Doctor's Orders

by Ann Jennings

  “I don’t think you would have had much success,” observed Mike shrewdly, “I know Hugh of old.”

  “So do I, remember?” said Isabel pointedly. “So you see, I don’t need your help,” she added ungratefully. The words were out before she could stop them. She immediately regretted them, but there was something about his superior attitude that annoyed her. He seemed to imply that she was incapable of dealing with Hugh.

  “Ungrateful little wretch,” he commented, his mouth twisting with a wry grin. “Anyway, it wasn’t completely altruistic on my part.”

  Puzzled, Isabel looked up. “It wasn’t?” she enquired.

  He grinned suddenly, and folded his long arms tightly around her. “Of course not,” he replied lightly, looking down at her with an odd expression which Isabel found impossible to understand. “I wanted to dance with you. I am entitled to dance with the girl I work with, aren’t I?”

  “Well…of course, yes,” murmured Isabel, trying to keep her wayward thoughts in order. She tried to remind herself that he was still in love with Sarah, and that Sarah was living with him. It was foolish to allow herself to enjoy the magic of his arms, the tender feeling as if her bones were melting. But the longing engulfed her, to be held forever in his arms. After all, life was for living wasn’t it? Why shouldn’t she enjoy this snatched moment? Even if it was to be only a few fleeting seconds of her life. As she relaxed against him, she was sure that she felt his lips brush against her temple, in the faintest whisper of a kiss.

  Then a laugh shattered the precious moment, “This is an excuse me, isn’t it?” It was Cliff’s voice.

  Abruptly Mike dropped his arms to his side, releasing Isabel. “You seem to be in great demand,” he said, “I mustn’t stand in the way of true love!”

  Pain clouded Isabel’s eyes. She wished she could tell him how mistaken he was. But how could she say, you are my true love! She could just imagine his horrified reaction! So, masking her chaotic thoughts, she smiled a cool composed smile, thanked him for the dance, and moved smoothly into Cliffs arms as they continued with the dance.

  “What on earth did he mean? Standing in the way of true love?” asked Cliff as soon as Mike was out of earshot.

  Isabel blushed, she had thought Cliff hadn’t overheard. “He seems to have some mistaken notion where you and I are concerned,” she admitted, looking embarrassed.

  Cliff laughed. “Don’t look so worried. I know exactly where I stand in your affections.” He pulled a rueful face. “Just good friends, that’s us, isn’t it?”

  “Oh Cliff, I don’t deserve to have a friend like you,” said Isabel impulsively. Then she remembered Mike’s insinuations about Cliff, “But I understand that your relationships aren’t usually so platonic!”

  It was Cliff’s turn to look embarrassed. “Must be old age,” he said, “I’m losing my touch! Come on,” he led the way back to the table where Sally and Pete were already sitting, another round of drinks ready and waiting.

  “Who’s driving?” asked Isabel a little anxiously, as the drinks were handed round.

  “Don’t worry,” said Sally with a giggle, “we’re leaving the car here, we’ve booked a taxi back.”

  “But…” Isabel began.

  “I’ll pick up the car tomorrow,” said Pete. “Stop worrying.”

  The words were hardly out of his mouth before Mike and Sarah came across. “May we join you?” asked Mike. He looked down at the table top, littered with glasses. To Isabel’s annoyance she thought she saw a disapproving look flit momentarily across his face, and his mouth tighten. None of his damned business, she thought irritably. If we all get dead drunk and collapse in a heap, it’s still none of his business!

  “We’re taking a taxi back,” she couldn’t resist saying defiantly, indicating the glasses with a wave of her hand.

  “I’m sure you have things perfectly under control,” he said silkily, pulling a chair out for Sarah, “you usually have!”

  “Which is more than can be said for you, darling,” said Sarah.

  Isabel looked at her out of the corner of her eye, not wanting to appear rude and stare. Sarah’s voice had more than a hint of bitterness and despair in it. Sally had noticed too, but she wasn’t as discreet as Isabel, and was staring curiously in an open fashion.

  “Mike might be a good doctor,” Sarah continued, turning to Isabel, “but as far as sorting other things out, well…he’s turning out to be hopeless!”

  “Oh…” Isabel was at a loss for words, there was really no answer to a statement like that.

