LITMIR.BIZ

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the urge to drum her fingers on the table. They may be able to sit around and chat for hours but she had a job to get back to. Nobody else would do it for her while she sat in this room. Claire didn’t have the luxury of registrars and residents. She wasn’t asking them for much, just a bit of support.

      Claire was aware she was considered radical. She thanked her lucky stars this was the twenty-first century and not medieval times. Back then midwives had been regarded with suspicion and often accused of witchcraft. She had a feeling they would have burnt her at the stake years ago. The thought seemed absurdly funny in such a modern setting and Claire smiled to herself.

      She looked up and noticed Campbell Deane staring at her, a small smile playing on his full lips. He winked at her and Claire could sense his interest. She dropped her gaze back to the agenda and decided to ignore him.

      It was time to emit her famous ‘not interested’ vibes. Because she wasn’t—absolutely not. And even if she had been, the rekindled memory of Shane and their messy break-up ten years ago served to remind her that men were not part of her life equation. That was the way it had to be and Claire had accepted it a long time ago. She wouldn’t let an attractive stranger ruin her focus.

      The meeting dragged and Claire’s impatience grew. She tapped the foot of her crossed leg lightly on the table leg and didn’t care how rude it appeared.

      Campbell’s persistent gaze was unsettling. She didn’t have to look at him to know he was staring. She could feel it. The intensity of his scrutiny was almost a physical caress. She doubted he’d heard any of the discussion. He certainly hadn’t contributed.

      All Claire could do was continue to pretend he didn’t exist. She deliberately kept her eyes averted, staring directly at Martin with what she hoped was rapt attention. She shook her head slightly and the heavy curtain of her dark bob swished forward, obscuring some of her face. It was a move designed to hobble his interest. She had to put him off. She just had to.

      Despite this, there seemed to be an energy channelling between them that was hard to ignore. Claire could stand his attention no longer. It was doing strange things to her body. She felt like she’d been for a light run, instead of sitting idly. It was totally ridiculous—she’d just met the man!

      ‘Excuse me, Dr Shaw.’ She interrupted him in mid-flow.

      ‘Yes, Sister?’ He peered over his glasses at her, obviously startled by her intrusion.

      ‘I’m sorry to interrupt.’ Claire knew he was unused to interruption. ‘I really can’t stay for much longer. Do you think we could discuss the birth centre now?’

      She was pushing her luck but Claire didn’t really care at this precise moment. She had to get out of this room as soon as possible. Before she did something absurd, like stare right back at Campbell Deane.

      ‘Yes, all right, Sister. You have the floor.’

      Claire was relieved to stand and stretch her legs. She took a moment to collect herself. A lot was riding on how she presented her case. It was imperative she hold onto her temper.

      ‘Gentlemen, I think we all know why I’m here. I know that opening up a birth centre here at St Jude’s hasn’t been popular among the obstetric staff. But the hospital board has approved—’

      ‘That’s only because it was raised at a board meeting with no obstetric representative, Sister West … by you, I understand.’

      Claire stalled at the polite accusation. She couldn’t deny it. She had deliberately waited for the most opportune moment to present the proposal to the board. Claire had known they’d run with it once the idea had been raised, especially as it was extremely cost-effective for the hospital. Money talked.

      ‘Nevertheless …’ she smiled nervously, very aware of Campbell Deane’s quiet stare at the periphery of her vision ‘… this project has taken a lot of work and the centre is virtually ready to open. We’ve accomplished a lot at a negligible cost to St Jude’s. All we need now is for one of you—or more,’ she joked, yeah right, ‘to agree to provide a referral service for our clients. As part of the protocol we’ve developed, we need an obstetrician to see our ladies first, assess their level of risk and then refer them to us if they fit our criteria.’

      ‘Sister West, I believe you know how we feel about this issue.’

      ‘Yes, Dr Shaw, but the board feels otherwise.’

      ‘What the board says means nothing if you can’t get an obstetrician on your team,’ he pointed out, and Claire felt her anger boil at his smugness.

      ‘You forget, Dr Shaw, the reason we’re offering this service is consumer pressure. The women of Brisbane want a birth centre.’

      ‘What? So they can give birth hanging from the rafters?’

      Claire ignored his sarcasm. The obstetric staff had been sent copies of the birth centre philosophy, including alternative birthing positions. His exaggeration was typical.

      ‘Shouldn’t women be allowed to give birth hanging from the rafters, if that’s how they feel most comfortable?’ she asked with saccharine sweetness.

      ‘And if something goes wrong?’

      ‘That’s the beauty of the centre,’ she said, clinging to the slender thread of her patience. ‘For the very small percentage of women who need it, medical attention is only seconds away. It’s the best of both worlds—a home birth in a major hospital. That’s all we want. It’s not some conspiracy to make an obstetrician get down on his hands and knees to deliver a baby.’

      ‘A most unsuitable position,’ tutted one of the other doctors.

      ‘There are other positions much more amenable to giving birth besides the stranded beetle,’ Claire snapped. She’d seen too many women forced to give birth lying on their backs. She could feel her patience wearing thinner.

      ‘It’s the easiest,’ he replied angrily.

      ‘No, it’s the most convenient for doctors.’ Claire took some deep breaths, trying to rein in her anger. ‘Look, gentlemen, some women want natural births with no drugs and no or minimum medical intervention—’

      ‘You have something against medical intervention?’

      Campbell Deane’s rich voice broke into the debate. She spun and looked at him, surprised that he’d decided to add his two cents’ worth. Oh, hell, she thought. He’s one of them.

      ‘No. Not if it’s necessary.’ Her voice sounded weak and flustered, even to her own ears. She cleared her throat, determined to inject the passion this subject always engendered in her. ‘I do, however, oppose the medicalisation of what is, after all, a very natural process. Women have been giving birth since time began without the complex equipment and procedures we can’t seem to do without today.’

      ‘Women used to die, too.’

      ‘Yes, some women did,’ Claire agreed. ‘That’s why we have obstetricians.’

      ‘I believe St Jude’s has a natural birth rate of seventy-five per cent. That’s very good, Claire.’

      About to launch into another diatribe on her pet subject, she halted abruptly at the use of her name. Not just that he’d used it but the way he’d said it. It slipped slowly down her back, as if he’d stroked his finger down her spine. She felt her skin feather with goose bumps.

      ‘Ah … yes,’ she floundered, trying to collect her thoughts. He smiled at her, an encouraging smile, and she tried not to stare at his mouth as she picked up her train of thought. ‘But that still leaves twenty-five per cent of women who are having some form of medical intervention, and half of them are Caesareans.’

      ‘You don’t believe in C-sections?’ he queried.

      ‘Not unless they’re necessary medically.’ Claire wanted to scream. Why was it so hard to get through to these people? Campbell Deane might be younger than his colleagues

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