She then paused and took stock. She knew no patient should leave A and E without being seen by a doctor, but some of these people were more scared than ill. They were also, as far as triage—the system of sorting the most ill from the least ill—was concerned, way down the list as far as priority for seeing a doctor went. Which meant they might be waiting for a long time, and from previous experience she knew this could sometimes be construed as racial bias.
Tread carefully, she warned herself, before turning back to the man she’d appointed as her helper.
‘Now, if you could explain to them all that, although they are feeling bad right now, we cannot give them anything that will make them feel better immediately.’
Taraq, who until then had been treating her with some respect, gave her a look of total disbelief.
‘But you are hospital!’ he said.
‘Yes, I know,’ Amelia explained. ‘But here’s what happens. Although we won’t know for sure what bacteria caused the illness until the food is tested, we can narrow it down to a couple of possibilities because these people felt sick so soon after eating. The names won’t mean much to you, but I’d say it was either Staphylococcus aureus or Bacillus cercus. Other bacterial sicknesses take longer to show up, something in the region of twelve to thirty-six hours.’
Taraq nodded, but was still looking unhappily at his compatriots who sat in a miserable line on the waiting room chairs.
‘Now, though the symptoms these people are experiencing are unpleasant, they aren’t life-threatening. Very young people and very old people are more at risk because of dehydration, which can affect the body’s functioning, but we’ll do something about that. With this type of food poisoning, it’s better to let it work its way out of the system. If we give patients drugs to stop them vomiting, it also stops the toxin’s progress through the body so, unless vomiting is very severe, we don’t treat it.’
She looked hopefully at Taraq.
‘Do you understand all that?’
He nodded again, though he obviously wasn’t happy.
‘They must stay sick?’
‘For a little while,’ Amelia said. ‘Though we’ll do something to stop it if the vomiting becomes severe. In the meantime, I can organise special drinks for all those who’ve been sick, to help rehydrate them and restore the balance of the various chemicals in their bodies.’
He seemed more pleased now, so Amelia decided she’d better get to the bit she didn’t particularly want to mention, but knew she had to if she wanted to avoid any issues of bias in the treatment of the group.
‘The main problem is, they should all stay until they’ve seen a doctor, but, because they aren’t emergency cases, other people might be called to see a doctor sooner than your friends will, although they have been here longer. We work on the severity of the case, rather than first come first served. Do you understand that?’
The frown became a scowl, but at that moment a doctor was paged and asked to go to treatment room three, the one the old lady occupied, and Amelia seized the initiative.
‘You see, she will be seen right now, because of the risk for older people, and the children will be seen next, as soon as there’s a doctor available. It is only those less ill who might have to wait.’
At that moment, the wide doors wheezed open and a young man entered, his left hand supporting his right arm just above the wrist. Blood was pouring from a wound at the base of his thumb and splashing onto the floor.
‘I see now. It is right you fix that young man first. I will explain this.’
Sally was already with the young man, wrapping a towel around his hand, hustling him towards a cubicle. Amelia followed her, sighing with relief.
She wouldn’t have wished such a bad wound on anyone, but seeing the young man come in had made it clear to the group with sick stomachs why the doctors saw people on the basis of need.
The day proceeded as it had begun, patients pouring in through the doors, as if they’d been holding off all their ailments for just such an occasion. Altogether, eighteen people from the breakfast feast were treated, but as each sick person had been accompanied by anything from one to six relatives, the waiting room had seemed full to capacity all day.
At six, an hour and a half after she was due off duty, but satisfied things had finally returned to normal, Amelia made her escape, heading first for the tearoom where the nurses had their lockers.
She’d caught fleeting glimpses of Mac during the day, but had had no time to talk to him about anything other than the state of play in the department. Neither had she had time to think about their bargain, apart from a moment when she’d replayed the previous evening’s conversation and had felt annoyed that he’d obviously assumed she wouldn’t already have a date on a Saturday night.
