The Spanish Consultant's Baby

CHAPTER TWO

RAMÓN tried. He really, really tried to be professional in his dealings with Jennifer. But then he saw her with a small child whose parents had rarely visited. She was sitting in a chair with the child on her lap, reading a story and persuading the child to point out things in the pictures. In her lunch-break, he noted, when she really should have been taking some time out for herself.

She cared about her patients. She cared about her staff. So why didn’t she let anyone care about her?

He should walk away. Not get involved. He knew that would be the sensible thing to do. But ten minutes later, after she’d settled the child back in bed, he rapped on her office door and opened it.

She looked up from her desk. ‘Yes?’

‘May I have a word, please, Jennifer?’

‘Everyone calls me JJ.’

Everyone else might, but he didn’t. He wasn’t going to reduce a beautiful name to initials. She was fiddling with her wedding ring again, he noticed. Did she do that all the time, or was it just when he was around? He closed the door behind him and leaned against it. ‘Have dinner with me tonight, Jennifer.’

Oh, Lord. She’d heard those words before. Years ago. Then she’d said yes—and it had been the start of the worst mistake of her life. She’d learned her lesson in the hardest way. ‘No.’

‘Why not?’

Tall, dark, handsome and arrogant—assuming that, of course, she’d want to go out with him. Little mousy Jennifer, swept off her feet by the first man who’d paid her some attention.

Well, not this time. She didn’t make the same mistake twice. She’d learned a lot from her counselling and she wasn’t going back to being a victim. ‘I don’t want to.’

‘What’s the problem? The time? You’re busy tonight?’

‘What don’t you understand about the word “no”?’ she asked.

‘Your mouth is saying no,’ he said simply, ‘but your eyes are saying something else.’

Damn. He’d noticed. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Dr Martínez,’ she lied.

‘Ramón,’ he corrected.

‘Ramón.’ It felt as if she were talking through a mouthful of treacle.

‘Why do you have such trouble saying my name?’

Her face heated. ‘I don’t,’ she protested.

‘You do. And not because my name’s Spanish.’

‘I’m sure you already have an opinion.’

He smiled. ‘I do. I think, Jennifer, that there’s something between us. Something you don’t want to acknowledge. And that’s why you have a problem saying my name.’

‘That’s ridiculous.’

‘Then say it.’ To her horror, he actually came to sit on the edge of her desk. Put one hand on her shoulder. Used the other to tilt her chin so she was looking up at him. ‘Say it,’ he coaxed.

It was the melted chocolate thing again. She’d bet he knew he was doing it. He probably did it to a dozen women an hour. She wasn’t special to him and she wasn’t falling for it. ‘Ramón.’

‘You’re blushing.’

‘Because you’re annoying me. You’re invading my space.’

He folded his hands in his lap. Even though he was no longer touching her, she could still sense the feel of his skin against hers. Feel the heat of his body. Imagine the warmth of his mouth.

This really couldn’t be happening.

‘If you were on the other side of the ward and my back was to you, I’d still know the moment you walked into the room,’ he said softly.

He said things like that to all the women. Of course he did. He was the sexy Spanish doctor, used to women falling at his feet. And yet what he’d said touched a chord in her. She’d know he was there, too. She was aware of him whenever he set foot on the ward.

‘Have dinner with me, Jennifer. Please?’

She shook her head. ‘I can’t.’

‘Can’t or won’t?’

‘Both,’ she muttered.

He tipped his head on one side. ‘Why?’

She wasn’t going to answer that one.

He tried again. ‘What’s so bad about having dinner with me? Or are all your restaurants as terrible as the hospital cafeteria?’

‘I prefer to keep my private life separate from work,’ she said.

He nodded. ‘I understand. Enjoy your lunch-break, Jennifer.’ And then he left, as abruptly as he’d walked into the room.

So he was going to leave her alone? He really wasn’t going to bulldoze her?

Her relief was short-lived. Because when she came back from lunch, there was a memo on her desk. A typed memo from the director of Paediatrics, saying that the hospital needed Jennifer, as a senior member of the nursing team, to help look after their seconded consultant. Ramón Martínez was a guest in their city and they should treat him accordingly.

