Fairytale on the Children's Ward. Meredith Webber
possibly breaking her neck which right now, extreme though it might be, seemed preferable to answering Oliver’s question.
‘My daughter,’ she managed, forcing the words through even tighter vocal cords, so she sounded shrill, if not hysterical.
‘Fancy that! So you got the child you wanted,’ Oliver said as they reached the landing. The ice in his voice was visible in his eyes as he looked down at her and added, ‘Got the child and dumped the husband once his usefulness was over? Was that how it worked?’
Clare could only stare at him, her mind a chaotic battlefield, one voice yelling at her to tell him right now, another suggesting physical assault, while a third was advocating flight. She steeled herself against them all, looked him in the eyes and, hoping she sounded far more cool and in control than she felt, said, ‘You never used to be spiteful, Oliver.’
After which she turned away to unlock her door, and dive into the sanctuary of her flat. Oliver’s voice saying her name was the last thing she heard before she shut him out.
She leaned against the door, shaking with the hurt he’d inflicted, trying to breathe deeply, desperate to stem the waves of panic that washed through her mind and body.
Ten deep breaths, wasn’t that the rule—no, maybe that was counting to ten before you murdered someone. Well, there was an idea!
Three deep breaths…
Now think rationally!
Monday was as good as done, which meant she had four more days—four days to find a way to tell Oliver Emily was his daughter before Em came home and almost inevitably met him in person.
Clare’s mind went back into panic mode and breathing deeply didn’t seem to help.
Of course she had to tell him. Forget that his reaction just now had been so hateful. He had to know!
But the hub of it all was Emily. As far as Clare was concerned, Emily’s welfare, her happiness and emotional stability, had to be protected at all costs. Forget how Oliver might feel about Em’s mother, forget how Em’s parents might feel about each other—or whatever kinds of messes they’d made of their respective lives—at the heart of whatever lay ahead was Emily’s well-being.
CHAPTER TWO
OF ALL the impossible things to have happened! Oliver set his cases down in the small foyer and took a look around. Small sitting area, the open plan revealing a dining nook in a bay window and a kitchen behind a high bench at the back.
She had a child.
Stop thinking about Clare; look around your new home.
He could move; Alex had said it would be okay.
No, look around.
Neat, tastefully furnished, all he needed in the way of space. He turned aside, into a reasonably sized bedroom, again a bay window, this one overlooking the front yard and the street and park across the road, while down a small hall he discovered a bathroom and a second bedroom, small, but furnished with a good-size desk as well as a bed, so it was obvious any single tenant would use it as a study.
Or a tenant with a child could use it for the child.
How could he live next door to Clare’s child—the child he’d denied her?
A child who wasn’t a toddler, if she was at school. Why hadn’t he realised just how desperate Clare had been?
Because he’d assumed getting pregnant had been a whim, that’s why. Possibly something to make his commitment to her more—
More what?
Binding?
No, she’d known all along he had no intention of marrying and he’d assumed she’d understood that meant no children.
He closed his eyes but her image was once again imprinted in his mind. Not the image from the past, but the image of the new Clare, more heart-stoppingly beautiful than ever.
He swore quietly to himself. Why was he letting her affect him this way? On top of which, the fact that she had a child was none of his business. Where was his self-discipline? Surely he was professional enough that he could treat her as a colleague.
But even as that thought formed in his head another part of his brain was echoing with mocking laughter. As if that’s possible, it was saying, when your libido jolts to attention any time she’s around. Ectopic heartbeats indeed—be honest, it’s lust, mate!
Had it been more than lust the first time? Maybe not love—he wasn’t sure what love entailed—but definitely he’d felt a deep affection for her. How could he not when she’d been so beautiful and open and honest?
So loving!
Did she still see their relationship as five wasted years?
No! It was in the past. This was now. And if the child—Emily, Rod had said—was at school, Clare hadn’t exactly hung around mourning their break-up.
He gripped his head hard in his hands and squeezed to stop the mental arguments and to shut out the memories.
He would not think about Clare! He would not think about the past. He would move on, continue moving on, and if a tiny part of his mind kept questioning whether he’d ever really moved on from Clare emotionally—well, it was such a quiet voice he could ignore it.
She’d moved on, that was for sure. Changed careers, had a child—he doubted she’d ever given him a passing thought.
Until today, of course…
So?
Forget the past!
He took a deep breath, retrieved his cases, carried them through into the bedroom and began unpacking. He had chests with household items awaiting despatch in Melbourne, wanting to settle in and make sure he liked the flat before having them forwarded on, but for now all he needed to unpack were clothes, the one set of sheets he’d brought with him, a couple of towels and books—lots of books, although many more were in the chests. Reading had become his escape, but from what?
It was the first time he’d asked himself that question and now he had to probe further. Was it an escape from thinking too deeply about the sterility of his life? Or an escape from the inner emptiness his old girlfriend had pointed out to him? Or even an escape from feeling anything at all—for anyone…?
He gave a scoffing laugh, and shook off the stupid introspection. Reading was an escape from the intensity of his work, nothing more! And this unfamiliar delving into his psyche was the result of tiredness, having driven through the night to make the meeting this morning, stopping only for a couple of short breaks for safety’s sake.
And considering work, rather than the escape from it, he should read up on tomorrow’s op. With specialists all over the world, someone was always trying something new—discovering a tidier, or more effective, solution for the myriad problems they encountered.
He found his laptop, opened it on the desk in the second bedroom and settled down to search the internet. Hours later, stiff and tired, he closed the laptop and went in search of food—or information about food.
He found the folder in the kitchen and leafed through it. There was a selection of takeaway menus at the back of the notes—ha, food! He selected one and made a phone call. He’d eat, then shower, and get a good night’s sleep—practical, sensible decision making, that’s what was needed here.
A tap at the front door, his flat’s front door, made him wonder how people got in—how his pizza would get in. Did the outer door have a bell of some kind, an arrangement whereby it could be opened from upstairs? Had Annie’s notes explained? He’d read them again, but first see who was at the door.
Clare!
A very twitchy, uptight-looking Clare for all she smiled politely at him before explaining,