are given an informed choice. For example, how many of the twelve per cent would have progressed to a C-section if they hadn’t had a whole gamut of medical intervention first? We all know it tends to have a spiralling effect. And C-sections done for obstetric convenience only are deplorable.’
‘Convenience? Such as?’ asked Martin testily.
‘Golf games,’ she snapped.
To Claire’s absolute surprise Campbell threw back his head and laughed. His glorious hair flopped back, the golden highlights catching the afternoon sun streaming through the window behind him.
‘I hardly think that’s fair comment,’ Martin blustered.
Claire knew Martin played off a three handicap. You needed to spend a lot of time on the greens to be that good.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Claire, annoyed at having let her temper sidetrack her from the issue. ‘That was uncalled for.’
‘I should think so,’ Martin muttered.
‘You’re missing the point,’ Claire said, with barely concealed impatience. ‘It’s all set and ready to go. Whether you agree with it or not, it’s a done deal. The birth centre is here to stay. What the board wants, the board gets.’
‘I’m sorry, Sister West.’ Martin shook his head. ‘We’ve discussed this in great detail. Now, I can’t speak for Dr Deane, but I know the rest of us agree that we’re not comfortable with such a role. It’s a big responsibility. Our medical insurance skyrockets every year as it is.’
Claire looked around the table as all of them, with the exception of Campbell, nodded in agreement.
He remained silent. His stare seemed to be weighing her up. She had known that this meeting wasn’t going to be easy, but she’d also been sure she’d be able to sway at least one of St Jude’s six obstetricians. It was a board initiative. It had been funded and set up—they couldn’t refuse. But they had.
Claire felt the heat of her anger flare and rage inside her. ‘Well, thank you, gentlemen,’ she said with icy sarcasm, gathering her papers, ‘for nothing. I don’t have time to stand here and beat my head against a brick wall. I guess we all know where we stand.’
Quelling the urge to glance Campbell Deane’s way one last time, Claire turned on her heel and marched out of the room. She knew it was childish but she slammed the door after her for good measure.
* * *
‘Wow.’ Campbell expelled a long whistle, stopping about the same time as the windows stopped rattling. She had been magnificent. Obviously passionate about her cause and ready to do what it took, take on whoever it took to see her plans come to fruition.
Not that he’d actually heard a lot of what she’d been saying. It had been difficult to concentrate when so much of the blood that usually dwelt in his brain had found its way to another part of his anatomy. He hadn’t had such an instantaneous response since that time when his eighth-grade maths teacher had bent over to help him and he’d had a glimpse of her lacy bra.
If anything, this time was worse. She hadn’t had to flash any underwear, just one impassioned diatribe, and he was almost dizzy from the lack of oxygenated blood to his brain. He noted the other men’s laughter and was secretly amused by their relieved expressions. Sister Claire West has left the building!
‘She married?’ he asked. They laughed again, louder this time. Yep—definitely more relaxed now.
‘I don’t think you’re her type.’
‘Too old? Too young? Too obstetrician-like?’
‘Too male,’ said Martin, and the group laughed again.
The answer confused him momentarily. Campbell felt his hackles rise as realisation dawned.
‘It seems she likes to wear comfortable shoes,’ someone else said with a snigger, amused at his little joke.
‘Oh, I get it.’ Campbell’s icy voice cut through their little-boy laughter. ‘Because she doesn’t fall at our feet and fawn all over us, she’s a lesbian?’
‘So the rumour goes,’ agreed another, and grinned conspiratorially.
Campbell thought of his sister Wendy and how rumour and innuendo had dogged her because of her sexual preference. Such archaic attitudes made him angry. It flared in his eyes as the other men laughed, oblivious.
‘Knocked back every available doctor in the hospital. A couple of not so available ones, too.’ Martin laughed. ‘She was involved with a guy years ago but I know for a fact that she lives with a woman now—Mary. I think that’s her name anyway. Shame really. Beautiful girl. Damn good midwife, too. Just doesn’t know her place.’
‘Well, now, that won’t do, will it?’ Campbell’s voice was caustic.
‘I say, old chap,’ blustered Martin, the mirth slipping from his face. ‘Just a bit of harmless fun.’
‘Excuse me, gentlemen,’ Campbell said politely. He pushed back his chair and grasped it firmly in case the growing urge to wipe the superior looks off their faces suddenly overwhelmed him. ‘I have other business.’
* * *
Claire steamed into the deserted staff dining room and made herself a cup of coffee. It was too early for afternoon tea so she had the large room to herself. Good. At least she’d be able to hear as she silently berated herself. In half an hour the noise level in the room wouldn’t allow for mental self-flagellation.
She flicked impatiently through her notes as she sipped the hot drink. Neat, concise, calm, reasoned. Absolutely nothing like her performance in the boardroom. She shut the folder in disgust. Try insulting and inciting. She’d blown it! Her agenda had been to flatter a few egos and gently persuade. Instead, she’d gone in with a caustic tongue and a sledgehammer.
Where they would go from here, she really had no idea. It would have to go back to the board and they would have to apply pressure. Claire had no doubt that eventually the obstetricians would have to back down. The board could be an immovable force when it wanted something badly enough. Fortunately, it believed in the birth centre.
But it all meant more time. As if the process hadn’t been slow enough already. This latest development delayed things further. Damn them, Claire thought as she stared into the murky depths of her coffee. Her eyes were a matching colour as she worried her bottom lip.
Unbidden, Campbell Deane’s face entered her mind—again. His red-blonde hair, his green eyes, the intensity of his stare. The way he said her name.
‘Claire.’
His voice startled her, causing the remainder of her coffee to swish perilously close to spilling into her lap.
‘May I sit down?’ He gestured to the seat opposite.
Still smarting from what had happened in the boardroom and irked by the way her hands were trembling, Claire wasn’t feeling very charitable.
‘Something wrong with all the other tables in this joint?’
Despite her deliberate rudeness, he threw back his head and laughed, and Claire was reminded how he had laughed at her golf faux pas. She felt her scalp tingle.
‘You’re not sitting at them.’ His laughter sobered to serious contemplation.
Claire felt her breath stop in her throat as their eyes locked and held. Cinnamon brown drowning in sea green. She pulled her gaze away with difficulty.
‘It’s a free country.’ Claire shrugged her slim shoulders. She had to be nonchalant, cool. She couldn’t let him see that somehow he’d created a chink in her defences. He mustn’t find out.
‘I’ll do it,’ he stated, pulling out the chair and sitting down.
‘What?’ She eyed him dubiously.
‘I’ll