In other words, she was supposed to show him around and have dinner with him, to make sure he was happy and gave his own hospital in Seville a favourable report on Brad’s. If he didn’t, the word would spread and Brad’s was unlikely to get any more seconded specialists. With the recruitment crisis in the health service, Brad’s depended on secondees to fill specialist roles. No specialists meant longer waiting lists, which upset the financial people, who’d say the departments hadn’t met their targets and would cut the budget even more. The vicious circle would go on and on and on…

She crumpled the memo with unusual force and hurled it at her wastebasket. The snake! He’d tried one way and it hadn’t worked. And now he’d pulled a few strings and manoeuvred things so she’d be forced to go out with him. Well, it wasn’t going to work. The next time she saw him, she’d tell him straight.

Except she couldn’t. Because the next time she saw Ramón, she was in Stephen Knights’s cubicle, writing down the results of his observations, and Ramón had just walked into the room. She could hardly pick a fight with him in front of parents. Instead, she gritted her teeth and carried on with her task.

‘Jennifer, may I see you for a moment, please?’

She bit back the ‘Go to hell’ that had risen to her lips. ‘Of course, Dr Martínez.’

This time, he didn’t nag her about using his name. He even flushed very slightly. So he must know he was squarely in the wrong, she thought grimly. She followed him into the day room.

‘Perhaps we could have coffee for the Harpers and juice for their daughter?’

So now he thought the role of a senior nurse was to fetch drinks? Her disgust must have been written all over her face, because he added, ‘Unless you think tea’s better for helping to break bad news.’

‘Bad news?’

He nodded. ‘Which is why I wish to see you.’

Surely he wasn’t going to claim that he needed her to act as an interpreter? Apart from the fact that she couldn’t speak Spanish, his English was excellent, with barely a trace of an accent.

‘You’re good with patients and their families. And I think Mr and Mrs Harper will need a lot of support.’

She frowned. ‘What is it?’

Without comment, he passed her a file. She opened it and glanced at the test results on the first page. ‘“45 XO.”’

‘Classic Turner’s syndrome,’ he confirmed.

‘Poor kid. Poor parents. Where are they?’

‘In the playroom, with their little girl, Charlotte. I’m going to take them to my office. It’s quieter there than in the day room.’

And more private. She nodded. ‘I’ll bring some coffee.’

‘Thank you, Jennifer.’

As soon as she walked into his office with the tray of drinks, he gave her a look of relief and introduced her to the Harpers.

‘And this must be Charlotte. I brought some juice for you, Charlotte,’ Jennifer said. ‘Shall we draw some pictures while your mummy and daddy talk to Dr Martínez?’ The little girl nodded shyly, and Jennifer handed round the coffees before settling herself on the floor with the little girl, a pile of paper and a box of crayons.

‘It’s Ed and Fran, isn’t it?’ Jennifer asked.

‘That’s right.’ Fran had a pinched look about her mouth. ‘So, what’s wrong with Lottie?’

‘It’s a chromosome abnormality called Turner’s Syndrome,’ Ramón said.

‘Like Down’s, you mean? But why wasn’t it picked up when she was born? Or when I was pregnant?’ Fran asked.

‘Not all antenatal tests screen for Turner’s syndrome,’ Jennifer said. ‘And unless she had a heart condition or showed any signs of puffiness in her hands and feet just after she was born, it’s not something that would be picked up until the age of around five or six. There are other signs—such as a short neck which looks webbed because of the folds of skin, low-set ears, short fourth toes and fingers, spoon-shaped soft nails and a low hairline—but unless your GP suspected Turner’s, no one would be actively looking for the signs.’

‘There isn’t any history of it in our family. Well, not in mine,’ Ed said, reaching out to take his wife’s hand and squeeze it. ‘We don’t know about Fran’s.’

‘I was adopted,’ Fran said.

Jennifer forced herself to smile. Adoption was common enough. Though Ed didn’t have that same look on his face as Andrew had always had when speaking of Jennifer’s lack of family.

Then she became aware that Ramón was speaking. ‘Turner’s syndrome isn’t a hereditary disease,’ he said. ‘It’s an accident that happens when a cell divides after conception and a chromosome is lost.’

