Amelia clamped her lips tightly shut so the things she’d have liked to yell at him didn’t escape. Instead she stood up, gave him one final black look and flung open the door.
Which was when her control broke.
‘Thanks for nothing!’ she snapped. ‘And don’t bother asking for my help next time you have an emergency intubation or a cardiac arrest because I’ll be too busy organising staff schedules and doing my own paperwork.’
She slammed the door behind her and stormed down the corridor, heading for her locker, where she retrieved her handbag, but was still too furious to realise she should also have grabbed her jacket. It might be nearly spring in Southern Queensland, but the evenings were still chilly.
Mac watched the door reverberate, and dismissed the faint twinge of regret down deep where his conscience used to be. He assured himself he’d made the right decision, but he felt bad about disappointing Peterson. She was the finest A and E nurse he’d come across. Not that she’d carry out her threat of not assisting him when he needed it. She was far too dedicated to not help where she was needed.
Wasn’t she?
The phone rang before he had time to answer his own question.
He hated the phone almost as much as he hated paperwork.
‘Mac!’ he bellowed into the receiver—knowing such an intimidatory tactic could make wimpy callers hang up.
‘Your phone-answering skills haven’t improved.’
Cool amusement in a so-familiar voice!
‘Helene?’
‘How are you, Mac?’
‘I’m sure you’re not phoning to enquire about my health,’ he told her bluntly, knowing his frown lines were growing deeper by the millisecond, though his ex-wife was close to two thousand kilometres away.
‘No, I’m not. You haven’t returned your A4726.’
Mac took a very deep breath, but that didn’t stop the explosion.
‘Like hell!’ he bellowed into the inoffensive instrument now clutched in a white-knuckled hand. ‘I haven’t a clue what your A-whatever is when it’s at home, but I do know that Ms Running-the-Federal-Health-Department Clinton sure as hell isn’t in charge of collecting them. You must have dozens of minions—hundreds most likely—doing those little menial tasks for you.’
‘The A4726 is part of an Australia-wide survey of A and E Departments, designed for analysis and evaluation of resources available to patient-specific sectors of the community.’
Mac rubbed his pounding temple. ‘Please, tell me you didn’t just say that, Helene?’ he begged. ‘Please, tell me I couldn’t have married someone capable of such painfully bureaucratic mumbo-jumbo?’
‘Don’t play games, Mac,’ Helene said crisply. ‘I’ve been at parties where you’ve bored people rigid with medical jargon. You could bore for Australia on emergency medicine. Anyway, I would have thought filling in the A4726 would have been to your distinct advantage.’
Helene suggesting something to his advantage?
The same Helene who’d left him stuck in a dingy townhouse they’d once bought as an investment because she’d had the nous to hire a divorce lawyer while he’d had some ludicrous idea they could discuss the distribution of their assets like adults?
Adults! Ha! Even a child could divide by two.
‘Well?’
The demand made him shake his head in an effort to get back to the present. The movement reminded him of the headache.
‘Well, what?’ he said stupidly, thinking headache relief not paperwork, and using his free hand to rummage through the mess on his desk in search of a blister pack of paracetamol he knew he had somewhere.
‘Well, didn’t you realise when you read it just how advantageous it could be to you? As the only specialist A and E director in Lakelands, a rationalisation of the A and E departments in the city would be to your advantage. St Pat’s would be sure to get the nod as the main trauma centre, and you’d get funding for extra staff and equipment, plus a bigger annual budget. And I’m just talking Federal funds. Because health is primarily a state concern, the State would come to the party as well. They’re finally seeing the wisdom of rationalisation.’
Mac put his hand across his forehead and tried squeezing his temples, but that didn’t help either the headache or his understanding.
‘Maybe Colleen—’ he began, but Helene cut him short.
‘Don’t blame your secretary because you’re hopeless at paperwork. Honestly, Mac, I thought you might have grown up by now. At least matured enough to realise that the record-keeping you so despise is just as important as the patients you treat.’