  Mike said nothing, but his face was as black as thunder. An uneasy silence fell around the table. Even Sally was quiet for once. Isabel sipped her drink and covertly studied Mike. What was it between him and Sarah? For someone in love, someone who had come running back, Sarah seemed positively…What was the word, she puzzled. Angry and unhappy, yes, that was it. They’ve probably had a lover’s tiff, she thought, suddenly feeling sorry for them both. It was a little like she and Hugh had been when they were engaged; somehow they had always seemed to row in very public places, so she knew the feeling well.

  “Will you be here long?” she asked Sarah. It was something to say more than anything else. Someone had to break the uneasy silence. “I believe you’re a model. It must be very exciting.”

  “It’s boring,” said Sarah, with an air of tedium, as she lit a cigarette in a long black holder. “The only good thing about it is the money.”

  Isabel laughed. “I wouldn’t mind being bored if I got paid for it,” she said. “Nurses don’t get paid much, you know.”

  “You get paid what you’re worth, I imagine,” replied Sarah in a disinterested voice. She looked at Isabel, her glance raking her from top to toe. “If you did something with yourself, you could look quite decent. You’re tall, you could probably even get the odd job with a small modelling agency.”

  Perhaps she did intend it as a compliment. Isabel tried to tell herself charitably that it was, even though Sarah’s tone wasn’t complimentary. Somehow she had managed to convey in those few words that Isabel was a small-town frump, and not for the first time that evening Isabel wished she had worn something different.

  “I think Isabel looks perfect the way she is,” said Cliff gallantly, “don’t you, Mike?”

  “Yes,” said Mike quietly, “I much prefer the dress you are wearing to the theatre dresses.”

  “Anything would been improvement on those,” said Sarah sarcastically, flicking the ash carelessly from her cigarette towards the ash tray. “I’ll have another drink, darling. Make it a double Scotch.”

  “Let me,” said Cliff, standing quickly, “Mike, anything for you?”

  Mike shook his head. “I’m driving,” he said shortly. Then as Cliff disappeared in the direction of the bar, he turned to Isabel, “Would you care for this dance?”

  “Well…er, I,” Isabel was embarrassed. Sarah was obviously sulking, and she didn’t want to be the cause of further friction. However, her deliberations were cut short, as he leaned down, and grasping her wrist drew her up to face him. There was no choice but to follow him meekly on to the dance floor. “Sarah might be offended,” she muttered as they started dancing.

  “Sarah?” Mike stared at her, surprise written all over his face. “She couldn’t care less who I dance with. She didn’t want to come at all this evening, I made her. Hence her bad temper!” Without waiting for any further comment he swept her masterfully into the middle of the dance floor.

  So that accounts for it, thought Isabel miserably. He is using me to make her jealous, I’m a pawn in their game. But as he held her close, the same old magnetism of his presence began to work. Stubbornly Isabel resisted it, as the surge of anger at the thought of being used, grew within her. Involuntarily she stiffened in his arms, resisting the seductive magic of his body.

  “You didn’t tell me the truth,
did you?” his voice cut through her anger and misery. “Remember? You told me that there was nothing interesting about you.” He laughed. To Isabel’s ears it sounded harsh. “Being able to keep two men dangling helplessly on a string makes you interesting in my book. In fact it puts you in a class of your own!”

  “What do you mean?” demanded Isabel, glaring at him, although his next words came as no surprise to her. They merely confirmed her suspicions that he had hopelessly misjudged the whole situation.

  “Why, Hugh and Cliff, of course,” he answered lightly. “There is my poor friend Hugh drinking too much because his fiancée jilted him, and then there is the eligible surgeon, Cliff.” Isabel opened her mouth to protest but he continued in a cutting voice. “I gather you are doing a splendid job where he is concerned, even getting him to move you into your new flat.”

  “It’s none of your damned business what I do,” flashed Isabel, an irrepressible rage swamping her. Pride forbade her to explain, to tell him that he had everything wrong, that she hadn’t jilted Hugh, it had been the other way round. Let him think what he wanted! But her rage made her reckless, and she couldn’t resist adding, “Talking about being in a class of your own, I think that description fits you very aptly!” She spat the words out angrily.

