The Spanish Doctor's Convenient Bride

He looked genuinely puzzled.

‘Why would you think that?’

Marty shrugged.

‘Preconceived ideas of Latin men, I suppose. Where are you from? Italy?’

‘Spain,’ he snapped. ‘And on behalf of all so-called Latin men I find your assumption offensive.’

‘Do you?’ Marty said, challenging him with her eyes. ‘I’ll retract the Latin bit, if you like, but don’t tell me that most men wouldn’t prefer at least their firstborn to be a son.’

‘Nonsense!’ Carlos exploded, so genuinely upset she knew she’d been wrong. So wrong that she held up her hands in surrender.

‘OK, I apologise, but from where I sit it was an easy assumption to make. Do you know what Marty’s short for? Martina! And, no, I’m not named after a tennis star, but after my father, Martin, who’d wanted a son and when I arrived, the firstborn, named me after himself anyway. I’d like to think that some malign fate is working on the situation but I know it’s something to do with his chromosomes. Three marriages and five half-sisters later, he’s still without a son. His attitude has skewed things for me.’

She was talking too much again, but the man made her nervous in a way she’d never felt before. She drained her coffee and stood up. She wasn’t due on duty for another three-quarters of an hour and it felt like the day was already half-over.

‘I have patients to see on the ward then a list of out-patient appointments. Have you met whoever you’ll be working under in A and E?’

‘Anxious to be rid of me?’ Carlos asked.

‘Anxious to get to work,’ Marty retorted, although her habit of getting to work an hour or two early had only begun with Natalie’s admission. Since Emmaline’s birth, she’d been coming to work earlier and earlier, checking the baby first, then tackling paperwork, so she could free up small pockets of time later in the day to spend with the newborn infant.

‘Not up to the NICU?’ Carlos said, as Marty stood up and moved towards the sink with her coffee mug.

Marty spun towards him.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Exactly what I said! If you were not in the habit of visiting Emmaline before you started work each morning, I have seriously misjudged you.’

‘And is that good or bad—this misjudgement thing?’

He held up his hands as she had earlier.

‘It is neither. I have spoken clumsily. I am trying to say that I appreciate what you have done, and realise you have grown attached to the baby. I have nothing against you continuing to visit her. In fact, I would appreciate it.’

‘Why?’ Marty demanded. ‘Because you have no intention of providing involvement yourself? Because working here is more important to you than getting to know your own baby? A few dozen scalpels, some old autoclave machines and a clutch of crutches for some people in Sudan are more important than your own flesh and blood?’

She took a deep breath, hoping it might calm her down, then added, ‘You’re right, I have been coming early and, yes, my first visit was usually to either the ICU or latterly the NICU, but the baby’s father is here now, so she doesn’t need me.’

‘You called her “the baby”,’ Carlos said, the accusation in his voice mirrored in his eyes. ‘So, having provided her with a bond, you’ll now drop her—even drop the name you gave her? Well, I won’t. I’ll call her Emmaline and tell the nurses and doctors to do the same, and your friends will use the name and you will be the loser.’

He stood up and followed her path, carrying his cup to the sink.

‘But Emmaline will also lose,’ he continued. ‘She will miss your company, your touch, your voice, and maybe have a setback—develop one of the complications so prevalent in low birth weight babies.’

He put down his cup and stood looking down at her.

‘Is this fair to Emmaline? You may not like me, Martina Cox, but would you jeopardise that baby’s health because of personal antagonism?’

It was a great exit line, Marty had to admit. She was still staring at the empty doorway minutes later. All she’d wanted to do was give him a clear field to get to know his child, and the wretch had twisted things around so she was the bad guy in this scenario.

Could Emmaline suffer a setback if she no longer visited the NICU? Right on cue, her mind conveniently produced a list of all the things that could beset such infants—hypoglycaemia, pulmonary insufficiency, apnoea and bradycardia—not to mention SIDS.

She’d have to work out a programme so she could visit Emmaline at unexpected times when Carlos was unlikely to be there, and though this would eventually make it harder for her to separate from Emmaline, at least she’d be sending home a well and contented infant.

She’d worry about her own contentment at a later date.

This would have worked if Carlos hadn’t also chosen one of Marty’s unexpected times to visit his daughter. Or maybe someone had contacted him to tell him it was feeding time, for he was holding Emmaline in his arms, peering down into her crinkled face, a look of bemusement on his usually impassive features.

Marty backed down the corridor, right into Sophie, who was heading for the unit.

‘He looks as if he’s holding an unexploded bomb,’ Sophie remarked, nodding towards the tall man with the little pink bundle clutched gingerly to his chest.

‘I think he might see her in those terms,’ Marty replied. ‘He feels she’s already wreaked havoc in his life, he’s just not sure when the next upheaval will take place.’

‘Right about now,’ Sophie predicted as a nurse approached with a feeding bottle. But although she proffered it to Carlos, he shook his head, handing back the baby with the tense arms of a man who was indeed holding a bomb.

‘That’s no way to bond with her,’ Marty snorted, and was about to stride into the room and tell him so, but Sophie held her back.

‘He has to do it in his own way and in his own time, Marty,’ Sophie reminded her friend. ‘You can’t force someone to love their child. Love’s organic—it needs time and nurturing in order to grow.’

Sophie spoke with the conviction of a woman deeply in love and Marty forbore to point out it had taken Gib and his new bride all of three weeks to decide they were made for each other, all of six weeks before they’d married.

But Sophie’s words were comforting in a very different way, confirming Marty’s belief that what she was feeling towards Carlos was a purely physical reaction and nothing whatsoever to do with love.

‘I’d better go,’ she said to Sophie, as Carlos moved towards the public exit from the NICU.

‘You won’t stay and feed her?’

Marty felt the ache in her chest that could only be alleviated by cuddling that small bundle in her arms, but the nurse would cuddle Emmaline and talk to her as she fed her and what was that, if not human interaction? It was during the time between feeds and changing that Emmaline needed company…

‘I’ve got to wean myself away from her,’ Marty explained, and Sophie, understanding, gave her a hug.

But avoiding Carlos was less easy. She had barely finished a planned Caesarean delivery of triplets when she was called to A and E—an ambulance bringing in a teenager with severe abdominal pain and vaginal bleeding.

Marty beat the ambulance, but not by much, and wasn’t surprised to find Carlos by her side as the attendants wheeled the young woman, looking childlike in her green and white checked school uniform, into the trauma room.

‘Regan Collins, fifteen, BP 120 over 65, pulse 90 and firm, temp 99.3, severe cramps and bleeding,’ the ambo recited as he handed over the paperwork. ‘We have her on fluid replacement but haven’t done anything for the pain.’

‘Because she could be pregnant,’ Marty murmured under her breath to Carlos.

She stepped forward and introduced herself to Regan, who looked as if she needed a hug more than medication.

‘You’ll be OK,’ Marty reassured her instead. ‘We’ll take a look at you and see what’s what.’

The girl grasped her hand and squeezed it tightly, fever-bright eyes looking pleadingly into Marty’s.