It's Friday night, and I'm exhausted. I thought the stresses and strains of working as a cardiothoracic surgeon were bad, but my most recent tenure, in emergency medicine, is proving far harder. Funnily enough, I don't remember it being this exhausting during the rotations I undertook during my training, but I suppose I was younger then, not to mention surviving on a diet of caffeine and adrenalin.

I arrive home, thankfully in one piece given the fact I've hardly been able to keep my eyes open during the drive, and let myself in. The house is quiet, again, thankfully. This time last week I'd arrived home to the commotion of half a dozen pre-pubescent girls in my living room, Frozen on at top volume, the contents of my make-up bag all over the carpet and the smell of burnt popcorn in the air. But tonight, there's nothing, the house is in darkness and silence, save for a crack of light coming from the pushed to living room door, and the low hum of the TV.

I kick off my heels, as my feet curse me for subjecting them to the torture all day, and head into the living room, where Grace's Nanny, Anna, is curled up on the sofa, watching a repeat of Made in Chelsea on ITV2, our cat, Elsa (of course) at her side. One look at me later though, the pause button has been hit, and she's out of the room before I can comment, returning shortly afterwards with a chilled bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, a glass, and a bar of Galaxy Cookie Crumb Chocolate.

What can I say? I have her exceptionally well trained, and it's not just Grace she's paid to take care of.

I sink down into my favourite armchair, and am duly handed both a glass of wine and a large chunk of the afore mentioned chocolate. Anna looks at me again, laughs slightly, and then evaluates my appearance with her characteristic Australian bluntness.

"Connie, you look like shit."

There are very few people who can get away with speaking to me in such a manner, especially those whose pay cheques I sign, but my relationship with Anna is such that I take her words on the chin, laughing as well, before taking a sip of wine, savouring the moment.

"Long shift?"

I nod. 'Long' didn't really cover it. 'Insane' would probably have been more accurate. Two RTAs, two cardiac arrests, a blatant but denied case of domestic violence, a 14 year old girl off her face on amphetamines, a meltdown by a member of the nursing staff, and my second in command caught in flagrante with the hospital porter. Just another day in the ED.

I bite into the chocolate. It's the first thing I've eaten all day, and it tastes unbelievably good, earning Anna further brownie points. I take a few moments to enjoy it, before turning my attention to a missing part of the picture.

"Where's Grace?"

"Sleepover at Imani's."

I ponder this, mentally scanning through my daughter's friends, trying to recall the exotically named, Imani. Anna, obviously sensing my confusion, pipes up to help me out, "Hannah? The one who dresses like a 7 year old Pussycat Doll. She's reinvented herself as 'Imani'."

This helps a little, but not much; most of Grace's Year 3 class seem to have wardrobes far more suited to 16 year olds, so picking Hannah out of the bunch isn't much easier than identifying Imani. Once again Anna comes to my rescue,

"Anorexic looking mother. Arrogant father with wandering hands."

"Ah right." The pieces fall into place, having encountered the pair at various PTA events over the last couple of years. "I didn't realise she was staying away tonight." I added, feeling a little guilty that Anna has a better grasp of my daughter's social calendar than I do. Although as it turns out,

"Last minute arrangement. I didn't think you'd have a problem with it, I thought you'd enjoy the peace and quiet."

I drain my wine glass, "Amen to that." As I top up my glass I look over at Anna, taking in for the first time her pyjama bottoms and trampoline squad hoodie. "You didn't want to go out?" I ask, "You've effectively got the night off."

She shakes her head, and gestures at me with a half drunk bottle of Stella Artois in her hand, "Nah, I fancied a night in. Do you mind?"

My turn to shake my head. Tired or not, I had no issue with spending an evening with her. At 26 she was older than the other Nannies Grace had, had, which made her a lot more reliable in my book, and if I was honest, really good company. Once upon a time I might have balked at the idea of sharing my home with another woman – female friendship has never been my thing – but Anna had joined us just after the death of my father, to which end it was good to have someone else around the house again, and our friendship had grown from there.

"So," I top up my glass, "Made in Chelsea?"

She grins, more than aware of my secret penchant for trash television that I would never admit to anyone else in a thousand years. "In a minute," she replies, "but first I want the latest update on the 'the boys'."