  “Oh?” If he had been about to say anything else Isabel didn’t give him the opportunity.

  “I despise a man who lives with his brother’s wife,” she hissed in a low voice. “But I should have known that a man who can ask a girl to go to bed after one meal, is capable of anything!” Impatiently she twisted out of his arms, angry with him, and, more over, angry with herself for still being attracted to him in spite of everything. “I’m going,” she flung back the words over her shoulder.

  “I can see that,” came his dry reply, “I don’t know why I ever bothered to rescue you from your drunken fiancé.”

  “Ex-fiancé,” hissed Isabel. “Anyway, nobody asked you to.” She paused momentarily as they were nearly back to the table, “Just stay away from me altogether.”

  “That will be rather difficult, we work together,” he pointed out smoothly. To her fury, his voice even sounded faintly amused.

  “It can be very easy,” replied Isabel icily. “You can behave like a robot, the way you did when I first met you. I prefer you that way!” There was a choking noise behind her which she ignored as she marched back to the table and sat down.

  “Quick dance?” said Sally, a questioning note in her voice.

  “Too crowded,” lied Isabel coolly, flashing Mike a look, daring him to comment. He didn’t, just reached across and picked up his beer.

  Sarah stood up. “I’m ready to go, Mike,” she said. “Goodbye everyone, it’s been lovely meeting you.” Without waiting, she started to walk away, and Isabel noticed, with resentment tinged with sadness, how quickly Mike got up and followed her.

  “It’s been lovely meeting you,” Sally mimicked her voice. “What a liar, she couldn’t care less, poisonous bitch! I can’t think what Mike sees in her.”

  “She’s very lovely,” said Isabel miserably watching their retreating backs as they were swallowed up in the crowd. She noticed that Hugh joined them. “My poor friend Hugh” Mike’s words came back to her. If only he knew. Not that he would have believed her, even if she had told him the truth. The unjustness of it all made Isabel see red. Trust Hugh to play on his friend’s sympathy. Men, she thought bitterly, I’m better off without them!

  As if by tacit agreement, no mention was made again of Sarah and Mike, and the rest of the evening passed by pleasantly. At least, Isabel made a pretence of enjoying herself, everyone else obviously was, and she didn’t want to be a wet blanket. But in reality Mike’s accusing words were ringing round and round in her head, and although she tried to tell herself it didn’t matter a jot what he thought of her, it did. It mattered more than anything else in the world. Even if he can’t love me, she thought dully, I wish he could think well of me. She had spoilt any chance of that, she had let fly at him a salvo of verbal darts, each one with a deadly poisoned tip!

  Chapter Eight

  Isabel dreaded Monday. In spite of her defiant words to Mike, telling him she didn’t care, she was filled with apprehension at the thought of seeing him. All day Sunday her mind had wandered back to thoughts of him, she had wondered what he and Sarah had been doing. Imagining them settling their difference of opinion, sitting cosily together in his kitchen at breakfast, looking out on to his beautifully neat garden. She supposed Sarah would get a divorce and eventually marry Mike. The thought was like a physical pain, bringing home the realisation that she had fallen even harder for Mike Blakeney than she had at first imagined.

  However, Monday duly arrived, there was no putting it off and Isabel started the weekly routine in the anaesthetic room. Subconsciously, in order to keep her edgy thoughts from straying, Isabel paid extra meticulous attention to everything, working like a demon, as if her life depended on it.

  Steve Holden came in and looked at her curiously. “I know you’re a perfectionist,” he said, “but this morning you are verging on the point of the ridiculous.”

  “There’s nothing ridiculous about being careful,” snapped Isabel, “someone’s life may depend on it.”

  “You don’t have to tell me that,” he replied, pulling a face, “don’t you think I know how hazardous anaesthesia is? Even if the surgeons do think it’s just a case of giving a quick whiff!” He came across to Isabel, “What I should have said was, you look a bit tense. Had a bad weekend? I know how it feels,” he continued morosely, “I had several pints too many last night, my head feels as if it’s filled with cotton wool.” He groaned dramatically.

  “I’ve no sympathy for you,” said Isabel severely, “you’d best get yourself a strong cup of coffee before we start.”

