The Doctor's Love-Child

by Barbara Hart

  He sat down next to her. ‘I had to speak to you. About yesterday.’

  Helen’s defence mechanism kicked in. ‘You’ve not come to try and take Robert, have you? Because if you have—’

  He put a reassuring hand on her. ‘No. I’ve come to apologise.’

  ‘Oh.’

  He took the wind out of her sails, but still the scene of yesterday’s confrontation played itself in her head.

  ‘I shouldn’t have said what I did.’ His handsome, serious face was close to hers.

  ‘So you’re not going to try and take Robert away?’ She was wary. Once again she felt herself on the brink of tears and her eyes began to fill up.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what made me say that. Anger, frustration perhaps. Or maybe it was just the shock of realising that the baby was mine.’

  Tears spilled from her eyes. He turned her face to his and gently stroked her cheek dry with his fingers. ‘I’m sorry for upsetting you so much.’

  The gentleness in his voice and the conciliatory tone of his voice touched her deep inside and made her realise that his apology was genuine.

  Andrew was now standing by the buggy, looking at the baby. The soft expression on his face moved Helen so much that she thought she was going to blub again.

  ‘He’s lovely,’ said Andrew, leaning over the buggy as Robert began to stir. ‘He’s waking up. Hello, young fellow. You’re a handsome chap, aren’t you?’

  Robert gave him a gummy smile and began to kick his legs and wave his arms excitedly.

  Andrew turned to Helen. ‘May I pick him up?’

  ‘Sure. Help yourself.’ She bit her lip. She realised she must have sounded flippant when inside she was a mass of deep emotions. Her baby was going to be held for the first time by his father, and she’d just answered as if someone had asked to borrow a pencil!

  He picked up Robert as if he were handling the Crown Jewels. The ecstatic look on Andrew’s face as he held his son, cradling him in the crook of his arm, was an image that would always stay with Helen.

  He said nothing for a long time and just rocked Robert gently to and fro, gazing at him intently as if he wanted to imprint this moment on his memory for ever.

  Eventually, without taking his eyes from his son, he asked Helen, ‘Why did you call him Robert?’

  ‘It was my father’s name,’ she answered.

  Andrew continued rocking his son. ‘It was my father’s name, too,’ he said.

  ‘Ah. Is it? Was it?’ Helen frowned. ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘No reason why you should. But it’s a nice omen, don’t you think?’

  Helen’s frown deepened. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Both Robert’s grandfathers had the same name, the name that he has. It’s a good omen for his future, a sort of lucky sign.’

  With obvious reluctance, Andrew lowered the baby back into his buggy. The little arms waved about wildly. Andrew caught hold of Robert’s tiny hands in his.

  ‘I think you’re going to have a lot of luck on your side, big boy.’

  Robert chuckled.

  ‘Are you coming to the hospital dance next week?’ Andrew asked out of the blue.

  ‘Dance? Oh, the fund-raising thing?’ Helen remembered seeing posters around the hospital and had heard several of the staff talking about it. ‘I might,’ she said, adding hastily, ‘…we might. I mentioned it to Patrick and he seemed keen.’

  She deliberately threw in Patrick’s name to see what kind of response she’d get from Andrew. It was her way of testing whether he was genuinely remorseful over the way he’d threatened legal action over access to Robert.

  The mention of Patrick’s name passed without comment and Andrew continued to play with the baby. Whenever he let go of one of the tiny hands, Robert would stick out his bottom lip and look as if he was about to cry.

  ‘I can see I’m going to have to stand here all day with you, young man, or I’ll end up making you cry. And that’s something I have no intention of doing.’

  ‘It’s getting near his feeding time,’ interjected Helen. ‘Don’t be thinking it’s you who’s making him cry.’

  Andrew let go of the baby’s hands. Robert cried for a few moments before the rocking motion of the buggy calmed him down.

  ‘We must go,’ said Helen.

  ‘Me, too,’ said Andrew. He looked longingly into the buggy. ‘See you again soon, I hope.’

  Helen wasn’t sure to whom he was addressing the remark, herself or the baby. She answered for them both.

