He wasn’t wearing a suit today but, dressed in grey linen trousers and a black fitted shirt, he was a mixture between the two versions of James she adored and it almost killed her to see it. James never bought himself new clothes; they simply didn’t interest him. Her heart stopped in her chest for a moment, seeing him in new attire, wondering who had bought them for him, or who James had bought them to impress. She had a horrible glimpse into her future if they both worked at SHH, watching the man she loved and knew so well change before her eyes.
‘You’ve lost weight,’ she said, because he had. He was a big man, and had never been that overweight, but he’d lost a lot and now stood broad, lean and toned.
‘A bit.’ He shrugged.
‘How was your flight?’ How stilted and formal she sounded when really she wanted to run to him, to rest her head on his chest, to welcome him home, to say how much she had missed him, except she greeted him like a colleague and clearly it was noticed, because he didn’t even answer the question, just shot her a slightly incredulous look that that was all she had to say after his three months away.
‘I’ll see you tonight,’ James said instead, and then as he turned to go, he stopped. ‘Ava, we need to talk.’
He’d been saying that for months—no, years—as more and more she’d shut him out, only this time it was a different conversation to be had. ‘I know we do.’
‘I’ll speak to you tonight.’ He didn’t come over and kiss her, he just turned and walked away and headed out to work, to involve himself in his patients. Only it wasn’t his familiar scent that lingered. Instead she smelt cologne. Ava wished she had patients scheduled this morning, that she could think about someone else’s problems instead of her own.
Instead, she was giving a lecture.
She had her little case packed, filled with aids that would make the student nurses laugh at first, but she would push through it, hoping to get her message across, hoping that one day in the future her words would be recalled and a sensitive, informed word might be had by one of them to a patient, that there was help available.
Except she felt a fraud as she stood there, this cheerful, laughing, sexual dysfunction specialist married to the gorgeous James.
She couldn’t remember the last time that they had slept together and wasn’t stupid enough to think in the three months he’d been away, in the years they’d been away from each other physically, that James wouldn’t have seen someone else.
Someone he liked enough to lose weight for, to tone up for, to buy new clothes for and splash on cologne for—it wasn’t the James she knew. She knew that she’d lost him long ago.
Lost them.
CHAPTER THREE
‘LOOK at you!’
The reception that greeted him as he walked onto the unit for the first time in three months was far more friendly and receptive than Ava’s had been.
‘Where did you disappear to?’ Carla, the unit manager on the day ward, asked.
‘Brisbane,’ James said.
‘She meant this.’ Harriet gave a friendly sort of pat to his stomach as she walked past and, yes, he’d forgotten that Harriet had been getting a bit too friendly before he’d gone away.
‘Ava’s got herself a whole new man,’ Carla said, and winked at him, and he grinned back, because Carla would soon have a word if needed. ‘Bet she’s delighted to have you back.’
‘She is,’ James said, and as Harriet pulled on her gloves he watched her cheeks flood with colour as he made things clear. ‘And I’m really glad to be back—I’ve just been up to see her.’
He’d read through files and results and it really was good to be back—at least on the unit. He tried not to think about Ava’s lukewarm—or, rather, stone-cold—reception. A long breath came out of his nose as he tried not to think about it but, hell, he’d thought she might be at the airport, he’d even emailed his flight times as a prompt, and then when she hadn’t been he had stopped by the flat, just in case she’d taken the morning off, but of course she was at work.
‘We’ve a new patient this morning.’ Carla handed him a file. ‘Richard Edwards. He was supposed to be in on Friday for his first round of chemotherapy but he cancelled. I wondered if you could have a word with him as he’s ever so anxious. Wouldn’t be surprised if he refuses again.’
‘Sure.’ James read through the file and his colleague Blake’s meticulous notes. Richard was nineteen and had been recently diagnosed with testicular cancer. He was stage one and all his markers were good, but after discussion with Blake he had decided to go ahead with chemotherapy, though he was clearly wavering on that decision now.
‘Where is he?’
‘He’s in the coffee room. Do you want me to bring him through to your office?’
‘I’ll find him.’
James headed down to the patients’ and relatives’ coffee room and met with the young man and his worried parents. ‘I’ll have a chat with Richard …’
‘We’ll come,’ his anxious parents said, but James shook his head.
‘I’ll speak with you all shortly, but first I’d like to speak with Richard himself.’
‘He gets overwhelmed—’
‘I’m sure he does,’ James said. ‘That’s why I’ll go through everything again afterwards.’
‘Thanks for that,’ Richard said as they took a seat in James’s office. ‘They’ve been great and everything, but …’ He struggled to finish his sentence and James tried for him.
‘They’re not the ones going through it?’
Richard nodded. ‘They don’t understand why I wouldn’t want the chemotherapy if it gives you more chance that it won’t come back. Blake seemed to think it was the better option, but he did speak about waiting and watching,’ Richard said. ‘I’ve just started a new job, I’ve got a new girlfriend and she’s been great and everything, but I just can’t imagine …’ He closed his eyes for a moment and James didn’t interrupt. ‘I always look after myself. I’m a vegetarian. I just think I might be able to take care of this myself. I’ve been looking into things …’
‘It’s called watchful waiting,’ James said. ‘There’s no evidence your cancer has spread so if you adopt that approach then you’ll come back regularly for tests—and if it does come back the treatment is still there for you. Some people prefer that, whereas others find it far more stressful and just want the treatment straight away.’ He spent time with Richard, going through everything, giving him pointers to do his own research, and it was good to be back at work with real patients. He liked informing his patients, liked them informed, and Richard was. He didn’t, at this stage, want to go ahead with the treatment, but as they wound up the discussion, along came the question, the one he was asked so many times. ‘What would you do if it was you?’ There were variations to the question, of course—if it was your wife, your mother, your daughter, your son. So often James was asked what he would do in their place, and normally he answered it easily, but maybe he was out of practice, because he hesitated a moment before answering.
‘What you’re doing,’ James said. ‘I’d weigh up my options. Do you want to make another appointment so we can talk again in a couple of weeks?
‘That would be great,’ Richard said. ‘Will you speak with my parents?’
‘Sure.’
It