for you!’ Louise reminded him.
Gina was an anaesthetist who had had a drink and drug problem and had gone into treatment a few months ago. A couple of years back Rory had been trying to avoid Gina at a Christmas party. Gina had tended to make blatant plays for him when drunk, so he and Louise had had a kiss and pretended to leave together.
‘Come on, Rory.’
‘No,’ he said, and then he rolled his eyes and reluctantly admitted the reason why not. ‘I like someone.’
‘Who?’ Louise’s curiosity was instant.
‘Just someone.’
‘Is she here?’
‘No,’ Rory said. ‘But I don’t want it getting back to her that I got off with my ex.’
‘Do I know her?’
‘Leave it, Louise,’ Rory said. ‘Please.’
It really was turning out to be the most frustrating night! First Anton and Saffarella, now Rory with his secret.
Hugh and Emily watched the action from the safety of the tables, trying to work out just what was going on.
‘Anton is holding Saffarella like a police riot shield,’ Hugh observed, but Emily laughed just a little too late.
‘Are you okay?’ Hugh checked, looking at his wife, who, all of a sudden, was unusually quiet.
‘I’m a bit tired,’ Emily admitted.
‘Do you want to go home?’ Hugh checked, and Emily nodded. ‘But I promised Louise a lift.’
‘She’ll be fine,’ Hugh said, standing as Louise and Rory made their way over from the dance floor. ‘We’re going to go,’ Hugh said. ‘Emily’s a bit tired.’
‘Emily?’ Louise frowned as she looked at her friend. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Can I not just be tired?’ Emily snapped, and then corrected herself. ‘Sorry, Louise. Look, I know that I said I’d give you a lift—’
‘Don’t be daft,’ Louise interrupted. ‘Go home to bed.’
‘I’ll see Louise home,’ Rory said, and Hugh gave a nod of thanks.
They said their goodnights but as Hugh and Emily walked off, Rory could see the concern on Louise’s face.
‘Louise!’ Rory knew what she was thinking and dismissed it. ‘Emily’s fine. It isn’t any wonder that she’s feeling tired. She’s six months pregnant and working. Theatre was really busy today …’
‘I guess, but …’ Louise didn’t know what to say. Rory didn’t really get her intuition where pregnant women were concerned. She wasn’t about to explain it to him again but he’d already guessed what she was thinking.
‘Not your witch thing again?’ Rory sighed.
‘Midwives know.’ Louise nodded. ‘I’m honestly worried.’
‘Come on, I’ll get you a drink,’ Rory said. ‘You can have two eggnogs.’ But Louise shook her head. ‘I just want to go home,’ she admitted. ‘You stay, I can get a taxi.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ Rory said, and, not thinking, he put his arm around her and they headed out, followed by the very disapproving eyes of Anton.
Rory dropped her home and, though tired, Louise couldn’t sleep. She looked at the crib, still wrapped in Cellophane, that she had hidden in her room, in case Emily dropped round. It was a present Louise had bought. It was stunning and better still it had been on sale. Louise had chosen not to say anything to Emily, knowing how superstitious first-time mums were about not getting anything in advance.
Emily had already been through an appendectomy at six weeks’ gestation, as well as marrying Hugh and sorting out stuff with her difficult family. She was due to finish working in the New Year and finally relax and enjoy the last few weeks of pregnancy.
Louise lay there fretting, trying to tell herself that this time she was wrong.
It was very hard to understand let alone explain it but Emily had had that look that Louise knew too well.
Please, no!
It really was too soon.
ANTON WAS RARELY uncomfortable with women.
Even the most beautiful ones.
He and Saffarella went back a long way, in a very loose way. They had met through his sister a couple of years ago and saw each other now and then. He had known that she would be in London over Christmas and Saffarella had, in fact, been the date he had planned to take to the maternity Christmas evening.
‘Where are we going?’ Saffarella frowned, because she clearly thought they were going back to his apartment but instead they had turned the opposite way.
‘I thought I might take you back to the hotel,’ Anton said.
‘And are you coming in?’ Saffarella asked, and gave a slightly derisive snort at Anton’s lack of response. ‘I guess that means, no, you’re not.’
‘It’s been a long day …’ Anton attempted, but Saffarella knew very well the terms of their friendship and it was this part of the night that she had been most looking forward to and she argued her case in loud Italian.
‘Don’t give me that, Anton. Since when have you ever been too tired? I saw you looking at that blonde tart …’
‘Hey!’ Anton warned, but his instant defence of Louise, combined with the fact that they both knew just who he was referring to, confirmed that Anton’s mind had been elsewhere tonight. Saffarella chose to twist the knife as they pulled into the hotel. ‘I doubt that she’s being dropped off home by that Rory. They couldn’t even wait for the night to finish to get out of the place.’ When the doorman opened the door for her Saffarella got out of the car. ‘Don’t you ever do that to me again.’ She didn’t wait for the doorman, instead slamming the door closed.
Anton copped it because he knew that he deserved it.
His intention had never been to use Saffarella, they were actually good together. Or had been. Occasionally.
Anton had never, till now, properly considered just how attracted he really was to Louise. Oh, she was the reason he had called Saffarella and asked if she was free tonight, and Saffarella had certainly used him in the same way at times.
But it wasn’t just the ache of his physical attraction to Louise that was the problem. He liked her. A lot. He liked her humour, her flirting, the way she just openly declared whatever was on her mind, not that he’d ever tell her that.
But knowing she was on with Rory, knowing he had taken her home, meant that Anton just wanted to be alone tonight to sulk.
It’s your own fault, Anton, he said to himself as he drove home.
He should have asked Louise out months ago but then he reminded himself of the reason he hadn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t be getting involved with anyone from work ever again.
Approaching four years ago, Christmas Day had suddenly turned into a living nightmare. Telling parents on Christmas Day that their newborn baby was going to die was hell at the best of times.
But at the worst of times, telling parents, while knowing that the death could have been avoided, was a hell which Anton could not yet escape from and he returned to the nightmare time and again.
The shouts and the accusations from Alberto’s father, Anton could still hear some nights before going to sleep.
The coroner’s report had pointed to a string of communication errors but found that it had been