Ed frowned. ‘So what does that mean?’

‘There are twenty-three pairs of chromosomes in the human body, and pair twenty-three is the one that decides if you are a girl or a boy. For a girl, chromosome pair twenty-three is XX, and for a boy it’s XY. The results of Charlotte’s karyotype—that’s what we call the chromosome analysis—show that her X chromosome is missing in number forty-five. So, instead of being XX, she’s just X.’

‘So that’s my fault?’ Fran asked.

If it had been Jennifer sitting there with Andrew, she wouldn’t have asked that question—because he would have made the accusation first. They didn’t know her background, so it was all her fault.

‘It’s nobody’s fault. The missing X can come from the father’s sperm or the mother’s egg. We don’t know which.’ Ramón spread his hands. ‘It happens in one in two thousand girls.’

‘What about boys?’ Ed asked.

‘A boy can’t have Turner’s syndrome,’ Ramón said quietly. ‘The Y chromosome can’t survive on its own, so the male foetus would be miscarried.’

‘But Lottie seems so normal. Just a bit shorter than the other little girls in her class.’ Fran sighed. ‘I thought the health visitor was making a fuss over nothing.’

‘No. With Turner’s syndrome, the gene responsible for long bone growth is missing, so without any help Lottie wouldn’t grow any taller than one metre forty-three—that’s about four foot eight,’ Jennifer said.

‘So she’s always going to be small?’ Ed asked.

‘She’ll always have Turner’s syndrome,’ Ramón said. ‘But we can help with the height. We can give her some growth hormone, starting around her sixth birthday, though it’s quite a long course of injections.’

‘And then she’ll be normal height?’ Fran asked hopefully.

‘A little shorter, but not as small as if she’d had no treatment at all. Provided the treatment is consistent, of course. If she starts missing injections, it won’t work as well. There’s also the possibility of using an anabolic steroid to boost her growth.’ Ramón shifted in his seat. ‘She’ll also need oestrogen treatment from around the age of thirteen.’

‘Why?’ Ed asked.

‘Nearly all girls with Turner’s syndrome have a problem with their ovaries,’ Jennifer said. ‘They don’t function, so Lottie won’t have periods or develop breasts if she doesn’t have oestrogen and progesterone treatment.’

Fran shook her head, clearly finding it hard to take in. ‘So she can’t have children?’

‘She may be able to, with IVF treatment,’ Ramón said. ‘But she needs oestrogen for another reason—without it, her bones won’t mineralise properly and she’s more likely to have osteoporosis when she’s older.’

‘There are side effects with oestrogen treatment,’ Jennifer added. ‘She might get headaches, feel bloated or a bit sick, but that will go away within a couple of weeks.’

‘But she’s not going to die early or anything?’ Ed asked. ‘Or be slow at school? Her teacher said she wasn’t good at building things, but we thought that was…well, because she was a girl. She’s never been into Lego or anything, not like our son.’

‘She’s not going to die early,’ Ramón said. ‘Not from Turner’s syndrome, at least. Her body doesn’t have any oestrogen, though, so she may have memory problems, and she’ll find maths and spatial tasks harder.’

‘But with support she can do well. There are support groups for families and we can put you in touch with them,’ Jennifer said. ‘Plus Lottie can come to a clinic here to smooth her path through to adolescence and adulthood.’

‘There are some things you need to watch for,’ Ramón said. ‘Girls with Turner’s syndrome have a lot of middle ear infections and that can lead to deafness, so you must take her to the doctor whenever you think she might have an ear infection.’

‘Regular hearing checks are a good idea, too,’ Jennifer added. ‘As well as checking her blood pressure. She’s also more likely to get diabetes and thyroid problems, but we can do regular checks at clinic.’

‘So where do we start?’ Fran asked.

‘We can book you into clinic and give you some leaflets about the condition from the support groups,’ Jennifer said. ‘You need some time to think about it, decide what you want to do and what’s best for Lottie.’ She gave the little girl a hug. ‘Well done, Lottie. Show Mummy what a lovely picture you’ve drawn.’

‘It’s me, you, Daddy and Raphie,’ Lottie said, handing her mother a piece of paper. ‘Our family.’