Or a man in her life who might object to her going out with someone else, even for a business-related evening!
Though, apart from the rotating interns, student nurses and junior residents, most of the A and E staff were permanent fixtures so they all knew each other reasonably well. She rarely gossiped, and had little time to chat about non-work issues, but Amelia herself had a fair idea of the state of play in most of the staff’s love lives, without being able to pinpoint how she did know.
So she’d shrugged off the irritated feeling, telling herself Mac probably knew she was available in the same way she knew Sally was about to become engaged. An osmosis kind of thing.
‘I thought we’d better talk.’
Mac was standing outside as she emerged, though the room was used by both sexes and by doctors as often as by nurses, mainly because the doctors’ locker room was a lot further down the corridor and so close to the kitchens it was usually uncomfortably hot.
‘About the in-service training? I’ve a file of ideas, I’ll get them to you. The main thing is—’
He interrupted her with a more ferocious than usual scowl.
‘Not about your idea—about tomorrow night.’
‘Oh!’
Amelia stared at him, unable to imagine what he could possibly need to tell her. It was apparently a work-related function, and if she didn’t know by now how to behave at such things, she couldn’t imagine learning much from Mac!
‘So I thought I’d pick you up. At your place. Maybe a bit early so we could talk before we get there.’
If it hadn’t been Mac standing in front of her, she’d have thought he was uncertain—but Mac was never uncertain.
‘What about? Some special Mac-rules? Not to drink too much and embarrass you? Not to spill the dip over the medical superintendent? I can handle myself in social situations, Mac, though if you’re having second thoughts, that’s OK with me—providing you keep your word about the MAC meeting.’
‘It’s not that,’ he said—definitely uneasy. ‘It’s other things. Say seven o’clock at your place. We’ll go somewhere and have a drink first. Or we could have a drink at Capriccio’s, only earlier. No, somewhere else. Is there anywhere you fancy?’
Amelia studied him for a minute as she puzzled over this most un-Mac-like behaviour. Clear olive-toned skin, straight nose, no-nonsense chin—he certainly looked like Mac.
‘If you want to run through some ground rules you might as well have a drink at my place,’ she suggested. ‘In fact, if drinks are likely to be offered with dinner, it might be an idea to leave your car in the visitors’ car park at my place and we can walk from there to Capriccio’s.’
‘We can?’
Uneasy was one thing—downright stupid was another. It was too much for Amelia.
‘Mac, what’s wrong with you?’ she demanded. ‘You know where I live. You’ve dropped me back at my apartment building when my car was out of action and we’d both been on late shift, or there was an extra late staff meeting. It’s two blocks from Capriccio’s. I assumed that’s why, when you first mentioned it, you said you’d meet me there.’
Mac looked at the small female almost bursting with exasperation in front of his eyes, bu
t if he’d sounded confused—which he obviously had—that wasn’t the half of it. Confused didn’t begin to cover the turmoil in his head, which had begun in the early hours of the morning and grown steadily worse ever since.
‘That’s great, then,’ he said quickly, knowing if he hesitated he’d probably blurt out all he had to say right here and now, and she’d decide she wasn’t going through with it and he’d be dateless. And Helene, being Helene, would see through any feeble excuse he might manage to conjure up. ‘Seven—your apartment.’
Peterson gave him a look highly charged with suspicion but in the end nodded agreement and turned away, striding purposefully down the corridor. Mac watched her go, but it wasn’t until the exit door swung closed behind her that he realised he didn’t know her apartment number.
Perhaps there’d be names on the bells at the entrance.
He’d just decided that when the door swung open again.
‘It’s apartment number eight one three, eighth floor,’ she called to him. ‘Key in the numbers at the security gate and I’ll buzz you in. You have to ring again from the front door as well, but my name’s on the bell.’
With that settled he retreated to his office, meaning to make some inroads into the piles of paperwork. But instead, he sat at his desk and thought about the ‘talk’ he’d have to have with Peterson.
