The Midwife's One-Night Fling

Yesterday it might have mattered. But now she knew it didn’t have to last for ever, or even for more than this night, because her time in London was finite. And she wanted this night with him.

It was Freya who moved to close the gap between their mouths. But it was definitely Richard who kissed her, softly at first, but warmly and thoroughly. Freya’s mouth felt so exquisitely tender that even the gentlest of his kisses felt bruising.

The moan as his tongue slipped inside came from her. And then, for the first time since she’d arrived, London fell silent. Save for the sound of them.

His breathing was ragged and their mouths were frenzied. And surely he’d kissed the oxygen from her because he made her dizzy, and his tongue was so expert and thorough that it made her crave more of him.

His hands undid the belt of her robe. He freed one arm, then the other, and as it slid to the floor she felt cool air on the back of her body—a contrast to the warm rough fabric of his suit and the press of metal and buttons on her naked front.

Freya had never known such raw passion. Their tongues jostled and then she was pressing herself into him, her hands clutching his hair as his hands spanned her waist.

He guided them so that they moved to the wall as if as one. His kisses were certainly not smooth now—they were indecent and delicious and Freya was lost in them. Their chins bumped, their teeth clashed. She wanted to climb him and wrap her body around him.

Freya was tackling his belt, to free him, and then she felt his hard warmth leap towards her hand.

Richard reached into his jacket pocket for a condom, and it was an impatient pause for them both as he sheathed himself. She ached to have him inside her, and he ached to be there too.

And so he rectified things, thrusting in and taking her against the wall.

Freya had never been so thoroughly taken, and it felt sublime. He lifted her so that her legs could wrap around him and she knew she had never moved so seductively. He exposed a side to her that she did not recognise, because she had always been a touch reticent in bed.

Not now.

His fingers dug into her buttocks as she ground against him, and instead of feeling herself holding back, she was more herself with him.

She was so light that he could put one hand against the wall and hold her round her waist with the other. And then he changed the pace...

There was a scream building in her throat, which was clamped closed, so it waited there, trying to burst free. And then there came a breathless shout from him, followed by a rush of energy along her spine as he came deep within her. Finally her scream found its release, but it came out in staccato sobs as she throbbed to his beat.

His hands soothed now, rather than inflamed, and he seemed to know that this wasn’t a Freya she knew.

And it wasn’t.

Her head came to his shoulder and she felt the fabric of his jacket. He was completely dressed, and she was utterly naked. And now there was a smidgen of shame creeping in for Freya—just a curl of guilt as he lowered her down to the floor, yet still held her tightly.

He buried his head in her damp hair and then she felt his lips near her ear. ‘I only wanted a cup of tea.’

Richard made her laugh. He just did.

Having sorted out his clothes, he picked up her robe and helped her into it, then did up the very same belt she had so readily allowed him to open.

They were both still a touch breathless, still trying to find their balance again—but, God, they felt better.

She went and sat on the sofa, where she’d been lying earlier. Richard looked utterly normal—not even particularly dishevelled. His hair fell into perfect shape, whereas Freya was quite sure hers was in knots.

But she didn’t care.

He came and joined her on the sofa, and though they didn’t speak it wasn’t awkward. It was nice to lie down with her head on his lap, looking up at him as he played with her hair. It was relaxing not to speak.

He looked around at her flat and saw for the first time the mustard carpet and odd curtains. Even odder, though, was the fact that there was nothing that spoke of her.

Well, there were some books and magazines on a shelf, but there was a large picture on the wall of a horse and carriage, and he was certain it hadn’t been wrapped in a blanket and lovingly moved down from Scotland.

‘Do you like horses, Freya?’ he asked.

‘Not particularly. Why?’

‘There’s a picture of one on your wall.’

She looked over to where his gaze fell. ‘I know. I can’t get it down.’

Well, that wasn’t quite true. Freya had a little step ladder, which she’d used when she’d re-hung the curtains, but she simply hadn’t got around to taking the horse and cart picture down. It wasn’t as if she had anything to replace it with. It would do for now.

And, anyway, there were far better things to look at. Gosh, it was nice to lie there, Freya thought, looking up at Richard.