He shook his head in disbelief, not so much that anyone could actually think such a thing but that he’d once been in love with someone—a fellow doctor at that—who held so divergent a view of medicine. The head-shaking didn’t help the headache and his searching fingers were yet to find a packet of paracetamol among the debris on his desk.
‘I’ll find the form, I’ll fill it in,’ he promised, willing to do anything to get Helene off the phone.
‘Oh, I’m not ringing about that,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Although the sooner you get it in the better. I’m ringing to say I’ll be in Lakelands for a couple of days. We’ve built a conceptual representation of the situation but need to do some on-site work, and we’ll be starting there.’
‘Conceptual representation?’ Mac repeated helplessly. He’d found the blister pack but, of course, his coffee-cup was completely empty and there was no other fluid within reach. ‘What the hell are you talking about now?’
Maybe he could chew the tablets and swallow them dry.
He’d probably choke to death…
‘Don’t pull the dumb act on me, Mac,’ Helene said. ‘Not that it matters whether you understand or not. I’ll be up there and I thought we might get together. I’d really like to, actually. There’s someone I want you to meet.’
Mac felt his gut tighten. He and Helene had been separated for five years and divorced for three, and the strongest emotion he’d felt at any stage had been relief. Now apprehension was creeping in, and a whole lot of doubt.
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s important to me,’ she said, then she added the clincher. ‘Please, Mac?’
It had taken a while but he’d finally trained himself to say no to any requests that didn’t ultimately help his work or, on increasingly rare occasions, provide pleasure in his life. Hadn’t he just managed it with Peterson?
But before he could utter the simple syllable, Helene said ‘please’ again, and he found ‘Well, if you must!’ coming out instead.
‘Great,’ she purred. ‘We’ll be arriving in town Saturday morning. I’ll get my secretary to book at Capriccio’s. Eight suit you?’
Still recovering from his capitulation, he must have made a garbled noise which Helene took for agreement. Or perhaps she’d simply assumed he’d agree—taken his compliance for granted.
‘Shall I make it for four?’
Four?
Mac lifted the receiver away from his ear and frowned at it, before returning it to position to say, ‘I thought you said eight?’
Low musical laughter.
‘Table for four, you dolt! Surely you’re seeing someone by now?’
‘Seeing someone? Oh! Yes. Of course. Eight at Capriccio’s.’
Mac hung up, then stared blankly into space. Actually he stared blankly ahead, which meant he saw more of his office door than the space.
Office door.
Slamming shut…
Peterson.
He shot out of his chair, crossed the room in two strides, flung open the door and launched himself down the corridor, bellowing ‘Peterson!’ as he went.
‘She’s gone!’ One of the scrub-clad figures hurrying in the other direction pointed towards the staff exit. ‘I saw her shoot through there about five minutes ago.’
Mac followed, hoping he might catch her in the car park. If she had a car…He frowned into the light-brightened area, tr
ying to remember if he’d ever seen Peterson parking a car here—driving a car.
Of course she had a car. Hadn’t he driven her home a couple of times when they’d had a late meeting and it had been being serviced?
The blare of a horn and headlights striking him simultaneously reminded him of where he was, and he stepped back between a row of parked cars. The approaching vehicle stopped, and a familiar head poked out the driver’s window.
‘Feeling so guilty about saying no you’re trying to commit suicide, Mac?’
‘Peterson!’ He greeted the taunting voice with relief. ‘I was looking for you. I wanted to tell you I’d changed my mind.’
The place was well lit enough for him to see the shifts in her expression. Disbelief, fleeting pleasure, then suspicion—the changes as rapid as eye blinks.
‘Why?’
‘So you’d know, of course. The next meeting isn’t until next week, but I’ll bring it up. In the meantime, if we could get together so you can explain it more fully…’
She was frowning now, and the suspicious look had become more marked. Nobody’s fool, Peterson.