He should never have asked her.
He should have gone alone.
But Peterson was a good sport.
She’d understand.
Wouldn’t she?
Mac still hadn’t resolved that question to his satisfaction when he finally rode up in the lift to the eighth floor of the apartment building the next evening. Though he’d been vaguely aware that the place where he’d occasionally dropped Peterson off was an upmarket development, it wasn’t until he entered the ornate, marble, gold and palm-adorned foyer that he’d realised how upmarket.
Had Peterson—whom he somehow knew had once been married—done as well from her marriage settlement as Helene had?
The thought irritated him but it did serve to divert his mind from the talk—though only momentarily.
As the lift doors opened on eight, the door opposite opened.
Mac smiled politely at the gorgeous young woman who stood there and looked vaguely around the foyer, wondering which of the other three apartments was Peterson’s.
‘If you don’t get out the doors will close and you’ll be swept back down to the ground floor,’ the stunning woman, whom he’d just vaguely begun to connect with Peterson, said.
In Peterson’s voice.
He stepped out of the lift.
‘Peterson?’
He couldn’t help it, though he inwardly cringed as he heard his disbelief echo around the small space.
‘Were you expecting me to wear my uniform?’ she said crisply, standing aside, presumably so he could walk into her apartment.
If he could get his legs moving, that was!
He managed, but only just, and not before he’d caught a glimpse of an alluring shadow of cleavage above the neckline of the black dress that clung to her slimness like body paint.
‘Are they your own?’
Duh! Once again, the least appropriate comment possible had emanated from his lips!
Peterson, however, managed with aplomb, shutting the door and turning to face him.
‘Of course not, Mac. Knowing I was going out with you, I had breast implants inserted last night.’
Then she laughed.
‘I am a woman, and most of us have breasts,’ she said in a more kindly tone. ‘And the engineering wonders of a good bra will produce cleavage in even the most mammarily challenged amongst us. What would you like to drink? I’ve beer, wine—red or white—whisky. Mac?’
The last questioning word was obviously because he was staring at her. He was past the point where he could see the shadowed cleavage and now realised why he’d not recognised her. It was the hair.
‘It’s your hair,’ he said, letting his thoughts stray into words once again. Though it wasn’t the hair—rather than bunched, it was held loosely at the nape of her neck in a gold clasp, with the unexpected length of it tumbling down her back in soft, shining curls—but the way not having her usual hairstyle made the bones of her face more defined.
Made her beautiful.
‘Everyone has it.’ The succinct reply didn’t help, but when she repeated her earlier request about drinks, he managed to pull himself together sufficiently to agree to whisky.
‘Water? Ice? Soda?’
Easy questions, but she crossed the spacious living room as she asked, and her body moved sinuously beneath the painted-on dress.
‘Mac?’
Amelia hid the laughter that longed to escape. When Mac had asked her out, she’d decided she’d go all out in the ‘dressing-up’ department, determined to let him see that she wasn’t just an efficient uniform.
If his witless behaviour since arriving was any indication, she’d succeeded beyond her wildest dreams. But he’d better come down to earth soon, or the evening would be a nightmare—he gaping, and she repeating everything several times.
‘Mac, it’s just me, Peterson.’ She crossed the room and patted his arm. ‘You must have assumed I’d scrub up all right or you wouldn’t have asked me out.’ Another pat. ‘Now, what would you like in your whisky? Water, soda, ice?’
The hazel eyes blinked, and though the stunned expression on his face lessened slightly, it didn’t disappear altogether.
‘Soda and ice,’ he said, not looking at her face now but down to where, she knew, the deep, satin-trimmed V of her neckline revealed the soft, uplifted mounds of her breasts.
‘Soda and ice it is,’ she said cheerfully, allowing herself a slight chuckle as she crossed the room to the small drinks cabinet and fridge skilfully concealed in a wall of bookshelves. It was good to get one up on Mac.
