Just Friends to Just Married?

He let out a sigh. It was clear she’d won this battle. ‘No excuses,’ he agreed as he strode through to the kitchen and started opening cupboards.

* * *

He hadn’t eaten properly in the last three days. He hadn’t been hungry, and it had been the last thing on his mind. But as he pulled some food from the cupboards and fridge, splashed some oil into the wok, his stomach let out an involuntary rumble.

He heard the sound of the running shower, closely followed by the blast of the hairdryer. Vivienne was quick, opening the door with her hair in a red cloud around her head and wearing a pair of soft white cotton pyjamas. She glanced towards the table and tiled floor, then moved across to the sofa and sagged down on the comfortable cushions, pulling her feet up. Duc was already serving up into two bowls. He handed her the chicken and noodle mixture then sat down next to her on the sofa.

She warily sniffed her dish. ‘Okay, is this edible?’

He smiled. ‘What are you trying to say about my cooking?’

‘I say that for as long as I’ve known you, your cooking has always involved a takeout menu.’

He pretended to look hurt. ‘Try it. It’s one of my mother’s recipes.’

The words came out of nowhere, quickly followed by the tumbleweed that seemed to blow across the room in front of him.

Viv’s hand reached over and gave his knee a quick squeeze. ‘I’m sure it’s fine,’ she said quietly, as she started to eat.

Every spoonful was an unconscious reminder. He’d used the spices and oils from his mother’s cupboards. The pangs of hunger he’d felt for a few moments instantly vanished. Now he understood why grieving friends lost weight. It was so easy to be distracted—to be put off.

Vivienne was different—she ate hungrily, emptying the bowl in five minutes. She stood up and walked over to the fridge, examining the contents before pulling out a bottle of spring water. ‘This wasn’t what I had in mind,’ she said as she held it up, ‘but I’ll make do.’

He watched as she rested one hand on the chair. Her white cotton pyjamas might cover every part of her, but they still highlighted every curve. Curves he’d never really paid any attention to before—and he was currently asking himself why.

The lines between him and Vivienne had been clear from the beginning. They were friends—best friends. He’d held her hair back while she’d been sick, she’d put him up when his roommate had wrecked their apartment and they’d been flung out. From the word go, they’d felt comfortable around each other. They’d had countless conversations over the years about Viv’s disastrous relationships. She was smart. She was gorgeous. She was sassy. And she had appalling taste in men.

Every no-good layabout, sob-story-carrying wastrel seemed to cross her path. Each one breaking her heart more than the one before.

Viv had also cast her eyes over Duc’s partners over the years. Some she’d been grudgingly approving of, others had been dismissed with a wave of a hand and a few perceptive words. Gold-digger. Stalker. Needs a backbone. Self-obsessed.

He, in turn, grudgingly admitted that on most occasions those few words had turned out to be uncannily accurate. He’d started to call her the fortune teller and tease her to pick their lottery numbers.

But she hadn’t seen this coming.

The door rattled behind them and Lien burst through the door. ‘Good, you’re here. I need you.’

Lien’s eyes went hastily to Vivienne and she gave a little start.

Duc stepped forward. ‘Lien, this is Vivienne Kerr, my friend, the midwife that I told you about.’

Lien gave a quick nod of her head. ‘Perfect timing.’ She didn’t ask why Vivienne was standing in Duc’s house in her pyjamas. Instead she turned back to the door. ‘Get changed quickly—you’re needed.’

* * *

Everything happened in the blink of an eye. One minute Viv was contemplating sitting down with her friend and finding out exactly how she could help him best.

The next second she was stripping off her comfortable PJs and yanking on a pair of the burgundy-coloured scrubs she kept in the top of her rucksack. She grabbed her matching soft shoes and ran across the grass, back towards the hospital.

Even though it was the middle of the night, every corridor was brightly lit. Vivienne followed the others. Lien was talking rapidly in Vietnamese and Duc was nodding. She tried to focus. She’d worked here a few times and had picked up a few phrases in Vietnamese. For a midwife they mainly comprised of ‘push’, ‘stop’ and ‘breathe’, but her brain was struggling to remember them right now.

