Consultant Care
Of course.
Of course it was him! It would have to be, wouldn’t it? I mean, thought Nicolette with acid humour, if you were going to present yourself to the ward consultant, to a man who loved order, then how better to go about it than to rugby tackle him to the floor with all the grace of a dying duck?
But there was another reason, too, for her inability to catch her breath, or even to move, that was nothing to do with Nicolette’s embarrassment and everything to do with the man himself.
Because somehow, in the course of steadying her and saving her from possible concussion, he had firmly put one hand around her waist, and was still holding on to her, with all the assurance of a man who had had a lot of experience of holding on to women.
Although, she thought, looking at those craggy features, that didn’t surprise her one bit! And, close to, the eyes were even more devastating than she had originally thought.
‘Would you mind,’ he enunciated in the most tightly controlled voice she had ever heard, ‘getting your foot out of my trousers?’
Nicolette blinked and glanced down. Oh, heavens! She could see just what he meant: the elegant grey trousers had a turn-up, or a cuff, as some people called it. The top Italian designers that season had deemed such cuffs essential for every well-dressed man. Even she had read about that in the newspapers!
And her hefty black nurse’s shoe, with its extremely heavy-duty sole, had somehow lodged itself there, wedged inside it as securely as a sailor in a hammock.
With her customary enthusiasm Nicolette yanked her foot out, but the movement was accompanied by a distinct tearing sound and her eyes swivelled downwards in horror to discover that in the process of removing her foot she had ripped his gorgeous trousers!
‘Thank you,’ he said, in a chilly voice just dripping with sarcasm.
‘Oh, no!’ exclaimed Nicolette as she scrambled to her feet and automatically held her hand out to help him up as she would to a patient.
He studiously ignored the outstretched hand, managing to lever his long-legged frame up from the bathroom floor until he was beside her once more and towering over her again. Only this time there wasn’t just that look of poorly concealed irritation on his face, there was downright anger there, too, but that didn’t deter Nicolette from trying to make amends.
‘Oh, your poor trousers!’ she exclaimed in horror. ‘You must let me offer to repair them.’
There was a long, tense silence while he studied her face disbelievingly, and then he said, ‘I doubt whether you could afford to.’
Well! It was one thing to wear clothes that obviously cost a king’s ransom to buy, but quite another to then rub your wealth in someone else’s face! Nicolette stiffened and drew her shoulders back proudly. ‘I meant,’ she said deliberately, ‘that I could sew them for you.’
If she had suggested single-handedly flying a light aircraft across the Atlantic with him as the only passenger he could not have looked more horrified, or more appalled.
‘If you think,’ he said deliberately, speaking each word with distaste, as though he were being forced to swallow a particularly nasty dose of medicine, ‘that I would allow you anywhere near my trousers—’
It was just very unfortunate that Nurse Jones chose that particular moment to walk back into the bathroom, to find them face to face and glowering at each other. And it was unfortunate, too, that, from the look of profound and abject consternation on her face, she had completely misinterpreted the meaning of his words. ‘Oh, I’m s-so s-sorry!’ she stuttered, and, turning scarlet, she went straight back out again as if the hounds of hell were snapping at her heels.
The awkward silence which fell as they watched the student nurse go stretched and stretched until it was almost unbearable.
Nicolette looked helplessly up into his eyes.
‘I would now like to do my ward-round,’ he told her icily. ‘If you could find it in yourself to grant me the pleasure—’ this word was enunciated with devastating contempt ‘—of accompanying me?’ And he stalked out without another word.
Nicolette was always one to look on the bright side, and yes, OK, perhaps it wasn’t the most auspicious of beginnings, but that didn’t mean that they wouldn’t be able to get on in the future, did it?
She gulped, trying and failing to imagine a close, friendly working relationship developing with such an unbearable man.
She turned and went to follow him out, but as she did she caught a glimpse of herself in the bathroom mirror and flinched.
She looked so unprofessional!
Her uniform was very casual, which didn’t exactly help. She wore a simple short-sleeved dress, with a kind of tabard that covered most of it. This was a sleeveless white overall, brightly decorated with cartoon characters and which was unique to Southbury’s paediatric wards. Designed specifically to make young patients feel at home, at present it was only adding fuel to Nicolette’s conviction that she didn’t look fit to be in charge of the ward!