And for Richard it was nice too—nice to feel her hair, because it had entranced him.

He looked down, but not into her eyes. Her robe was hanging open a little, and he could see the curve of her breast and the edge of a pink areola beckoning. He wanted to slip his hand in...

But sustenance first.

‘I’m starving.’

He wasn’t asking her to cook for him—a bowl of cereal was his usual choice when in a rush, and he was in a rush. To resume proceedings!

He hauled her off his lap and walked through to her tiny kitchen, where he opened up the cupboards while Freya lay there, liking it that he hadn’t asked if he could do so.

Usually that would have made her tense. She recalled well how she had sucked in a breath when she had bought her little cottage and Malcolm had opened her fridge. But now she lay smiling as Richard opened and closed her cupboards.

‘You have absolutely nothing to eat,’ Richard said when he came back. ‘Not even cereal.’

‘I meant to stop at the shops on the way home from work. I think there’s some soup...’

‘That’s not going to cut it. Come on,’ he said. ‘Get dressed.’

‘We could always ring for pizza,’ Freya suggested.

He was tempted. There was a huge appeal in the thought of having pizza delivered and then moving straight to bed. And he had seen from his search of the fridge that there was a bottle of wine there.

A perfect evening.

Except—rarely for him—the pleasure was laced with guilt.

Did she fully get that he didn’t do the dating thing?

He wasn’t that bad—it wasn’t all bed. Just...mostly.

He had come here tonight fully intending to take Freya to that damned film—which was actually quite a concession for him. Richard couldn’t remember the last time he had been to the cinema.

But now he had to be clear. Richard wanted to make sure that she didn’t think this might lead to anything more than a few casual dates and a whole lot of bed.

While he hoped he had spelled things out yesterday—and although getting pizza and going straight to bed would be easier and far more pleasant—Richard knew that he needed to tell her that this night wouldn’t change anything.

Yet clearly it was going to.

For they were soon back at the Italian restaurant—but as lovers this time.

CHAPTER SIX

TONIGHT IT WAS Richard who had the carbonara.

Freya chose spaghetti, and it came with a rich, meaty tomato sauce.

‘You did it again,’ Richard said.

‘What?’

‘When I saw your carbonara last night I regretted my choice...’ And then he stopped, because he’d been about to say that next time they came here the spaghetti with the rich, meaty tomato sauce was what he’d want.

But he didn’t.

Instead he remembered he was off work tomorrow and ordered a bottle of red.

‘I don’t like drinking if I’m working the next day,’ he explained. ‘But I’ve got a few days off now.’

‘And me.’ Freya smiled.

He wondered if she was waiting for him to suggest they do something together.

Ah yes, The Talk, Richard reminded himself.

Except Freya got there first.

‘I’m going home for a couple of days before a stint on nights,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a new lot of tenants arriving at my cottage next week.’

‘Holidaymakers?’ Richard said.

‘Yes, they’re there for two weeks and then I’ve another lot coming in. I’ve arranged for someone to come in and clean, and change the sheets and things, but I just need to sort a few things out.’

‘Don’t you hate having people staying at your house?’

‘I’ve put a lot of stuff in the cellar,’ Freya said. ‘And that’s locked. It doesn’t bother me.’

‘But isn’t it a hassle?’

‘Not really.’ Freya shrugged. ‘And even if it is at times, then it’s worth it. It helps a lot with the mortgage, though in a couple of months it’s going on the market...’ Freya halted.

Or was it?

She recalled that just before Richard had arrived her plans had started to change. She needed to be alone to think about that, to decide what she was going to do, and so she asked about him instead.

‘What about you? Do you have plans?’

‘I have an interview.’

‘Ah, that explains the haircut,’ Freya said as she twirled spaghetti around her fork.

‘Not really. I was well overdue for that. It’s not an interview as such—more an informal lunch to suss things out...’

He let out a sigh and promptly forgot the reason he had brought her here. Instead he told her what tomorrow was about. No-one else knew.

‘There’s a role coming up.’

‘I thought you loved what you do?’

‘And I do, but it is consuming. I’m actually heading to the airport after the lunch. I’m going to Moscow tomorrow for a few nights, to get away completely.’

