Fairytale on the Children's Ward. Meredith Webber

      Clare!

      He showered and dressed, reminding himself that both of them had changed in the ten years since the split. Now they were mature adults and could meet and treat each other as professional colleagues, nothing more, though the thought of her with a child niggled at him.

      For one thing, where was the child now? She hadn’t had a child with her and there was no noise coming from next door.

      Clare with a child.

      Why did that hurt him?

      The physical attraction he still felt towards her was probably nothing more than an emotional hangover from the past, some glitch in programming, possibly to do with the Italian revelations. And feeling this strong attraction, it was only natural that he’d been on the brink of taking her in his arms yesterday evening, when the front doorbell had sounded.

      Saved by a pizza!

      Think of food, not Clare.

      Rod’s daughter had left some basic groceries in the flat—milk and butter in the fridge, coffee, tea, bread and spreads in the pantry. He’d have to find the supermarket and do some shopping, and until then he could eat at the hospital. In fact, if he left now he could have breakfast there; maybe that’s why Clare had left so early.

      She wasn’t in the little coffee shop in the foyer, nor in the canteen, so he ate a solitary breakfast, then made his way not to the teams’ rooms but to the theatre, wanting to refamiliarise himself with the way Alex had it set up.

      ‘Oh!’

      Clare was there ahead of him and she must have sensed his presence, for the startled expression burst from her lips before he was fully through the door.

      Not that she was unsettled for long, greeting him with a smile—a very professional smile—and a cheery, ‘Good morning, Oliver,’ for all the world as if they hadn’t shared an extremely passionate relationship, albeit ten years ago.

      ‘Do you always begin this early?’ he asked, because two could play the calm and controlled game. She smiled again.

      ‘First-night nerves,’ she told him. ‘I’ve spent a lot of time here in the past week, but I’m still anxious about the machine, which is stupid as it’s exactly the same make of machine as I operated in the States. It’s just that—’

      She stopped abruptly and he saw a faint colour appear in her cheeks.

      ‘Just that…?’ he prompted, hoping professional conversation would halt the disturbances in his body.

      ‘You’ll think I’m barmy, but to me the machines have personalities, maybe idiosyncrasies would be a better word, and until I get to know each one personally I won’t know what to expect.’

      Clare watched him carefully as she explained her unease, and to her surprise, she caught no hint of a smile. In fact, Oliver was nodding as if he understood what she was saying.

      ‘You have so much to think about, with the responsibility for the respiratory and circulatory functions of the lungs and heart. I can understand you wondering if the machine has quirks you need to watch for. You’ve got the oxygenator, the pumps, the filters, the reservoirs and tubing, so many component parts that can go wrong.’

      And now he smiled, sending tremors of remembered delight through Clare’s body, in spite of her determination to remain on strictly professional terms with him.

      ‘But have things ever gone badly wrong for you? Has there ever been a disaster you couldn’t overcome?’

      She found herself smiling back at him, professionally, of course.

      ‘Tubes kinking, the membrane oxygenator failing, the machine turning off automatically when a clot or bubble gets into the tubes? I’ve seen most of the calamities that can happen, and had to cope with a few, but generally the machines, providing they are serviced regularly and checked before every operation, work brilliantly.’

      Oliver heard the pride in her voice and recognised the dedication she had to her profession—speaking of which…

      ‘It still seems a strange choice for someone who had stars in her eyes and an established career as an actor.’

      He saw her shoulders lift in a slight shrug.

      ‘Things happened, Oliver, that changed my goals. I’d done well in science at school, so a switch to that seemed logical.’

      Which would have made sense, only her voice had tightened as she spoke, and he sensed a tension in her body. Or was he fooling himself that he was still so attuned to her he could feel her emotion, sense that she’d told maybe not a lie but certainly not the whole truth?

      ‘Then perfusion.’

      He shook his head, as much at his own imaginings as at her choice of career. But at least her smile was back—a bright smile now.

      ‘If I’d known how much I would love this job I’d never have bothered with anything else. What amazes me is that there are so many jobs out there that no-one even knows about. I mean, the career adviser at my school didn’t mention perfusionist as a career option. In fact, he’d probably never heard of it either. By chance, I met a perfusionist and that was it.’

      ‘So here you are.’ Nice, normal conversation; he’d be able to handle this. Always assuming the attraction he still felt towards her wasn’t obvious to everyone who came in contact with him when she was around.

      She bent her head as she answered, presumably checking some component of the machine, and Oliver found himself studying her, once again imagining he could sense tension in her voice.

      ‘It can’t have been easy, handling training and a child.’

      It was a throwaway remark, the kind anyone might make, yet he saw her tense. No sensing it this time; he actually saw her stiffen.

      Why?

      ‘Mum helped out.’

      Obviously that was the only answer he was going to get, so should he keep the conversation going?

      Might as well; it was awkward enough as it was without silence extending between them.

      ‘How old is she?’

      More silence, then Clare looked up at him.

      ‘She’s nine,’ she said, before returning to whatever she was doing, fiddling with the machine.

      ‘Nine? As in nine years old?’ he muttered as a rage he’d never felt before, not even when his real father had denied him, burnt through his body. ‘You’re telling me you were so desperate for a child you went from me to him, whoever he was? Or were you already seeing him? Cheating on me? Did he offer marriage? Is that what swayed you? And did he offer before or after you announced you were pregnant, eh?’

      Clare had never heard such anger in his voice, yet this was hardly the time to refute his hateful accusations. He was about to operate on a vulnerable infant. He needed to be calm and composed, totally focused on the job, not struggling to comprehend the fact that he had a daughter.

      What’s more, she had to be calm and composed as well! Later she’d get angry. Later she’d tell him.…

      Right now, she had to defuse the situation somehow.

      ‘It is none of your business what I did or didn’t do, Oliver, and right now I really need to get on with this.’ She looked up at him again, saw the harsh anger in his face and hated the contempt she read in his eyes. And though her own anger burned at the injustice of his words, she pushed it aside, adding calmly, ‘And you probably want to check out the theatre, although didn’t Alex say you’d worked with them before?’

      For a moment she thought he’d reject the conversational shift, but when he nodded she knew she’d succeeded in tempering the tense emotional atmosphere in the room.

      At least for the duration of the operation!

      ‘I