Her cheeks were as pink and as shiny as if she’d spent the morning out gathering hay, and her blue eyes were bright—two chips of dazzling sapphire in her square face. Puzzlingly, she looked so alive and so vibrant that it almost shocked her, but it was the state of her hair that most caught her attention.
Difficult to control at the best of times, the frizzy black curls had clearly been affected by the steam, the fall and the subsequent collision because it now looked as though a swarm of ebony snakes was protruding from her head.
There were tendrils threatening to escape everywhere, and, worse still, some which already had escaped and were lying on her cheeks and coiling down the back of her long neck.
It would be hopeless, she knew, to try to mend the damage; her hair needed completely redoing. And she couldn’t, she just couldn’t leave Dr Le Saux waiting for her while she went off and did her hair. Just imagine what he would think of her then!
So she automatically smoothed her hands down the sides of her blue cotton dress, unconsciously moulding the curving lines of her hips as she did so, and set off with a heavy heart to do a ward round with Dr L Le Saux.
CHAPTER TWO
NICOLETTE spotted that the curtains had been drawn round one of the beds and that Dr Le Saux’s white coat was just disappearing behind it, reminding her a little of the white rabbit in Alice in Wonderland!
The paediatric ward was not of the old-fashioned ‘Nightingale’ design that Nicolette was used to, with two long stark lines of beds on either side, although perhaps the ‘orderly’ Dr Le Saux might have preferred that, she thought wickedly. Instead, as was the modern way of nursing, the ward was divided into four-bedded cubicles, with the nurses’ station in the centre but close enough to be able to observe the four side-rooms, where the very sick or infectious patients were looked after.
Nicolette moved the curtains aside and stepped in.
Dr Le Saux was bending over a child aged about nine, a child who was staring up at him with big, trusting eyes. The tall doctor straightened up when Nicolette walked in, and the corner of his mouth moved very slightly upwards in a derisive little curve, indicating that his mood remained as prickly as before.
‘So here you are,’ he observed. ‘At last,’ he added unreasonably.
My, but he was irascible! Did his wife nag him, or what? Nicolette found herself staring into eyes which had suddenly taken on a brooding, stormy quality. It would take a strong woman to nag Dr Le Saux, she decided! His name badge, so embarrassingly close earlier, now winked at her like a diamond. ‘Dr L Le Saux’, it said, and she wondered idly what the ‘L’ might stand for. Lucifer, most probably, she thought, biting back a grin with difficulty. ‘Yes. Here I am,’ she said airily.
She turned to face the little boy on the bed who had been admitted earlier that week. She had said a quick ‘good morning’ after report when she had briefly gone round the ward to try to acquaint herself with the patients, but that had been all she had had time for. None the less, Nicolette knew the boy’s name; she had arrived half an hour early and had memorised every single patient’s name.
The little boy who lay in the bed was pale and thin, with a pinched little face. ‘Hi, Simon,’ said Nicolette.
‘Hi,’ said Simon, giving her the wary little once-over that children always seemed to give when they met someone who would be involved with their care during their stay in hospital. ‘How d’you know my name?’
Nicolette tapped the side of her nose, rolled her eyes, then giggled. ‘Magic. I’m a mind-reader!’
At the sight of her open grin, the slightly suspicious look on Simon’s face evaporated. ‘You saw it in the Kardex?’ he guessed.
‘Right first time!’
‘And what’s your name?’ he asked her.
She looked down at the small boy understandingly. He could read on her badge what her surname was; he wanted to know what her real name was, her Christian name. ‘Nicolette.’ She smiled broadly, thankful that she lived in a time where hospital traditions were no longer as starchy as they had used to be. Indeed, the use of Christian names was positively encouraged these days.
Simon responded to the warm grin. ‘That’s pretty,’ he said. ‘An’ you’re pretty, too! Isn’t she pretty, Doctor?’
Nicolette was too busy trying to stop herself from blushing to take much notice of the fact that the stern-faced Dr Le Saux had not encouraged the use of his Christian name!
His face went even sterner as he managed to ignore Simon’s question by saying smoothly, ‘Perhaps you’d like to give me a brief run-through of Simon’s history, Staff Nurse? I am assuming, of course, that you managed to find the time to read it up?’