  ‘Yes, see you again soon.’ She added, ‘You can see Robert whenever you want. I’m not going to stop you.’

  He kissed her fleetingly on the cheek. ‘Bless you for that.’ And then he was gone.

  Robert was beginning to grizzle for his feed and she walked home as quickly as she could.

  She had found the meeting with Andrew thrilling, moving and distressing in equal measure. She was thrilled to see him—because he always had that effect on her. But she also found it heart-achingly moving, watching the loving way he’d held his small son for the very first time. And the whole encounter had distressed her in a way that she just couldn’t explain—all she knew was that her legs were feeling decidedly wobbly and she was completely drained emotionally and physically.

  When Helen and Patrick arrived at the hospital for the fund-raising dance it was well under way.

  The lecture theatre had been converted for the evening into a dance hall and couples were gyrating to the pacy rhythm of the 1960s-style band. The female vocalist, a very attractive girl, whom Helen thought she’d seen before but couldn’t remember where, was belting out her version of a popular Beatles’ song.

  Helen scanned the crowd and recognised many of the faces.

  ‘Glad you made it, Dr Blackburn,’ said Shirley, the desk clerk. ‘It’s a really great band, don’t you think?’

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ replied Helen. ‘The singer’s good, too.’

  ‘You know who that is, don’t you? It’s Margie Whittaker, one of the theatre sisters. We don’t normally get to see her with her hair down!’

  Patrick’s eyes had been glued on Margie, Helen noted, ever since they’d walked in the room. Could it have something to do with her shoulder-length auburn hair? she wondered, smiling inwardly.

  ‘Come on, Patrick,’ she urged. ‘Take your eyes off the singer and have a dance with me!’

  They joined the heaving throng, their arms around each other as they got into the rhythm and beat.

  ‘The surgeons will be looking at Margie with new eyes from now on,’ she said, raising her voice to make herself heard above the din.

  ‘Yes,’ said Patrick, trying to concentrate on his footwork, which was difficult for him as he was also watching the vocalist who was tossing her fiery tresses as she reached the climax of the song.

  As the music ended the dancers drifted slowly from the dance floor. Helen was glad of the excuse to stop dancing with Patrick. Maybe it was because his mind was elsewhere, but he definitely didn’t seem to have a natural sense of rhythm the way she remembered that Andrew had when they’d danced together in Seattle.

  Damn, damn, damn, she thought. I must stop comparing Patrick with Andrew, and I must stop thinking about Andrew all the time.

  But even as the resolve formed itself in her mind, the man himself walked into the room, banishing all chances of her keeping her resolution.

  She could see him casting his eyes around the room until he saw her. He gave a small wave, which she returned before turning her back on him and talking animatedly to Patrick.

  ‘So, do you do a lot of dancing?’ she asked him brightly, even though the soreness of her feet could have given her a clue to the answer.

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ he said ruefully. ‘My mother offered to pay for dancing lessons when I was a teenager but none of my friends were going and I just knew I’d be mocked and called a sissy. I’m sorry now that I didn’t take her up on the offer.’

 
; ‘Well, you know what my old granny used to say—men who are good dancers make the worst husbands.’ Helen chuckled as she said it, smiling a false, hard smile mainly for the benefit of Andrew who, she was convinced, was watching her from across the room.

  ‘Your old granny was wrong in my case,’ said Patrick. ‘I’m a lousy dancer and I didn’t make a very good husband either. But I’m determined to do better next time.’

  Helen, realising she may have put her foot in it, squeezed his arm companionably.

  ‘Everyone’s allowed to make one mistake, I always say. And your dancing isn’t too bad,’ she lied kindly.

  ‘In that case, let’s give it another try.’ Patrick took her hand and led her to the dance floor as the band struck up a familiar rock ‘n’ roll number.

  Patrick’s idea of how to jive was almost as bad as his dancing had been before. Several times Helen ended up with her arms twisted behind her back in a fierce armlock. On one occasion she actually cried out in pain when she narrowly avoided having her elbow dislocated.

