Hers For One Night Only?

by Carol Marinelli

  ‘Of course,’ Bridgette said. ‘I’ve just got a lot on…’

  She saw the flash of confusion in his eyes and it could have irritated her—in fact, she wanted it to irritate her. After all, why shouldn’t she have a busy day planned? Why should he just assume that she’d want a day with him? But that didn’t work, because somehow last night had not been as casual as she was now making it out to be. It needed to be, Bridgette reminded herself as she turned away from his black eyes—she felt far safer with their one-night rule, far safer not trusting him. ‘I’ll get a taxi,’ she said as she climbed out of bed and found her crumpled dress and then realised she’d have to go through the apartment to locate her underwear.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous—I’ll drive you home,’ Dominic said, and he lay there as she padded out. He could hear her as she pulled on her panties and bra, and he tried not to think about last night and the wonderful time they’d had. Not just the sex, but before that, lying on the sofa watching clips on the computer, or the car ride home.

  It wasn’t usually him getting sentimental. Normally it was entirely the other way round.

  ‘You really don’t have to give me a lift.’ She stood at the door, dressed now and holding her shoes in her hand, last night’s mascara smudged beneath her eyes, her hair wild and curly, and he wanted her back in his bed. ‘It’s no problem to get a taxi.’

  ‘I’ll get my keys.’

  And she averted her eyes as he climbed out of the bed, as he did the same walk as her and located his clothes all crumpled on the floor. She wished the balloon would pop and he’d look awful all messed and unshaven. She could smell them in the room and the computer was still on and their photo was there on the screen and how they’d been smiling.

  ‘Bridgette…’ He so wasn’t used to this. ‘You haven’t even had your coffee.’

  ‘I really do need to get back.’

  ‘Sure.’

  And talking was incredibly awkward, especially at the roundabout.

  She wanted the indicator on, wanted him to turn the car around and take them back to bed, and, yes, she could maybe tell him about Harry.

  About Courtney.

  About the whole sorry mess.

  End the dream badly.

  After all, he was only here for two weeks, and even if he hadn’t been, she could hardly expect someone as glamorous and gorgeous as him to understand.

  She didn’t want him to understand, she didn’t want him to know, so instead she blew out a breath and let the sat nav lead him to her door.

  ‘Good luck in Sydney.’ She really was terrible at this one-night thing.

  ‘Bridgette.’ He had broken so many rules for her and he did it again. ‘I know that you’re busy today, but maybe…’

  ‘Hey!’ She forced a smile, dragged it up from her guts and slathered it on her face and turned to him. ‘We’re not suited, remember?’

  ‘Completely incompatible.’ He forced a smile too.

  He gave her a kiss but could sense her distraction.

  She climbed out of the car and she didn’t say goodbye because she couldn’t bear to, didn’t turn around because she knew she’d head back to his arms, to his car, to escape.

  But she couldn’t escape the niggle in her stomach that told her things were less than fine and it niggled louder as she made a half-hearted attempt at cleaning her room. By midday her answer came.

  ‘Can you have Harry tonight?’

  ‘I can’t,’ Bridgette said. ‘I’m on an early shift in the morning…’ Then she closed her eyes. She had reported her sister a couple of months ago to social services and finally voiced her concerns. Oh, there was nothing specific, but she could not simply stand by and do nothing. Since she’d asked Courtney to leave her flat, things had become increasingly chaotic and in the end she’d felt she had no choice but to speak out. Not to Jasmine or her friends—she didn’t want to burden them. Instead she had spoken to people who might help. Her concerns had been taken seriously, and anger had ripped through her family that she could do such a thing. Sour grapes, Courtney had called it, because of what had happened between her and Paul. And then Courtney had admitted that, yes, she did like to party, she was only eighteen, after all, but never when Harry was around. She always made sure that Harry was taken care of.

  By Bridgette.

  And as she stood holding the phone, Bridgette didn’t want to find out what might happen if she didn’t say yes.

