Family for the Children's Doc

Cole was the only one who had no photo and his paragraph was missing. There was just his name and a list of his qualifications.

Dr Cole Branagh, BM, MRCGP, DGM, DFFP, DRCOG

Such an impressive array of letters. She’d had to look them up to see what they meant. Bachelor of Medicine. Member of the Royal College of General Practitioners. Diploma in Geriatric Medicine. Diploma of the Faculty of Family Planning. Diploma of the Royal College of Obstetrics and Gynaecologists...

She’d laughed cynically at those last two. This man who knew so much about the best way to have a baby, was a man who had no idea he had an eight-month-old daughter. Wasn’t that ironic?

Sighing with irritation, she folded Skye’s letter and slipped it back into her bag as she stared once more at the surgery building, delaying for just a few more moments. It looked quite nice, as surgeries went. Modern. Redbrick. It even had hanging baskets filled with flowers in glorious pinks and greens.

She’d been lucky they’d needed a temporary healthcare assistant. Lane had registered with an agency in order to get the post there and her mum had stepped in to babysit Tori whilst she discovered if this Dr Branagh could be trusted to know that he had a child.

She flipped down the visor to see the photo she’d tucked there. It was of her and Skye. Tori’s mother was blowing out the candles on a birthday cake, with one arm around Lane, wearing a silly paper party hat. It had been taken just one year away from a diagnosis that would change everything.

‘I can’t believe you’re making me do this, Skye,’ she said out loud. ‘Who am I to be judge and jury?’

You’re Tori’s legal guardian, that’s who. It was as if Skye’s voice came to her. You made me a promise. On my deathbed. You can’t break it! She could almost hear the devilish chuckle in her friend’s voice.

No. She wouldn’t break it. She’d sworn it, holding Skye’s hands, squeezing them tight as her best friend in the whole wide world had taken her final breaths.

She’d almost lost herself afterwards. The intense grief had pulled her towards an unimaginable darkness.

She and Skye had been friends for ever. Since infants’ school. Skye had seemed strange to Lane at first. Someone without a mum? Or a dad? But they had bonded instantly and stuck by each other’s side through everything.

Until the very end.

Only baby Tori had kept Lane going. Going through the courts to get official guardianship. The little girl laughed and smiled just like her mummy! Tori was all she had left of Skye. And now she had to decide if some man—whom she didn’t even know!—could be a father to that precious little girl. That some sleazeball from a bar would have to be in their lives.

It wasn’t fair.

She hated him already. But Skye, bless her heart, had thought that he deserved a chance to know his daughter. That he deserved a chance to show that he could be a good man and a good father.

‘He’d better be some kind of unbelievable saint,’ she said out loud to the photo. ‘That’s all I’m saying.’

Five minutes later, she was walking inside the surgery, headache brewing, with her backpack over her shoulder, trying to look as if she wasn’t an undercover spy on a secret mission, but just an ordinary agency healthcare assistant, ready to start her new posting.

But when she got inside, she saw a crowd of people huddled around a person lying on the floor, and her instincts immediately kicked in.

She dropped her bag. ‘Let me through! I can help!’ she said as she barged her way through, pushing and shoving, desperate to give assistance.

Only she burst through to the front of them to see a woman lying on the floor, looking up at her with curiosity, whilst kneeling beside her was a very handsome man who had clearly been in the middle of some kind of demonstration.

‘Hi,’ he said, one eyebrow raised in question.

Lane glanced again at the ‘patient’. A woman who seemed to be totally unhurt, with a big smile on her face. A woman who was conscious. Breathing. Absolutely fine.

She could only blush as around her one or two people chuckled. ‘What—what’s going on?’ she stammered.

The man smiled. ‘First aid demo. I’m showing our patients how to put someone into the recovery position.’ He pointed at one of the walls. ‘There are posters.’

She followed his finger and noticed that every wall, and even the door through which she’d walked, had a large poster on it, stating that all were welcome to attend an emergency first aid demo to be held at the surgery today. A demo that would be run by Dr Cole Branagh.

How had she not noticed? Had she been so absorbed in trying to look normal?

Lane swallowed hard and turned back to face the man who had now taken the hand of the ‘patient’ and was helping her gently to her feet.

Tori has his eyes.

He didn’t look anything like the charming Lothario weasel she’d pictured in her head. Annoyingly, he had the audacity to be extremely handsome, and she could understand how Skye might have fallen for his charms. The females all around him seemed to be gazing at him with appreciative eyes and he clearly thrived on their attention. Their adulation.

