More Than Time

Of course.’ She straightened up and pushed the paperwork away from her. ‘What can I do for you?’

He grinned. ‘You could offer me a coffee and we could talk about Roger Widlake, in that order. I think I’m going to fall asleep otherwise!’

‘Mr Widlake’s been transferred to ITU,’ she told him.

‘Good. Then I’ll settle for the coffee!’

He dropped wearily into the chair opposite her desk and rubbed his hand over his face. He had shaved and changed into a suit, but he looked just as tired.

She smiled. ‘I’ll see what I can find. Have you had breakfast?’

He shook his head. ‘No. I’d missed the chance by the time I’d dealt with the Holdens.’

Lizzi felt guilty. ‘I’m sorry I left you to cope with that. I should have done it so you could go and rest for a while.’

He gave her a weary, lop-sided smile. ‘It doesn’t matter. I don’t suppose you would have enjoyed it either, even though you think he got his just deserts.’

‘I-’ Lizzi’s mouth opened and closed, and she floundered to a halt. Was she really that vindictive? Was her judgement really so clouded that she couldn’t deal with the relatives of a patient because she had tried him and found him guilty?

Ross smiled understandingly. ‘Don’t look so worried. I had difficulty, too. It’s hard to explain that someone’s golden boy is not only dead but has caused havoc on the way. It was easier than I’d thought. His father asked straight out if he had been drinking, and I think his attitude was much the same as yours, but tempered by love. He’s a policeman.’

‘Oh.’

‘Yes, oh. Lizzi?’

‘Mmm?’

‘Coffee?’

‘Oh. Sure. Sorry.’

She left the room and went into the kitchen, making toast and fresh coffee. She found some butter and marmalade and laid a tray, and took it back into her office.

He was asleep, his head propped on his arms, sprawled across her rota. He had taken off his jacket, and his shirt pulled and eased with the rhythmic rise and fall of his broad shoulders. The sun gleamed on the soft, thick mass of silver hair, turning it to pale gold. It looked impossibly soft. Lizzi wondered how it would feel in her fingers. She felt a strange, primitive urge to nurture and protect—but not maternally. Oh, no. There was nothing maternal in her feelings, and she drew in her breath sharply.

She hadn’t felt like this for years, not since—not for years. She put the tray down with a tiny clatter, and he stirred and sat up.

‘Sorry.’ His voice was gruff, sleep-roughened. He ran his fingers through his hair and her fingers ached with jealousy. The elemental urge strengthened.

Grasping the coffee-cup, Lizzi filled it and set it down in front of him, her hands trembling slightly.

‘Black or white?’ Damn, why did her voice sound breathless?

‘Black, I think. Thank you.’

‘Toast?’ That was better. Her voice was her own again.

‘Lovely. Do you spoil all the doctors like this, or are you just taking pity on me?’

She blushed and busied herself with her own cup. He was right. Normally she would have sent them off to the canteen rather than let them raid the ward provisions. Sometimes when they were very rushed Oliver would grab a sandwich, but waiting on them? With a tray? What was she thinking about?

She knew perfectly well what she was thinking about, and she blushed again as he caught her eye. She struggled for a neutral topic.

‘Oliver told me you’d had a hectic weekend.’

He chuckled. ‘Is that what you call it? I picked the boys up from school in Norfolk on Friday and took them back to their mother in Edinburgh on Saturday, then back down yesterday.’

‘Your wife’s in Edinburgh?’ Lizzi asked, surprised—as much as anything at herself. She never, never asked personal questions—or answered them, come to that!

‘My ex-wife. Her husband’s a GP. She works part-time in the practice.’

Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry——’

He waved the toast dismissively. That’s OK. It’s public knowledge. What about you?’

‘Me?’ Her voice rose, and she made an effort to bring it down. ‘What about me?’

His mouth curved appealingly. ‘Are you married? Engaged? Entangled?’

She swallowed, ‘I——’

The phone rang, its warble loud in the sudden silence.

‘Sister Lovejoy here. Oh, hello, Bron.’

As she dealt with the details of the new admission, Lizzi was aware of Ross’s eyes on her as he munched his way through the toast.

When she put the phone down, he asked the question again.

She stood up, straightening her skirt with a tug. ‘Mr Hamilton, I make it a point not to discuss my personal life or anybody else’s with anyone at work. I’m afraid I can’t see the relevance.’

She swept out of the room, collared the young houseman and instructed him to clerk the new admission coming up from A and E.

‘Acute appendix, man of twenty-four. We’ll put him in Bay One.’

For the next twenty minutes or so she supervised the admission of the new patient, training a student in the preparation of the charts and the taking of the first TPR and BP readings, the notice over the bed which read ‘Nil by Mouth’, the urine sample to be obtained if possible and the tests to be done on it, the checking of valuables and other possessions and so on down the endless list, while the houseman obtained the relevant medical information.

She had seen Oliver come on to the ward a few minutes earlier, and so she headed back to her office to find out whose list the patient would be put on. As she approached the door quietly in her soft-soled shoes, she heard Ross’s deep voice murmer a question, and then Oliver chuckled.

‘Lizzi? You’ve got to be joking! The junior staff call her the Ice Maiden—that or Sister Killjoy.’

‘She’s not that bad, surely?’

Oliver laughed again. ‘Save yourself the effort, Ross. You’d need a PhD in cryogenics to thaw our Lizzi. She doesn’t play—not ever, not with anyone!’

Ross laughed, soft and very masculine, and murmured something else that Lizzi couldn’t quite hear. She heard Oliver’s reply, though, and it chilled her.

‘Nobody knows. She wears a wedding-ring on a chain round her neck, but whether he’s dead or gone AWOL nobody knows. She may not even have been married. It could be her grandmother’s ring or something. She hasn’t ever mentioned anyone, though. Forget it, Ross. If it’s recreational sex you’re after, you need look no further than that young scrub nurse in Theatre with us last night—given a chance she’ll be all over you like a rash——’