Ah, the boys. One of the major pleasures that working in the ED has brought. It's been quite some time since I've been able to throw myself into the middle of a delicate situation and stir it up just because I can, and I had, in all honesty, forgotten just how much I missed it.

Until I met Doctors Hardy and Knight.

I'm not just doing it for kicks, although I'd be lying if I said I wasn't enjoying it, but it's amazing the effect the introduction of healthy competition can have. When it's a case of first up, best dressed, everything becomes slightly sharper, and if positioning myself between them causes that to be all the more intense then no one loses. They become better Doctors, the department becomes more efficient and I get to have my fun.

As does my Nanny who is following the competition nearly as closely as I am.

I ponder the events of the shift, looking for the finest possible storytelling narrative to maximise Anna's enjoyment of the latest instalment.

"Dr Knight-"

"You mean Dr McSteamy." Anna cuts in, and I roll my eyes at the Grey's Anatomy reference, although subsequently correct myself.

"Dr McSteamy, thought he'd raise the stakes today. I walked into the department at 7.01am and he'd made 3 references to my own personal anatomy by 7.23."

"Subtle comments?" Anna asks, although she is somewhat missing the point. Yes, his comments were subtle, although accompanied as they were by smouldering come to bed eyes, they were pretty hard to miss. But compliments and flirtation are not what my game is about. He isn't meant to be clamouring for attention as a man chasing a woman, he's meant to impress me Registrar to Clinical Lead. I say as much to Anna but she just starts to laugh,

"Oh shut up. You love it."

I don't respond, because she's my employee and close as we are there are some things I just don't need to share. But yes, although it goes against my professional grain to do so, I do love it. When I tuck my Clinical Lead exterior into her cold frosty little box, the woman inside me loves it all. The way he undresses me with his eyes, the heat of his stare on my retreating figure as I sashay away from him in a corridor, the fact that if I wanted him I could have him with a click of my fingers.

But I will resist that temptation, because I'm making my mark right now. No room for added complications of a personal nature.

"Did you punish him for this misdemeanour?" Anna asks, prompting me to smile at the memory of his eventual comeuppance.

"No need." I tell her, "14 year old Bacardi Breezer vomit down his front did it for me."

She grins, obviously conjuring up the image in her head, and then as her smile widens asks, "Did you follow him to the locker room to watch him get changed?"

At her words, I feel my cheeks flush red slightly, not because I committed the crime, but because it had, at the very least, crossed my mind. What can I say? It's been a long time since I was with a man, and I am only human after all. I push the thought of rippling abs and a light dusting of chest hair from my mind and force the conversation back to Clinical Lead territory and the topic of the actual competition.

"Anyway, medically speaking, today was a bit of a draw really. They both did well, Dr Hardy did some good work in resus, thinking on his feet, very on the ball and Dr Knight gave a difficult situation his upmost attention. When he's not acting like a horny teenager he's growing emotionally as a physician." I fall silent as I recall his gentle handing of the gay domestic violence victim and his obvious frustration when his patient returned home to his partner. "They've both done good today."

"Who's winning at chess?"

I mentally run my eyes over the famous chessboard when last I saw it, "Dr Hardy's slightly ahead." I confirm, "But then Dr Knight's little helper has been kept busy elsewhere today."

Anna finishes her beer, a look of confusion on her face, "Max? What's he been doing?"

I start to laugh, the memory of Max, Zoe and the linen cupboard amusing me not for the first time that evening. Oh, I'd have words with Zoe about it; suggest that really it might be better to keep her personal liaisons out of work time. I'd look stern and disapproving, make her feel completely uncomfortable and run away with her tail between her legs, but at the end of the day, we've all been there. The first six weeks I was with Michael I don't think we made it through a shift without ducking into the on call room at least once, if not more.

I turn my attention back to Anna, who is still looking at me questioningly, and finally answer her her, with a knowing smirk, "It's not what he's been doing, Anna." I explain, "It's who."

xxx

In spite of my initial tiredness, it turns into a late night. Once Anna is up to date with news from the hospital, we sit sluggishly in front of the Made in Chelsea marathon, order Thai food, consume too much alcohol and enjoy the fact that for once neither of us is on duty for Grace.

Eventually, about 1, I say goodnight and head up to my bedroom, crashing out before I've even had the energy to remove my make up and work clothes.

