than she knew anyone else. He was the last person she wanted to become a remote stranger. How was she going to fix this mess?

Somehow they got through the evening. When Billy was in bed, and Helena was tucked up in her cot, Saskia made some coffee. ‘Tobe. We need to talk,’ she said, handing him a mug.

‘Mmm-hmm.’ His tone was guarded.

‘This morning shouldn’t have happened.’ Why couldn’t she look him in the eye? ‘I think we’re both embarrassed about it. We got a bit carried away, that’s all. So let’s pretend it didn’t happen.’

‘It didn’t happen,’ he said tonelessly.

He agreed with her, then? Good. She smiled in relief. ‘I love you dearly, Tobe. You’re my best friend. You’re important to me and I don’t want to complicate things. Let’s just stay how we’ve always been.’

‘Sure.’

She risked a peep at his face. Inscrutable. Was he relieved, disappointed, angry? She couldn’t tell. Or maybe he felt the way she did: confused.

Whatever he thought about it—and that remained a complete mystery to her—life seemed to go back to normal again over the next few days. She didn’t see Toby as much as usual at the hospital, but she reassured herself that it was because they’d changed their shifts to make sure the children were covered. He didn’t spend much time with her once the children were in bed, but again she knew he was busy, writing a paper. He had to do the work some time. Didn’t he?

A couple of days later, the emergency department paged Saskia. She rang them immediately. ‘Saskia Hayward, Maternity Unit—you called me?’

‘Dr Hayward, we’ve had an RTA in—pregnant driver, suspected placental abruption.’

Placental abruption was when the placenta separated from the wall of the womb. Blood accumulated between the placenta and the womb, forcing the placenta to tear away even more. In severe cases, the baby wouldn’t get enough blood and oxygen and could die. For the baby to survive, at least half the placenta needed to stay in place.

‘Patient history?’

‘Thirty-two weeks gestation.’ So, if she needed to do an emergency Caesarean section, the baby had a decent chance of survival. That was good. ‘The mum’s having contractions, says she feels sick and faint, and she’s very thirsty. She’s complaining of abdominal pain, and her abdomen’s tense.’

Not so good: it sounded like a severe abruption.

‘What have you done so far?’

‘She’s on oxygen, we’ve got an IV line in and we’ve checked the baby’s heart rate. It’s low.’

‘OK. I’m on my way down. I need a portable ultrasound, six units of blood cross-matched, and can you get her bloods checked and let me know the platelet count, please?’

‘Will do.’

‘Great. And can you bleep the anaesthetist, please, in case we have to go straight to Theatre?’

‘That’s my next call.’

‘We’ll need Paeds as well—I want Mr Barker, if he’s available.’ Things between them might be a little cooler than usual right now, but he was the best doctor for the job, the doctor she’d most want to work with in this situation. They’d always worked well together, been a real team. That wasn’t going to change.

‘Will do.’

In the emergency department, she introduced herself to Pippa Fletcher. ‘What we think has happened is that when you had the accident and your tummy banged into the steering-wheel, it caused your placenta to tear away from the wall of your womb,’ she explained. ‘This means you’re losing blood, which is what’s making you feel sick and dizzy.’

‘Is my baby going to be all right?’ Pippa asked, her voice shaky.

‘We’ll do our best,’ Saskia reassured her. ‘We may have to give you a Caesarean section and deliver the baby.’