‘Moscow?’

‘It’s a bit drastic, I know, but I love getting away. I don’t put my phone on, so the hospital can’t call me to come in—or if they do I don’t hear it.’

‘Well, you don’t need to go all the way to Moscow for that. There are more than a few places in Scotland where you can’t get a signal.’

‘Please...’ He grinned. ‘I was teasing about changing the movie reels.’

‘I know you were,’ Freya agreed. ‘But, trust me, there really are plenty of places you can’t get a signal. I went away for Christmas with my family last year and we all had to keep going for walks just so we could make a call, or check emails and things. And in summer, depending on what provider they have, the tourists often can’t get a good signal. We have a wee laugh, watching them walking around with their phones in the air.’

‘Well, I’ll bear that in mind,’ Richard said.

‘So, are you keen for this job?’

‘I’m curious, certainly.’

He told her the name of a very exclusive private hospital which made her look up from her pasta.

‘I’ve a friend, Marcus, who’s director of anaesthetics there, and there’s a position coming up—a very attractive one...’ He didn’t get to finish, for Freya had a question.

‘But won’t you miss the adrenaline?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But there are days when I think no, I won’t miss it at all. It’s a big decision—but you’d know all about that, given you’ve just made a big move yourself.’

Freya gave a shrug. ‘I just knew that I wanted to get away.’

He looked at her through slightly narrowed, assessing eyes. ‘Why?’

‘Lots of reasons,’ Freya said. ‘I had a bit of a rough year. Well, not myself, exactly...’ She didn’t know why it was so hard simply to say it. ‘My best friend lost a baby last year... Andrew.’

‘Were you present at the birth?’ Richard asked.

‘Not at the actual birth, but I was there on admission,’ Freya said. ‘Alison ended up having a crash Caesarean. She came in a week before her due date, everything about the pregnancy had been fine, and then I went to check the foetal heart-rate...’ She paused a moment as she recalled it. ‘At first I thought I had picked up Alison’s...’

She didn’t, of course, need to explain to him that the mother’s heart-rate was usually a lot slower than the baby’s.

‘But then I knew the heart-rate was the baby’s...’

‘Not good.’

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘My senior, Betty, was there, and a doctor was there within a minute, and everything was set in motion. We got her straight upstairs to Theatre. I didn’t go in. Betty knew I was too involved. He was born flat and was resuscitated but died two days later. Cord compression and meconium aspiration...’ Freya screwed her eyes closed for just a second but then opened them and gave an uncomfortable shrug. ‘Anyway, it was a difficult time.’

‘Did she blame you?’

‘Oh, no—nothing like that. It was more...’ Freya didn’t know how to describe how she’d felt when she didn’t really know herself.

‘You blamed yourself?’

‘A bit,’ Freya said. ‘Well, I questioned myself. It made me realise that being so involved with my patients isn’t always ideal.’

‘So you came to nice, anonymous London?’

‘It wasn’t just because of that,’ Freya said, ‘but it is nice to be not so involved with the patients.’

‘I’m sorry—you don’t get to do a job like yours and not get involved.’

‘It’s not that easy...’

‘I never said anything about easy.’

That annoyed her. Richard was too brusque, too direct, and he had hit a nerve.

‘You don’t know me.’

‘I’m trying to.’

It was a rare admission for him, because while he might be talking about getting involved professionally, he certainly did his best not to on the personal front.

‘You cannot do this job, Freya, and not care. Or rather, you cannot do this job in the way you want to do it and not care.’

He signalled for the bill and then remembered that they still hadn’t had The Talk.

It didn’t seem so important now. Freya was off to Scotland tomorrow and he to Moscow. And she certainly wasn’t jumping up and down demanding to know when they would see each other again as they headed to the Underground.

‘You really don’t have to see me home,’ Freya said.

‘I’m not,’ Richard said. ‘I believe in equality—it’s your turn to see me to my door.’

CHAPTER SEVEN

UH-OH!

Freya woke to a very un-lumpy mattress—in fact, she felt as if she was wrapped in cotton wool. And then she heard Richard speaking into the phone.

Her one and only one-night stand was over.