A tear trickled down Fran’s cheek. Jennifer stood up and placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘I know it’s a bit of a shock, but, honestly, Lottie can lead a perfectly normal life. As long as she’s got a family who loves her, she’ll be fine.’

A family who loves her. Something Jennifer had never had. She pushed the thought away. She didn’t need a family. She had the ward. And that was enough. It had to be.

If he didn’t get a move on, he’d miss her. Ramón stuffed his white coat in his locker, grabbed his briefcase and made his way to Jennifer’s office. It was empty. Maybe she was changing. He had no idea which way she’d go home—did she live near enough to walk, or did she park in the staff spaces next to the old Victorian entrance to the hospital?—but she would definitely have to go through the reception of the paediatric ward.

He lingered deliberately, pretending to check through some leaflets. And then the back of his neck heated. He turned round to find that his early-warning system was spot on. She was just leaving the ward.

Her out-of-uniform clothing was just as unassuming as he’d expected. A pair of jeans, a loose navy T-shirt and flat shoes. She was a million miles away from the fashion clotheshorses he’d dated in the past. And yet she still had the power to make his heart miss a beat. What was it about her?

As she pushed through the double doors, he fell into step beside her. ‘Jennifer, I didn’t have a chance to thank you properly for your help with the Harpers.’

She shrugged. ‘It’s my job.’

‘But it was appreciated.’

‘Fine,’ she said coolly.

‘Jennifer, is there a problem?’ he asked.

‘Only the memo I received this afternoon. I don’t like being manipulated, Ramón.’

She’d said his name without prompting this time. That was a good sign…but her eyes said otherwise. She was furious with him. ‘I didn’t mean to manipulate you.’

‘No? So you didn’t pull strings to get Pete to write that memo, then?’

He sighed. ‘How else was I going to persuade you to go out with me, except to treat it as work?’

‘By asking me.’

‘I did. You refused.’

‘Exactly. And don’t use that “I’m a lonely Spaniard in a strange city” line with me. You could have asked anyone else on the ward.’

‘True.’

‘So why didn’t you?’

‘Because I wanted you,’ he said softly.

‘Well, you can’t have me.’

‘Your blood sugar’s low.’

She frowned. ‘What?’

‘You’re grumpy. It’s a side-effect of low blood sugar—therefore you clearly need some food. Let me take you to dinner.’

‘I’ve already said no.’

‘So you’ll leave me stuck in my lonely hotel room?’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘You’re not staying in a hotel. You’ve got a hospital flat.’

So she’d been interested enough to find that out. Good. That was a step in the right direction. He shrugged. ‘I’m still stuck on my own, in a place I don’t know.’ She didn’t utter a word, but her face said it all for her—she thought he was spinning her a line.

‘It isn’t a chat-up line,’ he said softly. ‘I don’t know your city. And…I could use a friend.’

She stopped dead. ‘Friend?’

‘Friend.’ He tucked her arm through his and continued walking, careful to match his stride to hers. ‘And friends have dinner together, do they not?’

‘Ramón, you’re bulldozing me.’

‘That expression isn’t familiar to me.’

She snorted. ‘Come off it. Your English is damn near perfect.’ His accent was so slight that it was almost undetectable. ‘This isn’t your first secondment abroad, is it?’

‘No,’ he admitted.

‘So where were you before?’

‘Have dinner with me and I’ll tell you.’

‘You’re infuriating.’

‘Are you stereotyping me, cariña?’

‘If you insist on behaving like a stereotype.’

The fire in her eyes was promising. More than promising. He gave her a mischievous smile. ‘Maybe I need you to teach me some manners.’

She tried to pull her arm away. ‘Leave me alone, Ramón.’

‘Have dinner with me,’ he coaxed. ‘Just as a friend. My treat.’

She was silent for a long, long time. He wasn’t sure whether she was going to argue with him or accept he’d outmanoeuvred her. To his relief, finally, she nodded. ‘All right. There’s a pub by the river. They do reasonable food. Though we’ll split the bill,’ she warned.

CHAPTER THREE

TWENTY minutes later, they were sitting on the pub’s terrace, overlooking the river. Ramón insisted on buying the drinks, so Jennifer accepted a sparkling mineral water. Ramón surprised her by choosing the same.