She had, thank heavens! Nicolette gave Simon’s hand a quick squeeze, pleased as punch when he squeezed hers back. ‘He has cystic fibrosis.’
Dr Le Saux nodded. ‘And what can you tell me about the disease?’
At least medical staff could now speak frankly in front of their young charges—which was a relief, thought Nicolette as she gave Simon a dazzling smile. Research had long since shown that honesty was the best policy when dealing with children and that ‘protecting’ them by concealing the nature of their illness often led to their constructing frightening fantasies that were far worse than the truth.
‘It’s an inherited condition, affecting many tissues, particularly those with endocrine glands,’ she summarised fluently.
‘And how would you describe the endocrine glands, very simply, to a junior nurse?’ he probed.
Nicolette decided that she would have to award him ten out of ten for persistence, but just about resisted pulling a face at him because she had to concede that he had a point. Some senior nurses did waffle on without knowing how to explain a subject adequately yet succinctly. None-the-less, the last time she had been asked directly about the endocrine glands had been during her last set of examination papers!
She creased her brows together in concentration. ‘They are a series of small glands, situated in various parts of the body, which form secretions known as hormones,’ she told him.
He nodded. ‘Good. So tell me how cystic fibrosis presents?’ he queried immediately.
Nicolette could see that she was going to have to spend every evening with her nose in a textbook if she was to continue working on Dr Le Saux’s ward! ‘The majority of patients present with diarrhoea and failure to thrive, due to malabsorption or recurrent persistent chest infection. Or both. The diagnosis is made by—’
‘I’m the one asking the questions, Staff,’ he growled impatiently.
‘Certainly, Doctor,’ she answered politely, but her eyes flashed a spark of defiance at the way he had just arrogantly butted in like that. Talking to her as though she were fresh off her first ward, instead of a highly qualified nurse with five years of exacting training behind her! She caught Simon looking up and watching her, a broad grin on his pale face.
‘Don’t take any notice of him, Nurse,’ he told her, almost cheerfully. ‘He’s always growling. He has to—he’s a lion man!’
‘That’s enough, Simon!’said Dr Le Saux warningly.
Teasing his doctor seemed to have given Simon a definite rise in spirits. ‘That’s what he’s called, too—lion man! Suits him, doesn’t it?’
Nicolette raised her thick black brows above clear blue eyes and looked with frank curiosity at Dr Le Saux. Lion man? ‘Oh?’ she queried in a faint, soft voice.
‘My name is Leander,’ he told her reluctantly in that deep, deep voice which sounded exactly like rich, runny honey spilling slowly over gravel.
‘That’s rather . . . unusual,’ said Nicolette lamely, the curiosity remaining in her blue eyes.
He frowned, then sighed, as if recognising that some kind of explanation was in order. ‘It’s Greek for “lion man”—as Simon has so accurately pointed out.’
Leander! Nicolette blinked. Of all the remarkable names for a man. . .‘But weren’t you teased about it at school?’ she blurted out before she could stop herself.
He looked taken aback, as though the question had surprised him, and Nicolette suspected that he would not have chosen to answer it, had not Simon butted in eagerly.
‘Did they, Doctor?’
The tall man’s eyes rested thoughtfully on the young boy, and he nodded slowly, as though he had guessed Simon’s true reasons for asking. ‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘They did try to tease me. But they didn’t succeed.’
‘Because you’re big, and tough,’ hazarded Simon gloomily. ‘And could knock them down with a punch.’
But Dr Le Saux shook his head. ‘No, Simon,’ he responded quietly. ‘If you resort to physical violence then you’re putting yourself on the same level as the cowards who are bullying you—and believe me, that’s all that they are, nothing but pathetic cowards.’
‘Then. . .how did you get them to leave you alone?’ asked Simon diffidently, and Nicolette’s heart turned over in sympathy for the young lad, for it was transparently obvious that he must have been the butt of bullying himself.
‘By ignoring them,’ Dr Le Saux answered sternly. ‘Simple, but effective. They soon get bored repeating something if they can see that it isn’t upsetting you.’
‘And if it is upsetting you?’ said Simon falteringly.