‘I meant why did you change your mind, not why were you looking for me,’ she said gruffly.
‘Actually, Peterson, it’s a quid pro quo thing. I’ve a favour to ask of you.’
Ignoring the fact that her car—one of those midget four-wheel-drive vehicles that were proliferating on the roads these days—was blocking the exit lane, she turned off the engine and opened the door, leaping out to land in front of him.
‘You’ve a favour to ask of me?’ she repeated, totally overdoing the incredulity. ‘And if I say yes, you’ll raise the primary nursing issue with the MAC?’
Mac nodded, although, now she’d put it so bluntly, he was beginning to feel a little uncomfortable.
‘It’s a legitimate trade,’ he stressed, looking down into her face which with the play of light and shadow had taken on an even more elfin look—all cheekbones and wide eyes, narrowing to a sultry mouth and pointed chin. ‘Favour for a favour.’
The suspicion didn’t shift.
‘My favour is for the good of the department,’ she said, wrapping her arms around her shoulders as if she was cold. ‘Not even so much a favour as a simple, work-related request.’
‘Yes, well, mine is too,’ Mac hastened to assure her, remembering Helene saying something about how filling out some blasted form would be to St Pat’s benefit.
Amelia rubbed warmth into her arms and looked up at him. Every instinct in her body was telling her to walk away—actually, she’d get back into her car and drive away, but walk away was how her nerves were putting it.
But setting up the in-service training process in A and E was important to her, and what could Mac possibly ask that would be so distasteful she’d rather lose his cooperation than say yes?
‘What’s the favour?’
‘You don’t have to sound so suspicious,’ he grumbled. ‘It’s perfectly simple. All I want you to do is have dinner with me on Saturday night.’
‘Have dinner with you on Saturday night? As in a date, Mac?’
He glared at her.
‘Of course it’s not a date. Just dinner.’
‘With you?’
She was aware she must sound half-witted, but it was like some huge mathematical puzzle so involved her brain refused to process even the simple bits of information.
‘With me,’ he confirmed. ‘Capriccio’s at eight. OK?’
This, too, was bizarre enough to bear repeating, but she had a feeling she’d been repeating things since the strange conversation had begun so made a conscious effort not to do it again. She looked up into his face, wishing she could read the expression in his usually expressive eyes, but with the light behind him his face was nothing more than a dark blur.
‘And if I do this, you’ll bring up the primary nursing process at the next MAC meeting?’
He nodded.
‘You promise?’
‘Oh, for Pete’s sake, Peterson, what do you want? A neon sign? An oath signed in blood? I’ve said I’ll do it and I will. Have you something to wear?’
It was all too much for Amelia. She felt the tickle of a giggle start deep inside her, but she held back the laughter that wanted to follow.
‘No, Mac, I’ll come naked,’ she said, allowing a chuckle to escape as she shook her head at him. ‘Honestly!’
She was still laughing as she climbed back into her car, started the engine, tooted the horn at him, still standing between two parked cars, and drove off into the night.
CHAPTER TWO
THOUGH Amelia had continued chuckling all the way home—the thought of Mac being driven to bargain for a date was hilarious—by the time she reported to work the next morning, she was more apprehensive than amused.
What was on at Capriccio’s that Mac needed a date?
And where were all the women he was supposed to have on a string? Back when his marriage had broken up, rumour had had it he’d been at fault, and though Amelia had never seen him out with anyone, or known of anyone in the hospital dating him, she was reasonably certain an attractive and obviously virile man like Mac would have women falling over themselves to go out with him.
‘Ha! You’re here. I need you in cubicle four. There’s a cardiac arrest in three. We’ve stabilised him but now the wife’s collapsed. I want the crash team to stay with the man until we’re sure he won’t arrest again. You check out the woman.’