She poured his drink and a glass of wine for herself, then walked back towards where he stood, watching her with the wariness of a cat in new territory, unsure about possible dangers lurking in the vicinity.
‘Most people comment on the view,’ she said, handing him his whisky and waving her hand towards the wall of glass, beyond which the night lights blinked, strobed and shimmered, turning the city into a mystical, magical place.
She led the way to where deep leather armchairs were positioned to appreciate the outlook.
Fortunately, he followed. If he hadn’t, she wasn’t sure what she’d have done next. It was one thing to surprise Mac, but to turn him to a gaping statue…
Mac took a large gulp of the whisky, realising, too late, that it was, firstly, very good quality, and, secondly, more whisky than soda. But the shock of the liquid burning in his throat recalled him to where he was—and why he was there.
‘It’s a fantastic view,’ he said, managing, for the first time since his arrival, to sound like his usual self. Physically, he wasn’t quite there yet, but once he got used to Peterson looking so—well, different he’d be OK. ‘Nice place. Part of your marriage settlement?’
He knew even before he heard Peterson’s gasp of disbelief that he’d said the wrong thing—again!
‘I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that,’ he mumbled, throwing caution to the wind and taking another gulp of the drink. ‘It’s all connected to tonight, but it was still unpardonably rude and it’s none of my business—’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, stop apologising, Mac!’ Peterson said crossly. ‘I’m not angry, though I should be. But so there’s no misunderstanding, no, it isn’t part of a marriage settlement but my own apartment, paid for with my own mortgage and being paid off by me and no one else. The only advantage I had was that our family company built the complex so I’m paying it off to the company rather than to a bank.’
He was about to apologise again when he realised that might make her really angry, so he sipped his drink instead—it was very good whisky—and wondered how to raise the subject
he wished to discuss.
‘It’s not getting any earlier, Mac.’ Peterson took the initiative. ‘If you’ve something to say, now’s the time.’
Mac looked at her—at the slim, svelte beauty with dark eyes dominating the wide-cheekboned, pointy-chinned face. When he’d practised this speech, it had been the real Peterson sitting across from him and, though it hadn’t been easy, he’d managed it OK.
But now?
‘Mac?’
Even her voice was different. He heard the echo of his name in his head and wondered if she’d always had that slightly husky tone that suggested—
‘The thing is, Peterson,’ he said, launching into speech in an attempt to rein in libidinous thoughts. ‘What we’re actually doing tonight is having dinner with my ex-wife. She’s bringing someone she wants me to meet and she kind of assumed I’d be dating someone so she told me to bring her, but, you see, if she’s about to marry this someone special she wants me to meet, and I didn’t have a date, well, I’d look pathetic, wouldn’t I? I mean, she’d be moving on with her life and I’d be still alone…That’s when I thought of you.’
‘Pathetic—me! Yes, I guess I can make the connection, but it’s hardly flattering, Mac.’
The teasing smile accompanying the words told him she was joking, but it did something else totally unexpected. It stirred bits of him that hadn’t stirred—well, not much—for some time, and the thought of his body reacting to Peterson, of all people, sent his mind into another spin.
‘I didn’t mean you’re pathetic,’ he blustered. ‘I meant me. I would have seemed pathetic, and it would have given her a chance to be all consoling—poor Mac, no one to love him—or, worse, to think I might actually not be dating because no one measures up to her. Yes, that’s more likely the way Helene’s mind would work. Did I tell you her name was Helene? Helene Clinton. She always kept her maiden name. Anyway, she never believed I was as relieved to be out of the marriage as she was. Marriage! The whole thing’s a farce—an institution set up by people on the lookout for a new way to make money.
‘Think about it, Peterson. Think of all the people who make a living out of the frills and falderals of marriage. Even ministers, who you’d think, if they wanted people wed in the eyes of God, would at least do it for nothing—as part of their ministerial duty. But they don’t come cheap. And ribbons for the pews! Can you imagine anything more useless than—’
The Pregnancy Proposition Page 3