Every time he walked onto the unit she dropped something, and she found it almost impossible to concentrate on what he was saying. Instead, she saw the power of his shoulders and the gleam in his eyes. And the heat of his gaze was a constant reminder of the frantic, out-of-control passion that they’d shared in the cottage.
Even without the broken lamp for evidence, she wouldn’t have been able to forget it.
Memories of the encounter simmered in both her mind and her body, denting her concentration and threatening her willpower.
There was an ache inside her that wouldn’t be s
ubdued. A need that pulsed quietly, threatening to engulf her. She gritted her teeth, telling herself that such a reaction was to be expected. She hadn’t slept with a man since Tom. Hadn’t wanted to. But now her body had been reawakened and it refused to return to its previously dormant state.
She told herself that she’d lived without Tom for seven years. Survived. But she was learning that there was a huge difference between survival and fulfilment.
Dragging her mind back to the job, she concentrated on the labouring woman she’d been attending all morning.
It had all the signs of being a perfectly straightforward delivery, which was a good thing. At least Tom wouldn’t get involved.
Trying hard not to think about him, she glanced up as the door opened.
One of the student midwives stood there, a look of panic on her face. ‘Sister needs you in Room 2.’
Calmly Sally stood up. ‘That’s fine, Alice. I’ll go to her. Will you stay with Mrs Jones for me, please?’
Without asking for any further information, she quickly made her apologies to the woman she’d been with all morning and slipped out onto the unit.
Immediately she picked up the tension and took a step backwards as an anaesthetist that she knew vaguely sprinted down the corridor towards Theatre, almost knocking her sideways.
She hurried to Room 2, opened the door and then stopped as she saw Tom.
But he wasn’t looking at her.
His expression was grim and his handsome face reflected the tension that pulsed in the room.
‘Raise the foot of the bed and keep that head pushed back, Emma. I don’t need to tell you not to handle the cord or it might go into spasm.’
Realizing immediately that they were dealing with a prolapsed cord, Sally moved towards the bed, helping to elevate it.
‘What can I do?’
Emma was using her fingers to prevent the baby’s head from pressing down on the cord and cutting off the blood supply from the placenta. Sally knew that she wouldn’t be able to remove her hand until the baby was safely delivered.
If it was safely delivered.
Cord compression was an emergency and a cause of foetal death.
Tom glanced at her, his expression urgent. ‘Help me get Lynne on her hands and knees. I want her bottom higher than her head. Then I want to infuse 500 mils of saline into her bladder. She isn’t fully dilated. I’m going to section her.’
They worked together swiftly and then, satisfied that the mother was in the best possible position, Tom strode towards the door. ‘Get her into Theatre and make sure she’s breathing one hundred per cent oxygen. I’ll go and scrub.’
The door swung closed behind him and Sally looked at Emma for an explanation.
‘This is Lynne. It’s her third baby. Her waters broke this morning but we seem to have a shoulder presentation and the cord has prolapsed.’
‘Are you OK?’ Sally mouthed the question, knowing that maintaining the necessary pressure on the baby’s head must be tiring for Emma. Her colleague gave a brief nod.
‘Yes,’ she replied softly. ‘But we need to get her into Theatre.’
‘I’ll scrub and assist.’
At that moment several other people hurried into the room to help, and together they wheeled Lynne through to Theatre.