  Steve grinned irrepressibly, Isabel’s bad humour bouncing off of him like water off of a duck’s back. “Yes, perhaps I had, don’t want to upset our lord and master by making a mistake!”

  However, he never had the chance for a coffee because at that moment the tall figure of the senior anaesthetist strode through the doors. “Everything ready?” he barked tersely.

  “Yes,” Isabel looked up as she spoke. She hadn’t expected him to be exactly friendly after the harsh words they had exchanged at the dance, but then neither had she expected him to come charging in as if disaster was about to strike any moment.

  “Good,” he said briefly. “Forget the published theatre list. We’re starting with an emergency, an RTA, in casualty now. A nineteen-year-old girl, severe internal injuries. I’ve already cross-matched 12 units of whole blood, but we’ll have to use the O-negative in the fridge to start with, until the cross-matched blood gets here from transfusion.”

  The moment his words were out, Isabel switched on to the matter in hand. At times like this all personal thoughts flew out of the window, there was only one thought in everyone’s mind, the patient. “I’ll get the O-negative out of the fridge now,” said Isabel moving swiftly towards the door, “Steve, will you get the blood warmer ready please.” Outwardly she was calm, but inwardly her mind was racing ahead, trying to anticipate any other needs. How long would the cross-matched blood take to arrive? Should she get some plasma expander ready just in case?

  Mike followed her through the swing doors into the corridor outside the anaesthetic room. “Get some plasma expander, as much as you can,” he said, as if he had been reading her mind. “I’ve a horrible feeling we’re going to need it all.”

  Isabel smiled briefly at him as she went on her way; he hadn’t read her mind. The fact that they both worked in theatre, meant their minds were closely attuned, running on the same wavelength. That was always a comforting thought when faced with an emergency situation.

  Isabel had only just finished the preparation for major traumatic surgery when the girl was wheeled in. She had already been resusc
itated once in casualty, and was in a severely shocked condition. Intravenous therapy had already been started.

  Mike came into the anaesthetic room and Isabel noticed he was scrubbed. “I’m going to put in a cannula, using the cut-down technique,” he said, seeing her surprised glance at his rubber gloved hands. “If she survives she is going to need massive blood replacement, and this will be her best chance.”

  Without a word Isabel deftly put all the items he needed on a sterile trolley. Everything was already prepacked and autoclaved, so not a moment was lost. Carefully, she tore open the packets, taking care not to touch any of the contents. Soon the girl was on the table in theatre, Bill Goldsmith peering over her, the brilliant lights of the operating lamps shining down on the tense team. Without a need for words, everyone sensed that this was no ordinary trauma case, but a very serious one indeed. It was strange, Isabel reflected, in a way everyone felt easier when they could actually see blood, but internal injuries were another thing. It was a fear of the unknown, how bad was it going to be?

  Carefully the surgeon made his incision, then he let out a long sigh. “Liver ripped to shreds,” he muttered.

  “Situation retrievable?” asked Mike curtly, watching his monitors closely.

  “I’m going to have a damned good try,” replied Bill Goldsmith grimly, “get plenty of blood ready, Mike.”

  “It’s ready,” replied the anaesthetist, “we’ve already got it going.” He looked up at the transfusion set, the dark red O-negative blood dripping steadily down the tubing. “Even so, I’m having difficulty in maintaining a decent blood pressure, be as quick as you can.”

  After that there was silence. Bill Goldsmith and his team worked on, cutting, stitching, cutting, stitching, while Mike, Isabel and Steve monitored and changed the blood bags when they were empty. They used the six units of O-negative, and then the cross-matched blood. Isabel had thought twelve units rather excessive to start with, but now she could see they would probably use it all, plus the plasma expander. She glanced at her watch. They had been in theatre four hours already. No one had stopped, the thought of coffee or lunch hadn’t even crossed their minds. She looked at the face of the girl on the table, pale, slightly cyanosed, the tubing from her mouth connecting her to the life-giving oxygen. She’s too young to die, thought Isabel, willing her to live. Please, oh please, let Mr Goldsmith stop the bleeding, she thought fervently, but it was no use. After eight solid hours in theatre the girl died quietly on the operating table. All the blood and plasma they had poured into her had merely poured out again through the many injuries she had sustained.