Amelia accepted Mac’s orders with equanimity, even relief, for this was the Mac she knew, prowling A and E, taking charge of difficult cases, giving orders right, left and centre. From the way he sounded, he certainly hadn’t been harbouring any hidden desire for her which had suddenly resulted in the previous evening’s invitation.
She walked into cubicle four, where a woman was being lifted onto a trolley.
‘Put her on her side,’ she told the orderlies, moving closer so she could angle the woman’s head to clear her airway. At the same time, her mind ranged through possible causes for the collapse, the most likely being delayed shock. While her husband had needed her she’d managed to keep going, but once assured he was receiving the best professional attention she’d relaxed. Just a little too much.
Amelia began her visual assessment, at the same time attaching a cardio-respiratory and pulse oximeter monitor.
‘I’ll take blood—the doctor will want to check, particularly the blood-sugar level,’ she told the junior who’d arrived to assist.
The woman stirred, then opened her eyes.
Amelia saw the panic in them even before the patient tried to sit up.
‘I’m not sick, it’s my husband. He had a heart attack. Where is he? Why am I here?’
Amelia explained, reassuring the woman her husband was receiving the very best of care in the cubicle next door. Then she began the routine questioning of the patient, writing details on a new admittance form, knowing a lot more would be added before the patient—Mrs Creed—went home.
Rick Stewart, the A and E registrar on duty, came in, and Amelia handed him the form, then excused herself as she was paged to report to Triage.
Sally Spender, the triage nurse on duty, was surrounded by a group of wailing, shouting people, several of them holding children. The women’s head coverings as well as their dark beauty, suggested they belonged to the large Muslim population in the suburbs surrounding the hospital.
‘Looks like food poisoning,’ Sally said, pushing her way through the group towards Amelia. ‘Can you give me a hand sorting the sick from the panickers?’
Amelia chose the tallest man in the group.
‘Can you speak English?’ she asked him, and he nodded.
‘And the rest of them? If I speak to them in English, will they understand?’
‘Some will, but not the women. Not all the women.’ He corrected himself carefully.
‘Then could you, please, ask them all to sit down? I will see each of them in turn and st
art treatment, then the doctor will see those who are the sickest first. OK?’
The man nodded, and turned towards the crowd, speaking to them in a language that sounded strangely musical to Amelia.
Whatever he said, it worked, for the group shuffled towards vacant chairs and, one by one, sat. Sally whipped down the line, handing out kidney dishes in case anyone needed one, while Amelia waited until she was done before speaking to the man, who introduced himself as Taraq, again.
‘Will you come with me in case I need someone to translate? The hospital has a translator but it will take time to page her and get her down here so it’s quicker this way.’
She moved towards the group as she spoke, visually assessing them, choosing first a woman with a small child of about two cradled in her arms.
‘Can you tell me what happened?’ she asked Taraq, as she checked the child’s pulse.
‘We have a special day today, and after morning prayers a special feast. Not a lot of food, just rice cakes and sweetmeats. Then, so soon, people began to feel sick.’
‘Pre-cooked rice can harbour nasty bacteria,’ Amelia told him, knowing the incident would have to be reported and any leftover food tested.
‘Or the sweetmeats,’ Taraq said. ‘We have brought samples as we know you will need these.’
He pointed to a number of foil-wrapped parcels on the reception desk.
‘Very good thinking,’ Amelia told him, bending to speak to an elderly woman who was doubled over with pain. ‘Now, if you could tell this lady I want to take her to a treatment room…’
Taraq translated, and though Amelia tried to help, a younger man set her firmly aside, saying, ‘I will take her and wait with her, speak for her.’
‘That is her grandson,’ her translator explained. ‘She adheres to the old ways. It would not be right for her to be seen by a doctor without a male of her family present.’
‘Fair enough,’ Amelia said, directing another patient, a young toddler accompanied by his father, to another treatment room.
The Pregnancy Proposition Page 2