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first,’ Marina said.

      Quietly, Max asked Stella, their senior nurse, to bleep the orthopaedic-surgery team and put Theatre on standby, and then he turned back to the patient. ‘Mrs Jennings, I’m going to put a mask over your face,’ he said, ‘to give you some oxygen, which will help you to breathe more easily. And I’m going to give you something to help with the pain, so it makes things a bit more comfortable for you while we take a look at your injuries. If you’re worried about anything, just lift your hand and we’ll take the mask off for a few moments so you can talk to us, OK?’

      Mrs Jennings whispered her consent. Max fitted the oxygen mask over her face and gave her analgesia through the IV line that the paramedics had put in, while Marina inserted a second IV line and set up a drip. Marina took blood samples for rapid cross-matching, all the while talking to Mrs Jennings, reassuring her and assessing her. Max was impressed by Marina’s calm, kind manner. Although they were faced with a potentially life-threatening emergency—compound pelvic fractures, especially if there were abdominal injuries as well, were associated with a mortality rate of more than fifty per cent—Marina made sure that Mrs Jennings didn’t realise how worried they all were. She behaved as if this was a completely everyday occurrence, and nothing more worrying than a dislocated elbow, which meant that their patient relaxed rather than panicking—and in turn that made their investigations just that touch easier.

      If it wasn’t for the personal stuff between them, working with her would have been a dream.

      As it was, it was a living nightmare. Her voice echoed through his head: Let’s go and meet Daddy.

       Daddy. Daddy.

      It should’ve been him.

      He shook himself. This wasn’t the time or the place. And there was nothing he could do to change the situation, so it was pointless ripping himself apart over it. He forced himself to stay in professional mode, and reviewed the X-rays with Marina against the lightbox. ‘Classic open-book fracture,’ he said.

      ‘That’s fixable. What worries me more is that her BP is still dropping.’

      ‘Which means she has internal injuries.’ He grimaced. ‘We don’t have time to wait for a CT scan, and even a DPL’s going to be risky.’ A diagnostic peritoneal lavage or DPL was a quick way of checking for internal haemorrhage when a scan would take too long. ‘We need to get her up to Theatre now. Fast-bleep the orthopods, please, Stella,’ he said to the nurse. ‘I’m sending Mrs Jennings up.’

      He turned to Mrs Jennings. ‘The X-rays show that the accident broke your pelvis,’ Max explained gently, holding her hand and looking into her eyes. ‘I’m going to send you up to Theatre so the surgeons can fix it for you. We want to keep you as still as possible on the way, so we’re going to put sandbags either side of you to make sure you don’t move on the trolley.’

      ‘But don’t be afraid,’ Marina added. ‘It won’t be uncomfortable, and it’s pretty much routine-procedure for anyone who’s got a break right there. I’m going to come up to Theatre with you and introduce you to the surgical team.’ She took Mrs Jennings’ other hand. ‘And I’m not going to leave you until you’re happy that you know what’s going on. Is there anyone you’d like us to call for you while you’re with the surgeons?’

      Mrs Jennings reached up with her free hand and lowered the mask. ‘My daughter,’ she whispered.

      Marina made a note of her name and number. ‘I’ll call her myself as soon as you’re in Theatre,’ she promised.

      ‘And my friend,’ Mrs Jennings whispered. ‘The one who was driving me. Was she hurt in the accident?’

      ‘She hasn’t been brought in here,’ Marina said. ‘But I’ll talk to the ambulance crew and find out what happened and how she is. Then, when you’re out of Theatre, I’ll come and see you and let you know what’s going on. Now, let me put this mask back on you and make you more comfortable.’

      When Marina returned from taking Mrs Jennings up to Theatre and phoning her daughter, Max was about to send her on a break, then the phone in Resus rang.

      Stella answered it. ‘Marina, it’s the nursery,’ she said, handing the phone to Marina.

      ‘Marina Petrelli speaking.’

      Even though Max tried hard not to listen in, he couldn’t help noticing that Marina went white.

      ‘What’s happened? Right. I see. Yes, of course.’ She replaced the receiver and blew out a breath. ‘Phoebe’s just thrown up everywhere. The nursery needs me to collect her and take her home, as in right now.’ She bit her lip. ‘Dr Fenton, I know I’m rostered in here with you today, and we’re short-staffed, but—’

      ‘Just go,’ Max cut in. ‘The child obviously needs you.’ He couldn’t bring himself to say ‘your daughter’; the words made his throat feel as if it were closing, and he was angry with himself for not being able to get a grip. He should be happy that Marina’s life was on track and that she’d clearly found a partner who loved her the way she deserved to be loved. The fact that he hadn’t moved on and found someone else himself was his own stupid fault, and it wasn’t fair to blame her for his own shortcomings. ‘I’ll arrange cover.’

      ‘Thank you.’ This time, her smile was genuine, gratitude, clearly mixed with fear for her child; she looked worried sick. And for good reason; he’d been told that the previous month the hospital had had to put a ban on visitors because so many patients and staff had been struck down by the winter vomiting-virus.

      He didn’t have time to add that he hoped it was nothing serious, because Marina had already left, walking very quickly, the way junior doctors soon learned to do so they could cover the ground between the on-call room and a department at maximum speed and with minimum risk.

      To his surprise, Marina was back in the department again within two hours.

      What the hell was she doing here? Her daughter was ill and needed her, and yet Marina was at work. Her priorities were way out of line. ‘Shouldn’t you be at home?’ he demanded.

      Marina shook her head. ‘It’s OK. Mum’s taken over. I rang her on the way to collect Phoebe.’

      ‘Your mother’s looking after Phoebe?’ He stared at her in disbelief. Just what was going on here? He knew that family was important to Marina, and given the way she’d fallen apart when she’d lost their baby he would’ve bet good money that she would always put her child before her job—before anything else. How could she just dump her sick daughter on her mother’s doorstep?

      Then again, the cost of living was high in London. Perhaps she and her partner were struggling financially and needed her salary to survive—what was left of it, after the cost of childcare.

      ‘What about the child’s father?’ The question was out before he could stop it.

      She looked defensive. ‘Neil’s really busy at work. I can’t expect him to drop everything. Not when—’

      ‘Save it. It’s none of my business,’ he cut in. He knew he was being rude, but he was angry—with himself, as much as with her. Why couldn’t he get his head round the fact that Marina had moved on, that she’d found happiness with someone else? Why was he so selfish that he couldn’t be pleased for her, or relieved that she wasn’t stuck in the same limbo of misery that he was?

      She said nothing, but her face looked pinched, and her dark eyes were wary whenever she spoke to him for the rest of the afternoon.

      As Max’s anger faded, he realised how just unfair he’d been. Which was why he sent Marina off the ward at five o’clock sharp.

      ‘I can’t leave when we still have a patient to treat,’ she said in a low voice.

      ‘We’ll manage without you.’

      ‘But—’

      ‘Phoebe needs you. Go home.’

      ‘But—’

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