Duc walked through to another room. Viv tried to keep track. She hadn’t familiarised herself completely with this place again. Between that, the jet-lag, and the overwhelming sweep of tiredness, she wasn’t firing on all cylinders. Thank goodness she’d had time to eat.

Her hands caught her hair and coiled it at the back of her neck, twisting it back on itself until it was anchored in place. Lien’s gaze caught hers. ‘Neat trick.’ She gave Viv an anxious smile.

Viv shrugged. ‘Years of people stealing my hair elastics. Had to improvise.’

The anxiousness of Lien’s smile made Viv’s stomach clench. Last time Viv had been here she’d been impressed by the relaxed nature of most of the deliveries at May M?n Hospital. Hoa had very much believed in letting the woman take the lead for her labour—much like most of the midwife-led units back home—and Viv shared this philosophy. But right now? When there was a clinical emergency? Things were different. Now it was the job of the professionals to guide the woman and baby to the safest possible conclusion, and from the look on Lien’s face it was up to Viv to take the lead.

Duc pulled his T-shirt over his head, swapping it for a pale blue scrub top that he grabbed from the pile on a rack on the wall. Viv tried not to stare. But it had been a long time since she’d seen Duc in a state of semi-undress. His chiselled abs weren’t lost on her. She wasn’t blind. She pulled her eyes away just as Lien moved closer. ‘Do you want to come and meet our patient, Viv?’

Viv nodded. ‘Of course.’

Lien gave her a small smile as she pushed open a door. ‘I’ll introduce you.’

Lien gestured to the woman in the bed. There was another man with light brown hair by her bed. ‘This is Resta. She’s thirty-nine weeks, or thereabouts. Presented in labour with what appears to be shoulder dystocia. We have no prenatal history.’

Viv nodded. Because she’d worked here before with Duc she knew it wasn’t entirely unusual for women not to present for prenatal care.

Lien pointed to the other guy in

the room. ‘My husband, Dr Joe Lennox.’

Joe was in position at the bottom of the bed, one hand cradling part of the baby’s head. He gave a quick glance up. ‘I hope you’re the cavalry,’ he said in a hushed voice, keeping his expression neutral, ‘because I’m no obstetrician and I’m out of options.’ His Glasgow accent was thick, and Viv immediately recognised the stress in his voice.

Viv drew in a breath. Shoulder dystocia. Every midwife and obstetrician’s nightmare. A baby whose shoulder got stuck and stopped the baby being delivered safely.

Viv looked around the room quickly, locating some gloves. ‘Would you like me to take a look?’

Joe nodded gratefully. ‘Please.’ Lien turned to the woman on the bed and spoke to her in Vietnamese, introducing Vivienne to her. There was no getting away from it, the woman looked exhausted and terrified. No wonder. Shoulder dystocia could rarely be predicted. Women typically got to the end of a long labour and once they’d delivered their baby’s head thought it was only a matter of minutes until it was all over.

Vivienne glanced around the room again, quickly taking note of the equipment available to her.

She took a deep breath. Lien and Joe were both doing their best to keep their faces neutral, but Joe had already told her this wasn’t his field. From what she’d gathered from Duc, this was nobody’s field right now at May M?n Hospital.

Hoa was dead, and the other obstetrician who normally helped out was off sick, having just been diagnosed with breast cancer.

It looked like Vivienne was the total of midwifery and obstetric knowledge here.

She could see the baby’s head tight against the perineum. This wasn’t the first time she’d dealt with a shoulder dystocia. But usually a diagnosis was followed by hitting the emergency buzzer, with two other midwives, an anaesthetist and an obstetrician all rushing to assist.

Those people weren’t here now. It was her. It was just her.

Deep inside, part of her wanted to scream for this poor woman. She’d worked with Duc over the years, and she knew he was a good doctor. The absolute worst-case scenario here would be the Zavanelli manoeuvre, where they had to try and put the baby’s head back into the vagina and perform an emergency caesarean section. Duc was the only surgeon here. She doubted if he’d performed a caesarean section before but, if need be, she could talk him through it.