  ‘I’ll ring the agency,’ Bridgette said. ‘See if I can change to a late shift.’

  Even if it was awkward talking to her sister when she dropped him off, Bridgette really was delighted to see Harry. At eighteen months he grew more gorgeous each day. His long blond curls fell in ringlets now and he had huge grey eyes like his aunt’s.

  Courtney had been a late baby for Maurice and Betty. Bridgette delivered babies to many so-called older women, but it was as if her parents had been old for ever—and they had struggled with the wilful Courtney from day one. It had been Bridgette who had practically brought her up, dealing with the angst and the crises that always seemed to surround Courtney, as her parents happily tuned out and carried on with their routines.

  It had been Bridgette who had told them that their sixteen-year-old daughter was pregnant, Bridgette who had held Courtney’s hand in the delivery room, Bridgette who had breathed with hope when Courtney, besotted with her new baby, had told Harry that she’d always be there for him.

  ‘And I’ll always be there for you,’ Bridgette had said to her sister.

  And Courtney was taking full advantage of that.

  By seven, when Harry had had supper and been bathed, dressed in mint-green pyjamas, one of the many pairs Bridgette kept for him, and she had patted him off to sleep, she heard a car pulling up outside. She heard an expensive engine turning off, and then the sound of shoes on the steps outside her ground-floor flat, and she knew that it was him, even before she peeked through the blinds.

  There was a loud ring of the bell and the noise made Harry cry.

  And as Dominic stood on the step, there was his answer as to why she’d had to dash off that morning.

  He waited a suitable moment, and Bridgette waited a moment too, rubbing Harry’s back, telling him to go back to sleep, ignoring the bell. They were both quietly relieved when she didn’t answer the door.

  Still, last night had meant many things to Bridgette—and it wasn’t all about the suave locum. Seeing her old colleagues, hearing about the midwifery unit, she’d realised just how much she was missing her old life. She knew somehow she had to get it back.

  It was a curious thing that helped.

  When Harry woke up at eleven and refused to go back to sleep, she held him as she checked her work sheet for the week. She was hoping that Courtney would be back tomorrow in time for her to get to her late shift when an e-mail pinged into her inbox.

  No subject. No message. Just an attachment.

  She had no idea how Dominic had got her e-mail address, no idea at all, but she didn’t dwell on it, just opened the attachment.

  It didn’t upset her to see it. In fact, it made her smile. She had no regrets for that night and the photo of them together proved it. The photo, not just of him but of herself smiling and happy, did more than sustain her—it inspired her.

  ‘Harry Joyce,’ she said to the serious face of her nephew. ‘Your aunty Bridgette needs to get a life.’

  And she would get one, Bridgette decided, carefully deleting Dominic’s e-mail address so she didn’t succumb, like Arabella, in the middle of the night. The photo, though,

  became her new screensaver.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ‘HE’LL be fine.’

  It was six-thirty a.m. on Monday morning and Bridgette’s guilt didn’t lift as she handed a very sleepy Harry over to M
ary, whom she had been introduced to last week. ‘It seems mean, waking him so early,’ Bridgette said.

  ‘Well, you start work early.’ Mary had the same lovely Irish brogue as Bridgette’s granny had had and was very motherly and practical. ‘Is his mum picking him up?’

  ‘No, it’s just me for the next few days,’ Bridgette explained. ‘She’s got laryngitis, so I’m looking after Harry for a while.’

  ‘Now, I know you’ll want to see him during your breaks and things, but I

  really would suggest that for the first week or two, you don’t pop down. He will think you’re there to take him home and will just get upset.’ She gave Bridgette a nice smile. ‘Which will upset you and you’ll not get your work done for worrying. Maybe ring down if you want to know how he is, and of course if there are any problems and we need you, I’ll be the first to let you know.’ Holding Harry, Mary walked Bridgette to the door and gave her a little squeeze on the shoulder. ‘You’re doing grand.’