  During the evening she noticed that Andrew wasn’t dancing but was spending most of his time chatting to one of the other surgeons.

  Patrick went to the bar to get some more drinks and Helen decided to pay a visit to the powder room. On the way back she looked around the crowded room for Patrick but couldn’t immediately see him. As she was hesitating and wondering where to wait for him, Andrew walked up to her.

  ‘Hi,’ he said. His eyes travelled over her body and the clingy aquamarine silk sleeveless dress that was slit to the knee. ‘You look great.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she replied lightly. Then the band struck up again, drowning his next words.

  ‘What did you say?’ she asked.

  He moved closer and spoke into her ear. ‘I said it’s hot in here.’

  ‘Yes,’ she shouted back. She looked down the dance floor, trying to locate Patrick.

  ‘Lost your boyfriend?’ asked Andrew, raising his voice to make himself heard.

  ‘He went to get some drinks,’ replied Helen, still searching for him.

  ‘There he is.’ Andrew pointed towards the band area.

  There was now a male vocalist taking the place of Margie whom Helen surmised was taking a break. When Helen looked in the direction Andrew was pointing she saw Patrick deep in conversation with the ‘resting’ Margie. Helen started to push her way towards him when Andrew put a restraining hand on her.

  ‘Don’t spoil his fun,’ he said. ‘Come and have a drink with me instead. You can trust him to talk to another woman for a few minutes, can’t you?’

  She didn’t want Andrew to think that she didn’t trust the man she was about to marry. ‘Of course I can,’ she said defensively.

  She followed him out of the hot, noisy hall and into the relative calm of the bar, a room that was normally the staff canteen. He took her hand and carried on walking through the bar and out into the warm night air.

  ‘I thought you were getting me a drink?’ said Helen.

  ‘All in good time,’ he said, pulling her to him as he leaned against the outside wall. Light was spilling out of the canteen but he’d managed to position them both in semi-darkness away from prying eyes.

  He put his arm round her, pulling her gently towards him. She could feel his heart pounding and a tremor raced through her body.

  ‘You’re not really going to marry him, are you?’ he whispered against her ear.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘He loves me and—’

  Before she could finish the sentence Andrew kissed her, his mouth tantalisingly soft and tormenting. She was powerless to resist and she responded to him, hating herself for being so weak.

  ‘He may love you,’ he said huskily into her ear, ‘but I don’t think you love him.’

  ‘You can’t possibly know that,’ she replied breathlessly, arching her back as he ran his hand down her spine, pressing her body to his.

  ‘I’ve seen the way you are with him. Your whole body language shrieks it. Shrieks that you don’t love him.’

  Andrew kissed her again—on her face, on her neck—moving her hair to one side and running his mouth and tongue hotly and sensually over her skin.

  Helen moaned with pleasure, longing for him to continue and at the same time longing for him to stop! She shook herself free.

  ‘Patrick loves me and we’re getting married and there’s nothing you can do to stop us!’

  Andrew stood back, leaning against the wall, folding his arms. A half-smile was visible in the shadowy light.

  ‘You say he loves you…then why is he so busy chatting up that redhead in there?’ He jerked his head in the direction of the music.

  Helen had a quick response on her lips, but before she could get it out the word ‘redhead’ struck a blow. It was true Patrick had been very interested in Margie from the moment he’d first seen her. Was she fooling herself that Patrick was capable of putting all that behind him when they married or would he always be vulnerable to glamorous redheads? It wasn’t a prospect she relished and it didn’t bode well for the future success of their marriage.

  When she didn’t answer, Andrew reached out and pulled her to him again.

  ‘We need to clear the air,’ he said. ‘There are things I have to talk to you about but this isn’t the place to do it. Come back to my house. It’s not far away.’

  ‘I can’t leave Patrick here,’ she said.

  ‘Then go and tell him,’ suggested Andrew. ‘Tell him you’ll be back in an hour or so.’

  Helen laughed at the idea. ‘I can’t do that!’

  He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her gently on the lips. ‘You said you trusted him—let’s see if he trusts you.’