To which end, when I'm woken by the insistent ringing of the phone a few short hours later, I find myself on top of the duvet, in rumpled shirt and skirt, with first vestiges of a hangover starting to kick in. I force my eyes to focus on my alarm clock, and discovering its just 6am, get ready to rip a strip off of whichever complete idiot is on the other end of the phone.

"Connie, its Charlie Fairhead." I grimace inwardly hearing Charlie's voice. I'm not working or on call this weekend, so for him to be ringing at this time it has to be something big. Something I'm too drunk to deal with. I tuck the phone between my head and shoulder, and get out of bed, heading to my wardrobe in search of clean clothes, "What is it? Train derailment? Plane crash?"

"It's Grace."

That's how he says it. Just like that. No sugar coating it, no build up. He doesn't even say it gently; just two blunt words that make my heart go cold.

This can't be happening again. 5 years ago, through my own bloody stupidity, I nearly lost her. Those 48 hours with Grace and then Sam so ill, were the worst I have experienced in my entire life. My legs buckle at the memory and I struggle to speak, although I desperately need answers.

"What is it?" I lower myself onto the bed, because I can no longer trust my legs to support me, "What's happened?"

He tries to reassure me with that same calm almost monotone voice I've heard him use with so many patients, but he doesn't tell me the one thing I need to know. He doesn't answer my question. I ask again, and when he responds, his tone his more firm.

"Connie. Can you please just come in? We can talk more when you're here."

I call a taxi, throw on jeans and a sweatshirt and then, in a daze walk to Anna's room and wake her. She looks even worse than I do, if that's humanly possible, but as I break the news to her she sobers up, almost instantly. There's no question as to whether she'll come with me; day off or not, Grace is her charge, she spends more time with her than I do in any given week, and wild horses wouldn't keep her away.

I leave her changing and head downstairs my head whirling. I know I should probably contact Sam, but with him so far away and me knowing so little, there seems to be no point. Instead I pace the kitchen, fighting by the bile that rises continually in my throat, and wishing I could wake up from the nightmare.

By the time the taxi hoots his horn outside, no doubt pleasing the neighbours no end, Anna has appeared. She makes to follow me out to the car, but then stops and heads back upstairs. I call her back, angry with her for wasting vital time, but when reappears a minute or so later, clutching Grace's much loved, somewhat tired looking cuddly Woody from Toy Story, I understand completely and my anger dissipates.

It's only as she hands Woody to me, once we're in the taxi and our journey under way that I find myself questioning why Woody is with us in the first place, when he ought to be somewhere else entirely.

"Why did she leave him at home? Woody goes everywhere with her."

Anna smiles sadly, "Peer pressure. The other girls say Toy Story isn't cool."

In spite of the turmoil I'm in, and having no idea what to expect when we reach work, her words make me feel even worse, which I wouldn't have thought was possible. I stare down at the toy who has been Grace's favourite for so long, the one she wouldn't sleep without, the one she cried for every night for a fortnight when we left him in the departure lounge in Heathrow Airport on the way to our holiday in Lake Garda, and I wonder when exactly we had reached the point where she'd been forced to grow up to the extent where she'd leave him behind.

"She's only 7."

Anna reaches out and gives my arm a reassuring squeeze, "Kids today eh?" She misses only a beat before asking the question she's obviously been desperate to ask me, "What do you think's wrong with her?"

I shrug, clueless. I know it must be serious, if it was a broken bone or something easily mended, Charlie would have said as much over the phone. He wouldn't be putting me through this, the journey from hell.

We ride in silence the rest of the way, as I have no wish to do the 'what ifs' and 'maybes'. It's only when we arrive outside the ED that Anna speaks again.

"It's funny." She murmurs, staring out of the window, where Jeff and Big Mac are cleaning their ambulance, and Zoe is arriving for work, an 'I've just been shagged' smile on her face, "I've heard so much about this place. I was so keen to visit, see it all for myself. But not like this…"

I can tell she's near to tears, and I realise that for once, my competent and unflappable employee and friend, is about as far away from those two words as it is possible to be, yet I find myself unable to reassure her. I can't tell her Grace will be OK or that there's nothing to worry about, because right now it feels like my world is ending.

Again.

xxx