  Oh, she wanted Mary to take her back to some mystical kitchen to sit at the table and drink tea for hours, for Mary to feed her advice about toddlers and tell her that everything was okay, was going to be okay, that Harry was fine.

  Would be fine.

  It felt strange to be back in her regular uniform, walking towards Maternity. Strange, but nice. It had been a busy month. She was so glad for that photo—their one night together had caused something of an awakening for Bridgette, had shown her just how much she was missing and had been the motivation to really sort her life out as best she could. She had been to the social-work department at the hospital she had once worked in and taken some much-needed advice. They suggested daycare and allocated Harry a place. At first Courtney had resisted. After all, she had said, she didn’t work, but Bridgette stood firm—relieved that there would be more people looking out for Harry. She was especially glad that she had held her ground when the day before she started her new job, Courtney had come down with a severe throat infection and asked if Bridgette could step in for a few days.

  Bridgette’s interview with Rita had been long and rather difficult. Rita wasn’t at all keen to make exceptions. She would do her best to give Bridgette early shifts but, no, she couldn’t guarantee that was all she would get, and certainly, Rita said, she wanted all her staff to do regular stints on nights.

  It all seemed a little impossible, but somehow Bridgette knew she had to make it work and get through things one day at a time—and today would be a good day, Bridgette decided as she entered the familiar unit, the smell and sound of babies in the air. This was where she belonged. She made herself a coffee to take into the long handover. Bridgette was hoping to be put into Labour and Delivery—she really wanted to immerse herself in a birth on her first day back.

  ‘You’re nice and early.’ Rita was sitting at the computer, all busy and efficient and preparing for the day. ‘Actually, that helps. It’s been a very busy night, a busy weekend apparently. I’ve got a nurse who has to leave at seven. She’s looking after a rather difficult case—would you mind taking

  handover from her and getting started?’

  ‘Of course.’ Bridgette was delighted. It often happened this way, and it would be lovely to get stuck into a labour on her first day back. She took a gulp of her coffee and tipped the rest down the sink, rinsed her cup and then headed off towards Labour and Delivery.

  ‘No, it’s room three where I want you to take over—twenty-four weeks with pre-

  eclampsia. They’re having trouble getting her blood pressure back down.’

  Okay, so she wasn’t going to witness a birth this morning, but still, it was nice to be back using her midwifery brain. ‘Hi, there, Heather.’ She smiled at the familiar face. The room was quite crowded. Dr Hudson, the obstetrician, was there with the anaesthetist, and the anxious father was holding his wife’s hand. The woman’s face was flushed and she looked very drowsy. Thankfully, she was probably oblivious to all the activity going on.

  ‘It’s so good to see you.’ Heather motioned to head to the door and they stepped just a little outside. ‘I’ve got to get away at seven.’

  ‘Is that why it’s good to see me?’ Bridgette smiled.

  ‘No, it’s just good to see you back, good to have someone on the ball taking over as well. I’m worried about this one. Her name is Carla. She came up from Emergency yesterday evening.’ Heather gave Bridgette a detailed rundown, showing her all the drugs that had been used overnight in an attempt to bring Carla’s blood pressure down. ‘We thought we had it under control at four a.m., but at six it spiked again.’ Bridgette grimaced when she saw the figures. ‘Obviously, they were hoping for a few more days at the very least. She’s supposed to be having a more detailed scan this morning. They were estimating twenty-four weeks and three days.’ That was very early. Every day spent in the womb at this stage was precious and vital and would increase the baby’s chance of survival.

  The parents wanted active treatment and the mother had been given steroids yesterday to mature the baby’s lungs in case of premature delivery, but even so, to deliver at this stage would be dire indeed. ‘She’s just been given an epidural,’ Heather explained, ‘and they’re fiddling with her medications through that as well. They’re doing everything they can to get her blood pressure down.’ It just didn’t seem to be working, though. The only true cure for pre-eclampsia was delivery. Carla’s vital signs meant that her life was in danger. She was at risk of a stroke or seizures and a whole host of complications if she didn’t stabilise soon—even death. ‘They were just talking about transferring her over to Intensive Care, but I think Dr Hudson now wants to go ahead and deliver. The paediatrician was just in…he’s warned them what to expect, but at that stage we were still hoping for a couple more days, even to get her to twenty-five weeks.’