‘Then you pretend. Pretend it isn’t, and soon they’ll stop. And if you can practise giving them a pitying little smile like this,’ and he curved his mouth into the haughtiest look of pride that Nicolette had ever seen, ‘at the same time,’ he carried on, ‘then they’ll steer well clear. Try it,’ he advised softly. ‘It works; I promise you.’
Simon nodded slowly, as if a promise from this particular doctor was something to be cherished. ‘I will.’
Nicolette found herself watching the tall paediatrician covertly, thinking about the man, and about the name. And whoever had chosen it had been spot on because yes, the name suited him. Really suited him.
He had impressively broad shoulders, which suggested strength, and the lean musculature of his long limbs marked him out as hunter, protector and provider. And here, standing beside the window, where the sunlight streamed in on them, she could see that his hair was not merely very thick and dark, as she had thought when she had first seen him, but that it also had the most astonishing dark red lights dancing in its depths, and, although it was neatly trimmed, its very thickness and intriguing hint of unruliness were not dissimilar to the texture of a lion’s mane. . .
She came out of her fanciful daydream to find him staring at her, a look of faint question in his eyes, and Nicolette realised that she must have been standing there ogling him! Oh, dear! She hastily cleared her throat. ‘Er—any more questions you wanted to ask me?’
‘I was going to ask you about the outlook,’ he told her softly.
For a moment her brain was complete mush. ‘The outlook?’ she echoed stupidly.
‘Of cystic fibrosis,’ he explained crisply.
Of course. Thank heavens to have something concrete to focus her attention on, other than the magnificent lion-like qualities of the man who stood in front of her! Nicolette didn’t falter. ‘The long-term survival has improved considerably in recent years, and there are now a great many adult CF patients who are leading fulfilled lives. In the meantime the adults of tomorrow can take great comfort from knowing that a vast amount of research is being done into the disease.’ And she gave Simon’s hand another tiny squeeze.
‘That’s what I keep telling Simon,’ said Dr Le Saux quietly. ‘But you take a lot of convincing, don’t you, my lad?’
Nicolette’s eyes were shining as she looked down at the patient. ‘Well, I’ve said it, too—and I wasn’t primed to, was I? How many more people would you like to repeat it to you, Simon, before you believe it?’
Simon’s eyes were serious beyond their years, but his voice didn’t have a trace of self-pity in it. ‘I know that what you say is true,’ he said. ‘An’ I’ve always believed Dr Le Saux. He’s looked after me since I was a baby. In fact, Mum and Dad moved down to this part of the world so that he could look after me, didn’t we, Doc?’
Nicolette blinked in surprise as she stared at the consultant. She could never have imagined the tall, imposing doctor looking vaguely disquieted, but he did now. He was, she realised with a surprised glee, embarrassed at Simon’s obvious hero-worship and glowing testimony! Strange, that. She would never have had him down as being modest!
‘Is that so?’ Nicolette asked softly.
The dark head with the red lights in it was shaken impatiently as he appeared to contradict Simon’s words. ‘The sea air acts as a tonic,’ he shrugged self-deprecatingly, adding as he saw the quirk of amusement which curved the corners of Nicolette’s mouth, ‘And yes, that may be a very old-fashioned idea, Staff Nurse, but I happen to believe it’s true.’
‘But so do I!’ agreed Nicolette, feeling almost shocked. She could never have imagined agreeing with anything said by the stern-faced man she’d grappled with in the bathroom!
‘Don’t take any notice of him,’ said Simon again. ‘It’s not just the sea air—he does research into CF here, too.’
Nicolette looked into eyes whose green flecks had intensified, giving him the enigmatic appearance of a cat. ‘Do you?’
‘Yes,’ he said, giving her a resigned look. ‘On a very small scale, of course.’
‘Rubbish! He’s a world authority,’ put in Simon cheerfully, ignoring the blatantly warning expression on Dr Le Saux’s face.
Curiouser and curiouser! Nicolette made a mental note to take herself off to the reference library when she finished duty to read something he had written. ‘Researching into any particular aspect of cystic fibrosis, Dr Le Saux?’ she asked politely, but it was difficult to keep the admiration out of her voice. Research, she knew, was not done for any of the kudos that surrounded the status of doctor. It didn’t earn you money, and it ate away at all your time. People who researched tended to do it because of their thirst for knowledge; and for results that would hopefully bring about improvements to a patient’s life. Nicolette had always held researchers in the highest esteem.
