The Children's Doctor and the Single Mum

‘All right…all right.’ She sighed, and tucked in the corners of her mouth. ‘You win.’

They’d known each other for a long time as their parents moved in the same well-heeled social circles and were friends. They had first gone out together more than twelve years ago while Laird had been a medical student, but then Tarsha had chosen the lure of modelling in Europe and they’d called it quits, with no hard feelings on either side. There’d always been something missing at heart.

‘What is it, Laird?’ Tarsha had said once, back then. ‘It’s like a hundred-dollar bill that you know is a forgery. It looks right, but something still tells you it’s not.’

Maybe they just hadn’t been ready at that point. Too young. Too ambitious. Not enough time for each other.

A few months ago, after a successful modelling career, followed by several years spent working in the field of public relations in Paris, Tarsha had come home without the intended notch of a fabulous marriage on her belt. She was now in the process of starting her own modelling agency in Melbourne, which involved a lot of networking and schmoozing, as well as getting the right faces and bodies in her stable.

Laird had the vague idea that something had turned sour for Tarsha in Europe—that she was running away from a professional or personal disaster—but so far she hadn’t shared the details with him.

Some conniving between their two mothers several weeks ago had led to a choreographed cocktail party encounter— ‘You remember Laird, don’t you, darling?’—and Laird had understood at once that he was supposed to pick up again with Tarsha…no, not quite where they’d left off. People changed in twelve years.

Close, though.

The prospect had appealed on some levels. There was something out there that he hadn’t found yet—a core of happiness and stability that he saw in the best couples and that he wanted in his own life. Maybe this time with Tarsha, the timing would be right. It was hard to question a relationship that was so perfect on paper, especially when it had been so neatly deposited in his lap, gift-wrapped.

Before Tarsha’s timely return to southern shores, and after a long and carefully selected series of suitable girl-friends, his mother had asked him in exasperation a couple of times, ‘What are you looking for in a woman, Laird, that you haven’t managed to find yet?’

‘Is that a rhetorical question?’

‘You’re thirty-four!’

He hadn’t attempted to give her a list of attributes, but had half-heartedly tried to come up with a private one for himself.

He couldn’t.

Somebody different. A breath of fresh air.

Not exactly a precise description.

‘I’ll know it when I see it,’ he had predicted to his mother, confident and a bit grumpy.

Suddenly, looking at Tarsha’s set face, he realised that this relationship…this woman…wasn’t it.

It turned out she knew it as well as he did.

‘I’ve realised this isn’t working, Laird,’ she said. ‘Us, I mean.’ And when he was silent for a fraction of a second too long, she went on quickly, ‘To use the old cliché, it’s not you, it’s me. Something happened in Europe. A man. I’m not ready, and you’re not the right person. And you know it, don’t you?’ She gave him a narrow-eyed look, and then she laughed. ‘Hell, you really do know it! I can see the relief in your eyes.’

He couldn’t deny it. ‘I like you very much, Tarsha.’

‘And I like you.’ But she hadn’t yet relaxed. He wanted to put an arm around her purely for reassurance, didn’t quite know why she was turning this into a problem, as it was clear neither of them had any regrets.

‘So we’re fine, aren’t we?’ he said gently. ‘We’ve both realised. We both feel the same. We can forget dinner tonight, if you want.’

‘No, you see, that’s what I don’t want.’ She took a deep breath, gave a big, fake smile.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘The it’s-not-you-it’s-me thing was the easy part.’

‘Pretend I’m not getting this, and explain.’

‘Laird…look at me!’ Were those tears she was blinking back? ‘I’m not the kind of woman who goes out with her single women friends in a big group and doesn’t care what anybody thinks. I want to be honest with you about this. Pathetic and needy, but honest. Can we still go out sometimes? Would you be the man on my arm when I need one? I’m setting up this agency, I have to look good, I have to be seen. That’s all. I just need a part-time, very presentable man.’

She spread her hands, did that dazzling pretend smile again and he realised how vulnerable she was beneath the glamorous façade, thanks to this unknown man in Europe. He realised, too, how little value beauty could have to a woman in the wrong circumstances.

He told her sincerely, ‘Sure, Tarsh, I can be your presentable man, occasionally. I don’t see anything getting in the way.’

She nodded and kissed him quickly, not on the mouth, but close. ‘Good. And if I haven’t made this clear, sex is not included in the deal. I—I…’ Still smiling, she blinked back more tears. ‘Somehow—and, please, don’t grill me on the details here—I turn out to be a lot more monogamous than I would have thought.’

And that was that.

At the restaurant Laird and Tarsha had to wait for their table, wait for the menu, wait to be asked for their order and then wait for it to arrive. Neither of them seemed to have much to say, having dealt with the principal matter of interest between them before they had even left her house.

Laird fought hunger, irritability and fatigue, and Tarsha finally appealed to him, ‘Talk to me, Laird! Talk shop, if you want, rather than the two of us sitting here like this. It’s what you’re thinking about, isn’t it?’

He admitted that it was. ‘We have some very fragile babies in the unit at the moment. Delivered two of them last night, and we were short-staffed. Fortunately, we had a terrific new nurse. I don’t think both babies would have made it out of the delivery suite without her. She was fabulous. Down-to-earth, unflappable, knew her stuff inside out.’

‘Pretty?’

He thought for a moment, and remembered the shiny forehead and the unflattering angle of Tammy Prunty’s disposable cap. ‘Um, I don’t think so. Not really.’

Tarsha’s attention had wandered. ‘Is this ours?’ she murmured, watching a waiter with laden hands. ‘No, it’s not…’

Laird was still thinking about the fact that he’d just completely slammed the Tammy nurse in the looks department. He felt guilty and impatient with himself, which was ridiculous. ‘Although I never saw her hair,’ he said, wondering about it, remembering the blue of her eyes. ‘I have an idea she’ll be a redhead, though.’

‘She will be?’

‘When I see her without her cap.’ He looked forward to resolving the question, for some reason.

Tarsha fixed him with a suspicious look that he didn’t understand, and then their waiter came towards them at last.

* * *

‘And it was green, and we thought, Good grief, what is this? I mean, neon green newborn milk curds. The intern went pale. Poor thing, it was his second day, he didn’t have a clue. He’s about to call the senior surgeon, who has no patience with new doctors.’

‘None of them do!’

‘And then we see an empty bottle on the floor, and it’s not from the baby at all. His big brother had one of those athletic power drinks, those “-ade” ones, and he’d spilled some of it, right on top of where the baby had spat up, only he was too scared to say.’

There was a chorus of laughter, cutting off a little too quickly when the three women in the staff break room saw Laird.

Red, he thought.

Just as he’d suspected from her colouring. Tammy Prunty had a magnificent head of gleaming bright carroty, goldy, coppery, autumn-leafy hair with a natural, untamed wave that would absolutely require full confinement beneath a cap any time she was anywhere near surgery or vulnerable babies. No wonder he hadn’t been able to glimpse it before.

She smiled at him, her face receptive, friendly and polite and her blue eyes still alive from her recent laughter. The eyes and the hair went together like burnished gold and lapis lazuli in a piece of Ancient Egyptian jewellery, and the smile was so warm and dazzling it rendered him temporarily without words.