And, instead of regretting it, she smiled as she lay there, recalling last night.

They had arrived back at his gorgeous apartment and he’d poured them a drink and headed off for a shower.

She’d ended up in there with him.

And then they’d taken their drinks to bed.

Oh, it had been bliss.

She lay there listening to his lovely deep voice.

‘No, I’m away until Tuesday, so I can’t,’ he said. ‘How is Mrs Eames?’

As soon as the call ended, his phone went again.

‘No,’ he said, very brusquely. ‘You cannot come and stay.’

Freya wondered if it was an ex, trying to get her toes back past the bedroom door, but she blinked when he spoke again.

‘Mother, I have a friend staying at the flat while I’m away.’ Pause. ‘I do. Currently she’s living in a terrible rental and I’ve loaned her the place for a few days. So, no, you can’t come and stay. If you need a break from your fiancé then I suggest that perhaps you actually speak to him about that fact, rather than go away.’

Another pause and Freya rolled over and looked at him, not even politely attempting to pretend she was asleep.

‘What do you mean, you don’t believe me?’ he said. ‘Freya, would you tell my mother that my place is yours for a few days?’

Gosh, what a way to meet the parents, Freya thought as he handed her his phone.

‘Hello, Mrs...’ Freya didn’t know what to call her, given she had divorced Mr Lewis three husbands ago.

‘Amanda,’ the woman said for her. ‘So you’re staying at Richard’s?’

‘Just for a wee while,’ Freya said. ‘While my landlord’s sorting...’

‘Pardon?’ his mother said.

Richard took back the phone.

‘So you see there is no spare room at the inn. I’ll talk to you when I’m back from Moscow.’

He ended the call and his phone rang yet again.

‘Work,’ he muttered, and Freya didn’t blame him a bit when he turned it off.

‘Thanks for that!’ Freya said with an edge, more than a little annoyed to have been put in that position and at his jab about her home.

‘I never said you were my lover,’ he pointed out, ‘just that my apartment wasn’t free. Anyway, she can afford a hotel.’

‘Fair enough.’ Freya said, but she was still sulking a little.

‘I am so tired of her dramas.’

Freya said nothing.

‘Can you see why I’ve been put off relationships for life?’

‘I think so.’ Freya nodded. He was almost forgiven. ‘How’s Louise?’ she asked.

‘Mrs Eames?’ he checked. ‘She’s made it through the night and is holding her own. She’s a lot better than yesterday at least.’ He looked over. ‘Do you want some breakfast or are you still cross?’

‘Still cross,’ Freya said and told him why. ‘My flat isn’t terrible.’

‘I just said that as an excuse to my mother. She’s hardly going to drop in and see it.’

‘I guess...’

She let it go, and she decided he was completely forgiven when he got out of bed and returned with coffee, and toast topped with grapefruit marmalade.

Or was it the fact that she simply had to know more about this man?

‘Were she and your father ever happy?’ Freya asked as they ate their breakfast and got crumbs in his gorgeous bed.

‘I think so. But she wanted a livelier social life and he is rather wedded to his job. She gave him an ultimatum and it backfired, I fear, because he chose work.’

‘Your father married again?’

‘Yes—his housekeeper. Or rather the woman who had been their housekeeper, so you can imagine how well that went down. My mother was convinced there had been something going on all along...’ He rolled his eyes and then, putting his plate down, moved to take her mug. ‘Can we talk about our sex-life instead, please?’

‘But your parents’ sex-life is so much more interesting!’

‘Then I must be losing my touch.’

They made each other laugh and then, to Freya’s surprise, and seemingly to Richard’s, instead of taking her mug he lay back on the pillows and told her some more.

‘She walked out when I was fifteen—a couple of days after their twentieth wedding anniversary. My father wasn’t giving her the attention she felt she deserved. He had a terminally ill patient and had had to cancel their anniversary trip. I felt terrible for my father after the break-up—he just moped around. Then, just when I was starting my “A” Levels, he announced he was marrying Vera.’

‘The housekeeper?’

‘Yes. And the following summer my mother married an old friend of my father’s. A more glamorous version of him, really.’

‘What happened to him?’