  He could sense she was weakening but hadn’t made up her mind to come home with him. And he needed her to do so very much. He wanted to test whether or not he was still in with a chance of winning her back or whether she truly did love Patrick. He might end up getting his face slapped but it was a risk worth taking.

  ‘Please,’ he said. ‘It’s very important—for me. I’m having to return to America at the end of my contract because I’ve already signed up for another job. But I’m planning to come back again so that I can be with my son. So you see, there are important things we have to discuss about Robert. We need a bit of privacy.’

  Helen knew he was using every weapon in his armoury to get his own way. It was the mention of Robert’s name that decided her-and the fact that he was planning on coming back to England because of the baby.

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘I’ll go and find Patrick and tell him.’

  She made her way back to the dance floor, Andrew following closely behind. She scanned it but couldn’t see Patrick. She looked in the corner near where the band was playing and where she’d last seen him talking to Margie, and he wasn’t there either. He wasn’t anywhere to be seen…and neither was Margie.

  ‘Why don’t you leave a note for him with someone?’ suggested Andrew.

  After a few minutes Helen decided that this was the best course of action. She scribbled a note for him, saying that she’d be back before the end of the dance. She sought out Shirley and said to her, ‘You know Dr Perrott, don’t you?’ Helen handed Shirley the note, saying, ‘When you see him, can you give him this, please? I’ve been called away for a short time and I don’t want him worrying about me.’

  ‘Sure, Dr Blackburn,’ said Shirley, taking the note and putting it in her handbag.

  Andrew drove the short distance to his rented house and parked outside.

  He held Helen’s hand as they walked up the path and continued holding it even while he unlocked the front door.

  When they were inside the house he pulled her to him once again and they stayed kissing in the hallway for several minutes.

  ‘I thought we were meant to be talking,’ she said breathlessly.

  ‘Plenty of time for that,’ he replied, sliding his hands round the back of her dress, finding the zipper.


  Her whole body tingled with excitement and the anticipation of his exploring hands, recalling their previous physical encounter and the complete and utter pleasure he’d been able to give her. No other man had even come close; no other man could make love to her like he could. Helen realised she was in danger of acting foolishly, and not for the first time where Andrew was concerned, but she couldn’t help herself. It was as if she was totally mesmerised by him.

  ‘Helen, you know that I love you, don’t you?’

  ‘Do you?’ she said breathlessly between kisses. ‘Do you really?’

  ‘Let me show you how much,’ he said huskily, his hands all over her.

  In a state of half-undress—Helen in lacy bra and pants, Andrew in shirt and boxer shorts—he picked her up and carried her to the bedroom.

  Just as he placed her on the bed the phone rang.

  The strident ringing shocked Helen into reacting instinctively and she automatically reached out and picked up the phone which was on the bedside table nearest to her.

  ‘Dr Blackburn,’ she said, then, putting a hand over her mouth, added, ‘Sorry, Dr Henderson’s phone. Can I help you?’

  She realised how silly she must have sounded and smiled. But she wasn’t smiling for long, not when she heard the sultry female voice at the other end of the phone.

  ‘Oh, hi,’ she said. ‘It’s Lori Martin. I’m phoning from Chicago and hoping to catch Andrew before it gets too late in the day. I keep forgetting about the time difference!’ The woman gave a throaty laugh.

  ‘Just a minute, please,’ said Helen, a chill entering her voice. ‘Someone from Chicago,’ she said, handing the cordless phone to Andrew.

  He sat on the edge of the bed as he took the call, his back to Helen.

  ‘Oh, Lori, hello.’ He didn’t say anything else for a few moments but listened to what his caller had to say. Helen’s suspicions were aroused, particularly when Andrew got up from the bed and, putting his hand over the mouthpiece, said to her, ‘I’m going to take this call in the other room.’

  She sat on the bed for a little while, all manner of doubts passing through her mind. She went over the facts. A woman rings Andrew from Chicago…a very sexy-sounding woman…and he takes the call out of her hearing. Why do that? What had he got to hide? As if she didn’t know! How naı¨ve was she? He’d told her he loved her and she’d believed him!