She sat alone at the table, the candle light in front of her flickered in the draught of someone passing, catching her eye for a moment, before returning to what was causing the indescribable pain in her chest. It was emotionally caused, she knew that, but it felt so strong, so intense, it might have been a symptom of some physical problem.
She breathed deeply, a futile attempt to dispel the discomfort. If anything, it intensified; the longer she watched, the longer it continued.
But she couldn't tear her eyes away from the subject of her upset; her husband, his familiar form across the room, the body she had once, foolishly, thought her own had fitted perfectly with, as if in some way, they were made for each other. But it wasn't her own body that was currently settled against her husband's, held tightly by the strong arms that had so often enveloped her. It was someone else, a nurse from the hospital.
She wasn't possessive, wasn't paranoid, she wouldn't have minded if it were just a few dances. But all night long, he'd held nurses, patients, DHA dignitaries, practically everyone in the room, but not once had he come to her. Not once had he picked up her hand, led her onto the tiled dance floor, slid his arm around her waist, moved with her to the music.
And that, ultimately, was what was crushing her chest, sending bile to her throat, burning her eyes with unshed tears; Gordon, her husband, the man she loved, imagined spending the rest of her life with, no longer felt the same. And perhaps the worst thing of all, she didn't know what she could do about it.
"Doctor Ormerod, a word please."
Gordon turned to see Matron standing behind him. "I'm a little busy right now Matron." He gestured to his dance partner.
"No, now, Gordon."
He blinked, momentarily stunned at the force with which she commanded him. He apologised to the nurse he was dancing with, and followed Matron's retreating back out the marquee. He stopped as she turned to face him, the lights from the hospital allowing him to see the grim expression on her face. "Where's Jill?"
He frowned, wondering why his wife's location was of such importance to Matron. "Still in there, I presume," he answered indicating the marquee.
"No, she's not."
"What?" He was even more confused.
"I just saw her running out. What's going on Gordon?"
"I..." he trailed off, confusion mixing with concern both of which he tried to push down as he hardened his face, trying to feel only indignation. "I don't see how any of this is your concern Matron."
She ignored his curt tone and continued, "Contrary to what you may think, I care about you both." She paused, ensuring she had Gordon's full attention. "I can see things aren't right between you. They haven't been for some time now. You're obviously troubled by something Gordon. And as for Jill, it was evident to anyone watching that she's deeply hurt by what's going on." She stopped and held Gordon's gaze. He shifted uncomfortably, but was unable bring himself to break eye contact.
He sighed, running a hand through his hair, torn between returning to the marquee and ignoring everything, again, or finally facing up to the problem and telling the woman who held such concern on her face. He sighed again, and began a slow walk away from where they were stood, noting Matron was following. He was still not altogether sure in his actions, but Matron's words kept running round his head.
Jill was hurt... He'd hurt Jill... Now she'd ran away...