‘She left him after five years, and after that I kind of tuned out. Now all I know is that she’s engaged to Roger.’

‘Have you met him?’

‘Yes—a couple of dinners. He’s a cosmetic dentist.’ He pulled a face.

‘What’s wrong with being a cosmetic dentist?’

‘Nothing. I just feel his eyes on my mouth every time we speak. I think he’s trying to work out if I’ve got crowns. In my line of work we just ask!’

He looked over to Freya and gave her a very nice smile that showed stunningly even teeth.

‘And do you have crowns?’

‘Two—thanks to rugby.’

She looked right back at him, and as she did so she thought about him asking his patients about their dental work before he put them under. She looked into his eyes and Freya understood why patients so clearly trusted him.

Because she trusted him.

Of course she didn’t know him very well yet, but that much she knew. And, Freya thought as they stared at each other, if she were terrified and scared for her life, or her baby’s, his would be the eyes she would want to see.

No, she would never regret this. In the twelve hours since their lips had first met she had come alive to her body in a way she never had before.

She wanted to put down her mug and reach for his kiss. Or at the very least to ask him what day he’d get back from his trip, in the hope that she could see him. But then she recalled their rules, and peeled back the sheet rather than leaning in to his embrace.

‘I’d better go. I have a train to catch.’

‘What time?’

‘Ten.’

‘Then there’s plenty of time.’

‘No, I need to get back to mine to pack.’

‘Fair enough,’ Richard said.

He lay there with his hands behind his head as she dressed. He kept his mouth firmly closed.

It was deliberate, because a long weekend in Scotland with Freya sounded tempting—rather than flying to Moscow by himself and cramming in some sightseeing.

‘Have a great trip,’ Freya said.

‘I will.’ He put out his hand and she came and sat down on the bed.

‘And good luck with your lunch,’ she added.

‘Thanks.’

It wasn’t awkward when she left. More, it felt...unfinished.

* * *

Freya thought about him more than she ought as her train slid its way northwards.

It was packed, and there were no seats in the quiet carriage, so Freya put in her earbuds and tried to listen to music—but every song sounded as if it had been written about them. So she gave up with the music and chatted to the woman in the seat beside her.

She was a fellow Scot, so neither had to say sorry, or I beg your pardon once, and Freya found out from her that on weekends and public holidays you could sometimes get a cheap upgrade to First Class.

‘I’ll remember that,’ Freya said, and then gazed out of the window and watched the rolling countryside. The clouds gathered and right on cue, as they crossed the border at Berwick-upon-Tweed, she saw grey skies and rain,

It made her smile.

The train travelled the rugged Scottish coastline, eating up the miles until they reached Edinburgh Castle. It was dark and powerful and towering over them, and her first glimpse of it in what felt like a long time caused Freya’s heart to swell.

The train pulled into Waverley Station and it felt very good to be home. The station was busy as she checked the board for the next train to Cromayr Bay and saw that she had half an hour to kill.

Freya decided to buy some flowers for her little cottage, to brighten things up. As she was paying she could hear her phone beeping, and assumed it was Alison, or her mother, checking on what time her train would get in.

She nearly dropped the phone when she saw that it was Richard.

Lunch went well. I’ll have my phone off for a few days now, but just wanted to say that I hope you have a nice break.

No kisses or fun little emojis. No clues to anything, really—but even getting a text was more than she had expected.

Freya hadn’t expected anything. She’d hoped that she might see him again—of course she had—but this simple text... Well, it confused her. This didn’t fit with how he had said it would be.

She honestly didn’t know how to respond.

A part of her wanted to fire back smiley faces and pictures of tartan berets and Russian hats—just to keep it all light and breezy. Yet light and breezy wasn’t how she felt when it came to Richard.

And so, when most women would be firing off a rapid response to a text from Richard Lewis, Freya—because she didn’t know how to respond—instead sent the promised text to Alison, and then stuffed her phone back in her bag.

Freya had no intention of telling people about Richard. Certainly she wouldn’t be telling her parents. While Freya adored them, her mother Jean loved ‘a wee natter’, and—as Freya well knew—nothing stayed a secret in Cromayr Bay for very long.