He shrugged his broad shoulders restlessly. ‘I’m searching for the cure,’ he said starkly, finishing on an altogether different note. ‘But there again, isn’t everyone?’
For Simon’s sake, Leander managed to disguise the note of cynicism that was threatening to creep into his voice but it took a huge effort as usual, especially with that young, rather beautiful nurse staring up at him like that with those amazing shining blue eyes, and all because he’d mentioned his foolish little bit of research. What did she think he could do by sitting up night after long damned night, studying tissue samples? Rid the world of this illness? And, even if he could, nothing would change, not really. Because then he would go on to try to find a cure for the next disease, and the next, until his own time had run out. God help us to rid the world of all illnesses, Leander thought bitterly, but especially those which affected young children. . .
But Nicolette heard the faint underlying note of cynicism, heard and understood it, and her tender heart couldn’t help warming to him, arrogance or no arrogance. ‘That’s absolutely wonderful,’ she breathed sincerely, not really caring if she sounded a bit over the top in her praise. ‘I think that research must be the most worthwhile thing in the world any person can do.’
But he knitted his dark brows together, as though she had just called him names. ‘Thanks for the recommendation,’ he said, with crisp sarcasm. ‘But we can’t really afford the time to stand around chatting—we both have work to do, do we not?’
He didn’t see the eyes-to-heaven expression which Simon gave, but Nicolette did, and it took every effort of will for her not to giggle. Let him be grumpy if he wanted—if the man was a researcher then she’d forgive him an awful lot! ‘Yes, Doctor,’ she answered demurely.
He frowned suspiciously, as if sensing the shared joke between Nicolette and Simon. ‘Then would you mind lifting up Simon’s pyjama jacket,’ he ordered shortly, ‘so that I can examine his chest?’
Nicolette did as he asked, while he warmed the stethoscope up on the palms of his strong, capable hands. Then she watched him dispassionately while he started to examine Simon, wondering what his practical skills as a doctor were like.
She should have guessed, of course. He was good, she had to admit. Very, very good indeed.
Paediatricians, who looked exclusively after children—from tiny babies to young adults—needed skills above and beyond the normal skills of other doctors. They had to be infinitely patient, and precise. They needed to be flexible and able to cope with the unexpected without blinking—which was why Nicolette had been surprised when told that Dr Le Saux demanded order. They also needed the utmost manual dexterity and a steady, steady hand. But the skill they needed above all else was that of communication—not something she would have automatically put at the top of his list of qualities! Children were famous for clamming up when questioned about their illness, and it took a special kind of adult to coax information out of them.
Extraordinary, then, that this man, who on first impressions Nicolette would have ventured had a real problem with communication, should have this little boy eating out of his hand.
There was silence while he listened to the chest sounds, punctuated only by his brief instructions to Simon to breathe deeply. And when he raised his dark head there was something approaching a smile on his hard face.
‘Good,’ he pronounced. ‘The chest sounds clear. Looks like all trace of that nasty Pseudomonas aeruginosa infection has gone.’ His eyes narrowed in Nicolette’s direction as he mentioned the rather virulent strain of bacteria to which cystic fibrosis sufferers were particularly susceptible. ‘Have we had any sputum results back, Staff?’
Nicolette nodded, heartily glad that since her early days as a staff nurse she had got into the habit of reading and memorising all the patients’ results that came back. And earlier she had tackled the pile on the desk that had included Simon’s. ‘The result of the third specimen came back this morning. With the all-clear.’
‘Excellent.’ Dr Le Saux smiled. ‘Like to go home, Simon?’
The boy’s face lit up. ‘Oh, can I?’
The paediatrican threw his hands up in mock-astonishment. ‘But I thought you liked being here,’ he teased gently.
‘I do—it’s just that home is—’
‘I know, Simon,’ interrupted Dr Le Saux in the gentlest of voices. ‘Home is better. How’s that stick insect of yours?’
‘It’s had a baby,’ said Simon proudly.
‘But I thought it was a male?’
‘So did Mum!’ grimaced Simon.