He looked up from his menu. ‘What do you recommend?’

‘Aren’t you going to order for me?’

He smiled. ‘Why would I do that when I don’t know your likes and dislikes?’

Andrew had always chosen for her, regardless. At the time, she’d thought it cherishing, that he’d been looking after her. It had only been when it had been much too late that she’d realised that hadn’t been his motive at all.

‘The salmon’s good,’ she said. ‘It’s local—comes from the farm down the road.’

‘Hmm. Poached in white wine, with dill. Is that what you’re having?’

‘Er…yes.’

‘Then I’ll join you.’ He gave her a wicked grin. ‘Let me guess. You only ever have two courses—if that.’

She flushed. ‘Am I that transparent?’

‘You look after others, but you neglect yourself,’ he said.

‘Whereas you would have three courses, I suppose?’

‘Four,’ he said, ‘if you count the tapas before dinner.’

Her flush deepened. ‘Sorry. I’ve obviously brought you to the wrong place.’

‘What could be more delightful than a summer evening in England next to the river?’ he asked. ‘Good food, pleasant surroundings and good company.’

She hadn’t exactly been good company so far. She’d been downright surly with him—because she was still annoyed with him for manipulating her into having dinner with him.

‘Are we having wine?’ he asked.

‘Not for me, thanks. I’ll be driving home. But don’t let that stop you.’

He flicked the wine list. ‘No, I think I’ll stick to water, too.’

‘Nothing Spanish there?’ The crack came out before she could bite it back.

He smiled. ‘There’s nothing wrong with a little patriotic pride. We make good wines in Sevilla. Sherry, of course, plus Manzanilla and Montilla.’

‘You’re from Seville?’ From Andalucia. Andrew’s mother’s family had come from Castile. So maybe Ramón wasn’t another Andrew.

He nodded. ‘You know Sevilla?’

‘No.’ Andrew had never taken her to Spain. He’d fallen out with his late mother’s family many years before and the breach had been irreparable. In the early days she’d started learning Spanish in secret to surprise him, please him—but when she’d tried practicing her Spanish on him, he’d just criticized her accent and told her not to speak it in his house again.

His house. Not theirs.

Unlike her cottage, which he’d never set foot in.

Then she became aware that Ramón was talking about his home city.

‘Legend has it that Sevilla was founded by Hercules.’ He smiled. ‘It’s a beautiful city. The minaret of La Giralda, the cathedral, the Alcázar palace, the María Luisa park, the Triana bridge over the Guadalquívir, the narrow streets around the church of Santa Ana…And remember, it is the city of Carmen, Don Juan and Figaro. History, food, art…’ He waved his hands. ‘Sevilla has it all.’

He clearly adored his home city. She couldn’t help asking, ‘So why are you here?’ Why hadn’t he stayed at home in Seville?

‘Because there are work opportunities for me in England that simply aren’t there in Spain. And—’ He broke off. ‘May I order for us now?’

‘Fine.’

‘What would you like for dessert?’

‘I’ll pass, thanks.’

When he came back, he gave her a guilty smile. ‘I think you’re about to be angry with me.’

‘Why?’

‘There was a specials board by the bar. I ordered us dessert from it. But if you hate it, you’re under no obligation to eat it.’

Ordering for her without asking first—just like Andrew. And yet Ramón had offered her a choice. Take it or leave it, as she pleased. There would be no anger, no smouldering sulk that she’d gone against his wishes.

‘Am I that scary?’

She blinked. ‘I…Uh. No.’

‘For a moment you looked terrified.’

‘You must be seeing things.’ She wasn’t going to share those memories. Ever. ‘So where were you before you came to Brad’s?’

‘Sevilla. And before that London for six months. And Manchester and Birmingham before that.’

‘All in paediatrics?’

He nodded. ‘I like working with los niños. Children. What about you?’

‘I’ve always worked at Brad’s.’

‘No, I mean, why the children’s ward?’

Because it was the nearest she’d get to having children of her own. She forced the thought back. ‘I like working with children too,’ she said lightly. ‘It’s very rewarding.’