‘Yes.’
‘W-wait a minute,’ Hayley stammered. ‘I can’t just turn up and work. I’m not sure they’d want me to just—’
‘I’ll call Human Resources on the way in and they can do whatever it is they need to do.’
‘Human Resources?’ Hayley gaped at him. ‘But it’s Christmas Day! They’re not working.’
‘My dad is really important,’ Alfie said proudly as he reappeared, carrying a bulging rucksack. ‘If he says someone has to do something, they have to do it.’
Patrick lifted an eyebrow. ‘I hadn’t noticed that rule applying to you.’
Alfie grinned. ‘That’s different. I’m your son. I get special treatment.’ He grabbed Posy and manoeuvred her into her coat. ‘Come on, Pose. We’re going to have fun.’
Chapter Four
‘SHE’S dilated less than two centimetres in the last four hours but she doesn’t want me to intervene,’ Tom said in a raw tone, his face pale and tired. ‘And I feel helpless. I’m an obstetrician! I’ve delivered hundreds of women, but I can’t think straight.’
‘That’s because she’s your wife.’ Patrick switched on the television in his office, pulled up two chairs and settled the children. ‘It’s different when you’re emotionally involved.’
‘Well, you know what Sally’s like—stubborn. I think the time has come to intervene but she refuses to even consider anything that constitutes aggressive management.’
‘I’ll take a look at her.’ Patrick removed his jacket and slung it over the chair. ‘This is Hayley. She’s going to be Sally’s personal midwife.’
Suddenly the focus of attention, Hayley turned pink. She wanted to open her mouth and protest that he’d never even seen her work, but Patrick was already ushering her along the corridor.
Without pausing, he pushed open the first door he came to and walked into the delivery suite.
Hayley looked around her in surprise. The room was light, bright and homely, with views across the mountains from the large picture window.
A petite woman sat on the bed in the middle of the room, concentrating on her breathing.
‘Sal?’ His voice gentle, Patrick strode across to the bed, leaned forward and kissed her on both cheeks. ‘You really pick your moments. I haven’t eaten my Christmas pudding.’
‘You’re a lousy obstetrician, Ric,’ the woman moaned. ‘You told me there was no way this baby would come until Boxing Day.’
‘I hate to disillusion you, babe, but it could well be Boxing Day.’ Patrick looked at the clock and then at the chart by the bed. ‘Not exactly motoring, are you?’
‘It’s definitely time to intervene,’ Tom said gruffly. ‘Sally, I really think you should—’
‘If you don’t shut up, Tom Hunter, I’m never speaking to you again. And I’m certainly not sleeping with you again. Not if this is the outcome.’ Sally screwed up her face as another pain hit her and Hayley saw Tom tense helplessly.
‘Sally—’
Like a wounded tigress, Sally growled at him. ‘Patrick, talk some sense into him. And here’s a hint—while you’re having that conversation I don’t want to hear the words amniotomy, oxytocin infusion, ventouse or forceps. And I definitely don’t want to hear Caesarean section. Or I am never again cooking you my special crispy duck or my lemon tart. Got that?’
Patrick grinned. ‘I think we’ll have this conversation outside. That way, at least I’ll protect my future dining prospects.’ He took Tom’s arm and guided him out of the room, leaving Hayley alone with the woman.
Her eyes bright with pain, Sally glanced at her. ‘Sorry—I love Tom. Honestly I do, but he’s in a state and he’s making me worse. We haven’t been introduced—’ She caught her breath as another pain hit and Hayley hurried across to her, sensing that the other woman was feeling isolated and alone.
‘You’re not breathing properly,’ Hayley murmured, sliding her arm round Sally’s narrow shoulders. ‘You’re talking too much—thinking about everyone else and not yourself.’
‘That’s because my husband is having a meltdown,’ Sally gritted, and Hayley rubbed her back gently.
‘Patrick will sort him out. You think about yourself. You’re obviously struggling with the pain. Do you want some gas and air?’
‘Nothing at the moment.’ Sally shifted on the bed. ‘God, it hurts. Isn’t it typical? I can’t believe I’m still only four centimetres. I should have delivered by now. That’s what happens when your husband is an obstetrician. You’re doomed. Fate intervenes to give you the worst delivery possible.’