The Scandalous Kolovskys: Knight on the Children's Ward. Carol Marinelli
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arranging Elsie’s table, just as she did every morning she worked there, putting her glasses within reach, her little alarm clock, and then Elsie and Bertie’s wedding photo in pride of place.
‘Sometimes,’ Elsie said, and then her eyes were crystal-clear, ‘but only when I’m sane.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I get to relive our moments, over and over …’ Elsie smiled, and then she was gone, back to her own world, the moment of clarity over. She did not talk as Annika wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and put on her slippers.
‘Enjoy it,’ Annika said to her favourite resident.
He had his ticket booked, and four weeks’ unpaid leave reluctantly granted. They had wanted him to take paid leave but, as Ross had pointed out, that was all saved up for his trips to Russia. This hadn’t gone down too well, and Ross had sat through a thinly veiled warning from the Head of Paediatrics—there was no such thing as a part-time consultant and, while his work overseas was admirable, there were plenty of charities here in Australia he could support.
As he walked through the canteen that evening, the conversation played over in his mind. He could feel the tentacles of bureaucracy tightening around him. He wanted this day over, to be back at his farm, where there were no rules other than to make sure the animals were fed.
His intention had been to get some chocolate from the vending machine, but he saw Annika, and thought it would be far more sensible to keep on walking. Instead, he bought a questionable cup of coffee from another machine and, uninvited, went over.
‘Hi!’
He didn’t ask if he could join her; he simply sat down.
She was eating a Greek salad and had pushed all the olives to one side.
‘Hello.’
‘Nice apron.’ She was emblazoned with fairies and wands, and he could only laugh that she hated it so.
‘It was the only one left,’ Annika said. ‘Ross, if I do write my notice—if I do give up nursing—in my letter there will be a long paragraph devoted to being made to wear aprons.’
‘So you’re thinking of it?’
‘I don’t know,’ she admitted. ‘I asked for a weekend off. There is a family function—there is no question that I don’t go. I requested it ages ago, when I found out that I would be on the children’s ward. I sent a memo, but it got lost, apparently.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Caroline has changed my late shift on Saturday to an early, and she has changed the early shift on Sunday to a late. She wasn’t pleased, though, and neither am I.’ She looked over to him. ‘I have to get ready….’ And then her voice trailed off, because it sounded ridiculous, and how could he possibly know just what getting ready for a family function entailed?
And he didn’t understand her, but he wanted to.
And, yes, he was sworn off women, and she had said no to dinner, and, yes, it could get very messy, but right now he didn’t care.
He should get up and go.
Yet he couldn’t.
Quiet simply, he couldn’t.
‘I told them I’m going to Spain.’
She looked at his grim face and guessed it hadn’t gone well. ‘It will be worth it when you’re there, I’m sure.’
‘Do you ever want to go to Russia?’ Ross asked. ‘To see where you are from.’
‘I was born here.’
‘But your roots …’
‘I might not like what I dig up.’
He glanced down at her plate, at the lovely ripe olives she had pushed aside. ‘May I?’
‘That’s bad manners.’
‘Not between friends.’
He would not have taken one unless she’d done what she did next and pushed the plate towards him. She watched as he took the ripe fruit and popped it in his mouth, and Annika had no idea how, but he even looked sexy as he retrieved the stone.
‘They’re too good to leave.’
‘I don’t like them,’ she said. ‘I tried them once …’ She pulled a face.
‘You were either too young to appreciate them or you got a poor effort.’
‘A poor effort?’
‘Olives,’ Ross said, ‘need to be prepared carefully. They take ages—rush them and they’re bitter. I grow them at my farm, and my grandmother knows how to make the best … She’s Spanish.’
‘I didn’t think you were Spanish, more like a pirate or a gypsy.’
It was the first real time she had opened the conversation, the first hint at an open door. It was a glimpse that she did think about him. ‘I am Spanish …’ Ross said ‘… and I prefer Romany. I am Romany—well, my father was. My real father.’
His eyes were black—not navy, and not jade; they were as black as the leather on his belt.
‘He had a brief affair with my mother when they were passing through. She was sixteen …’
‘It must have caused a stir.’
‘Apparently not,’ Ross said. ‘She was a wild thing back then—she’s a bit eccentric even now. But wise …’ Ross said reluctantly. ‘Extremely wise.’
She wanted to know more. She didn’t drain her cup or stand. She was five minutes over her coffee break, and never, ever late, yet she sat there, and then he smiled, his slow lazy smile, and she blushed. She burnt because it was bizarre, wild and crazy. She was blue-eyed and blonde and rigid, and he was so very dark and laid-back and dangerous, and they were both thinking about black-haired, blue-eyed babies, or black-eyed blonde babies, of so many fabulous combinations and the wonderful time they’d have making them.
‘I have to get back.’
Annika had never flirted in her life. She had had just one boring, family-sanctioned relationship, which had ended with her rebellion in moving towards nursing, but she knew she was flirting now. She knew she was doing something dangerous and bold when she picked up a thick black olive, popped it in her mouth and then removed the pip.
‘Nice?’ Ross asked
‘Way better than I remember.’ And they weren’t talking about olives, of that she was certain. She might have to check with Elsie, but she was sure she was flirting. She blushed—not from embarrassment, but because of what he said next.
‘Oh, it will be.’
And as she sped back to the ward late, she was burning. She could hardly breathe as she accepted Caroline’s scolding and then went to warm up a bottle for a screaming baby. Only when he was fed, changed and settled did she pull up the cot-side and let herself think.
Oh, she didn’t need to run it by Elsie.
Ross had certainly been flirting.
And Annika had loved it.
CHAPTER FIVE
‘I DON’T want a needle.’
Hannah was ten and scared.
She had flushed cheeks from crying, and from the virus that her body was struggling to fight, and Annika’s heart went out to her, because the little girl had had enough.
Oh, she wasn’t desperately ill, but she was sick and tired and wanted to be left alone. However, her IV site was due for a change, and even though cream had been applied an hour ago, so that she wouldn’t feel it, she was scared and yet, Annika realised, just wanted it to be over and done