  It wasn’t going to happen.

  ‘I hate leaving her…’

  ‘I know,’ Bridgette said.

  ‘Dillan starts at a new school today.’ Bridgette knew Heather’s son had had trouble with bullying and it sounded as if today was a whole new start for him too. ‘Or I wouldn’t dash off.’

  ‘You need to get home.’

  The monitors were beeping and Heather and Bridgette walked back in.

  ‘Carla…’ Heather roused the dozing woman. ‘This is Bridgette. She’s going to be taking care of you today, and I’ll be back to take care of you tonight.’

  The alarms were really going off now. The appalling numbers that the monitors were showing meant the difficult decision would have to be made. Bridgette knew that Heather was torn. She’d been with Carla all night and at any moment now Carla was going to be rushed over to Theatre for an emergency Caesarean. ‘Go,’ Bridgette mouthed, because if Heather didn’t leave soon, she would surely end up staying, and Dillan needed his mum today.

  ‘Let Theatre know we’re coming over,’ Dr Hudson said to Bridgette, ‘and we need the crash team from NICU. I’ll tell the parents.’

  Bridgette dashed out and informed Rita, the smooth wheels of the emergency routine snapping into place. Five minutes to seven on a Monday was not the best time. Staff were leaving, staff were starting, the weekend team was exhausted, the corridors busy as they moved the bed over to the maternity theatres.

  ‘Okay.’ Bridgette smiled at the terrified father, whom Dr Hudson had agreed could be present for the birth. ‘Here’s where you get changed.’ She gave him some scrubs, a hat and some covers for his shoes. ‘I’m going to go and get changed too and then I’ll come back for you and take you in.’

  Really, her presence at this birth was somewhat supernumerary. For a normal Caesarean section she would be receiving the baby; however, the NICU team was arriving and setting up, preparing their equipment for this very tiny baby, so Bridgette concentrated on the parents. Frank, the husband, wanted to film the birth, and Bridgette helped him to work out where to stan
d so that he wouldn’t get in the way. She understood his need to document every minute of this little baby’s life.

  ‘It’s all happening so fast…’ Carla, though groggy, was clearly terrified, because now that the decision had been made, things were moving along with haste.

  ‘We’re just making sure we’ve got everything ready for your baby,’ Bridgette explained as Dr Hudson came in. The anaesthetist had topped up the epidural and the operation would soon be starting.

  ‘We’re just waiting on…’ Kelly, one of NICU team called out, when asked if they were ready, and then her voice trailed off. ‘No problem. Dr Mansfield is here.’

  Bridgette looked up and straight into those familiar black eyes, eyes that she stared at each day on her computer, except they didn’t smile back at her now. She tore her gaze away from him and back to her patient. She completely halted her thoughts, gave all her attention to her patient, because the operation had started, the incision made at seven-eighteen, and just a few moments later a tiny baby was delivered.

  ‘She’s beautiful,’ Bridgette told Carla. ‘She’s moving.’ She was, her red, spindly limbs flailing with indignation at her premature entry to the world.

  ‘She’s not crying,’ Jenny said.

  ‘She is.’ There was a very feeble cry and her face was grimacing. Frank was standing back, filming their tiny daughter. Bridgette watched the activity and for the first time she took a proper look at Dominic.

  He needed to shave, his face was grim with concentration and he looked exhausted. Bridgette remembered Rita saying that it had been a very busy weekend, and this emergency had come right at the tail end of his on-call shift.

  ‘Can I see her?’ Carla asked, but already the team was moving the baby and she was whisked past. Carla got only a very brief glimpse.

  ‘They’re taking her into another area,’ Bridgette explained, as the team moved away, ‘and then she’ll be taken up to the NICU.’