He was probably used to having women throw themselves at his feet.

Well, not me, Dr Branagh.

‘Right. Okay. Sorry I interrupted.’ She grimaced and turned away, trying to control the heat flaming in her cheeks, and pushed back through the assembled throng to get to the reception desk, where she introduced herself in a low, embarrassed voice. ‘Lane Carter...agency HCA.’

The woman on Reception was Mary, knitter of preemie hats—she recognised her from her research—and she smiled at her. ‘Oh, yes, we’ve been expecting you. You’re in Treatment Room Two. This is your card for the computer.’ She passed over a temporary locum ID card that hung from an NHS lanyard. ‘Let me show you where everything is.’

* * *

Cole stood in the small staff kitchenette, making himself a cup of tea. He was feeling great. The first aid demo had produced a great turn-out, with more people attending than he’d expected. He’d taught them how to deal with choking, adult CPR and baby CPR, and putting a person into the simple recovery position.

He smiled as he remembered the young woman who had interrupted his demonstration. He liked it that she’d been eager. Keen to help. And the look on her face when she’d realised it was a demo had been priceless!

As if his thoughts had summoned her, she suddenly appeared in the doorway of the kitchenette. She stopped when she saw him standing there. Just briefly. Then she came in to grab a mug out of the cupboard.

‘Hello, again,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘We didn’t get to introduce ourselves earlier. The name’s Branagh—Cole Branagh.’

Weirdly, she seemed to hesitate, as if she didn’t want to shake his hand, but then she did, and smiled a greeting that wasn’t quite genuine.

‘Lane Carter,’ she said.

He felt a little puzzled. Was she upset at being so embarrassed that morning? He didn’t want her to be. Anyone could have made the same mistake.

‘You’re our agency HCA?’

‘Yes.’

‘Thank God. We certainly need you after Shelby’s mad dash to Scotland to be with her father. Heart attack,’ he added, just to clarify. ‘Your being here will lighten the load for the nurses.’

It really would. They’d been overwhelmed since Shelby had left, having to take on her workload, too. It had been causing some real problems for the poor receptionists, who were taking the flak from disgruntled patients, because they couldn’t get an appointment for weeks.

She grabbed a decaffeinated teabag from the box and popped it in her mug. ‘Good. I hope I’ll be of some real help.’

He smiled, assuming she was referring to that morning’s mishap. ‘I’m sure you will be. You certainly seem raring to go, and we need that around here.’

She turned from him and poured hot water into her mug. ‘I always do my best.’

‘Good. Well, maybe I’ll see you later?’

Lane nodded. ‘Definitely.’

He grabbed his own tea and left the kitchenette, feeling a little odd. Something hadn’t been quite right with their conversation, and for the life of him he couldn’t pinpoint what it was. Lane Carter had seemed...tense. Which was odd, because normally he was great at putting people at their ease.

Perhaps it was first day nerves and she just needed some time to feel comfortable?

Yes. That had to be it. She’d be fine.

He had no doubt that she would fit in very well once she got comfortable with her surroundings. And perhaps, someday, they’d find themselves hoping that she’d never leave at all.

* * *

‘The name’s Branagh—Cole Branagh.’

My God, did the man think he was James Bond? Did he lean on bars, drink in hand, twinkle in eye, as he said that? Charming women with his suave introduction, his bespoke suit and those twinkling blue eyes? He probably had a sports car in the car park.

He had no cares in the world at all! Here he was, living his best life, women at his feet, whilst she had been through the worst loss ever, had had to turn her entire life around and was now caring for his child, whilst he swanned about in his expensive tailored clothes and shiny shoes?

It was unfair. It was wrong.

Lane put her mug of tea down on the desk and noticed that on the screen it told her she had a patient waiting for a blood test. She pressed the button to call her in, and whilst she waited for her to arrive got out the equipment she’d need. Just a turquoise vial for the warfarin test. A needle, vacutainer, swab and tourniquet.

The patient arrived and sat down. ‘You’re new.’

‘Yes, my name’s Lane, Mrs Downing. Can you confirm your date of birth for me, please?’

Mrs Downing confirmed it, and even added her address.

‘Thank you. Now, you’re here to have a blood test. Do you have your yellow slip?’

The yellow slip came from the anti-coagulation clinic at the hospital, so that it would go back with the blood sample to Pathology.