Work Text:
Serena drums her fingers on the steering wheel as she waits at the traffic lights. The queue of cars is not improving her mood. Monday mornings are of course nobody’s favourite, but this particular Monday isn't even succeeding a good weekend: a dull blend of paperwork and household chores, intersected by a truly awful date courtesy of her registrar.
Three months earlier, Raf and Fletch had finally pulled their heads out of the sand and realised that they had been a couple in all but name for months. Serena is pleased for the pair of them, she really is: apart from anything else, they are now both much more productive during working hours. But Raf’s happiness has instilled in him a fervent desire that Serena find her own version of domestic bliss and he is consequently wildly over-invested in her love life. This has led to Serena’s weekends being filled with a succession of blind dates which have ranged from dull (Mary, a pretty but terminally boring insurance executive) to disastrous (Simon, whose good looks could not compensate for his rudeness to everyone from the waiter in the restaurant, to the elderly lady to whom Serena had offered assistance after she slipped in the car park.)
Saturday night had been the turn of Alice. On paper, Alice had sounded perfect: attractive, late forties with a son at university, she was a solicitor who specialised in medical negligence. For once, Serena thought Raf may have got it right. That is, until the Maitre’D had handed Alice the wine list and she had handed it straight back, explaining that she didn't drink, before treating Serena to a lengthy exposition of her thoughts on the evils of alcohol. Serena fancies herself a tolerant woman, but there are limits to the flaws she is willing to overlook in a prospective partner, and being teetotal is definitely one of them.
She’s noticed that Raf is sending rather more women her way than men of late. She wonders whether this is coincidence, or whether Raf’s late discovery of his own bisexuality is influencing his choice of date for his boss.
Finally, the lights change to green and Serena turns the car left down the narrow side street. The engine makes a protesting noise: it's been making a lot of noises lately. She really ought to take it in for a service but hasn't yet managed to find the time. She slides the car into a space and hops out. It's a bit of a detour, a trip to Pierre's and not one she usually makes before work. However, she has a long and painful day of very dull meetings before her, two of them involving Guy Self. Sometimes nothing but the best will do for morning sustenance, especially on mornings like this: blue, sunny and crisp with cold. And Pierre’s is the best: the strongest French roast coffee and perfect buttery pastries.
The queue is pleasingly short and five minutes later she is once again seated in her car, a double shot latte in the cup holder and a mouth-watering looking pain au chocolat in a paper bag on the passenger seat. She inserts the key in the ignition, turns over the engine. Nothing. She waits ten seconds and tries again. Still nothing. More in hope than expectation, she tries a third time. The car is officially Not Working.
Serena groans. The good start to her bad day is rapidly turning into a bad start to a bad day. She pops the bonnet, climbs out of the car again, and peers at the engine. She’s not entirely sure what she expects to see. Serena isn't a complete mechanical idiot: she does at least understand that the car requires oil and to have sufficient water in the radiator. But having verified that neither of these is the issue and that the tank definitely contains petrol, she is stumped. She stares at the engine again, willing a solution to present itself and knowing that it won't.
“Engine been growling or whining?”
The voice, low and feminine, emanates from behind Serena, startling her almost enough to hit her head on the car bonnet. She turns towards its owner.
“Any intermittent smell of hot or burning rubber?”
The speaker is a woman, around her own age she would guess. She has presumably been out for a run and is dressed for the occasion, in black compression leggings, a slim fitting grey top, hat and gloves. Serena can see tendrils of blonde hair escaping from a messy ponytail and her cheeks are pink from the cold, her lips wrapped around a cigarette.
Bloody hell, she is gorgeous. “Define intermittent.”
“Alternator might be cactus.”
The blonde removes her sunglasses and Serena sees warm brown eyes smiling at her.
Wow.
Serena is silent for a full ten seconds until she realises she has been staring. “Sounds bad.”
“It is if you want to drive anywhere.”
“Funny, you don’t look like a mechanic. Well, apart from the fag.” Serena gives the woman another appreciative look, because really, she deserves it.
“And what does a mechanic look like?” The blonde smirks and raises an eyebrow.
“Not like you.” Serena is surprised by her own frankness: even she is not usually that direct. But her companion is really quite distractingly lovely and it's temporarily robbed her of subtlety.
The blonde blushes, quite a feat given the cold already pinking her cheeks, and inclines her head towards the car. “Mind if I take a look?”
“Be my guest.”
She watches as the blonde tucks the cigarette away and removes her gloves. Serena’s eyes stray to the third finger of the woman’s left hand and is unaccountably pleased to find it bare. The blonde ducks her head under the raised bonnet and leans over to peer at the engine, affording Serena an excellent view of a frankly spectacular arse encased in obscenely close-fitting running tights.
A woman of her age really has no business looking that good in Lycra.
After several minutes of tinkering, the woman withdraws her head and turns round to face Serena.
“You're in luck- it wasn't the alternator. She should be OK now. Do you want to give her a try?”
Serena climbs back into the driver’s seat and turns over the engine, which roars into life. The blonde smiles at her through the windscreen, and Serena smiles back. She leaves the engine running and slips back out of the car.
“Thank you.”
“Glad to be of service.”
The blonde smiles again and Serena decides to throw caution to the wind. “Can I buy you a coffee, to say thank you ?”
“I’d love to, but I'd better get on. Besides, I'm not really in a fit state for it.” The woman holds up her grease smeared hands.
“Which is entirely my fault- or at least my car’s.” Serena rifles through her handbag and produces a tissue. She hands it to the other woman, who uses it to wipe away the worst of the grease, before giving Serena one last smile and turning on her heel.
“At least tell me who I'm indebted to?” Serena is pushing hard, she knows, but she is utterly beguiled by her mystery mechanic.
The mystery woman stops and half turns towards Serena. “Bernie.” She pauses, and then adds “maybe I'll see you around, er…?”
“Serena.”
“Serena.” And Serena can't help the thrill at the sound of her name as it rolls off the other woman’s tongue.
The blonde flashes Serena another smile over her shoulder and sets off at a run down the road towards the river.
***
Bernie’s smile induces in Serena a good mood that endures through a frustratingly traffic snarled drive to work; an F1 attempting to steal her parking space; and a phone call from Edward explaining that he and Liberty had had a row and seeking Serena’s advice on how to rectify things. Even the presence of Guy Self on her ward, disagreeing with her about a diagnosis, is unable to dampen her spirits.
“You're very chipper this morning Serena.” Raf eyes her over the top of a patient file. “Glad to see you've recovered from the horrors of Saturday night.”
Serena grimaces. “Don't remind me.”
“So, what's put you in such a good mood on a Monday morning?”
“Ah, stopped by Pierre’s.” Serena brandishes the paper bag.
Raf gives her an appraising look. “No pain au chocolat in the world is good enough to put a smile that big on your face. Especially not with the day you have lined up. Let’s try again, shall we? Man or woman?”
Bugger. Raf really does know her awfully well.
“I have no idea what you mean.” Serena is not a good liar. Bending the truth, yes; outright falsehood, no.
“Serena, you haven't looked that happy since that conference in Seattle where you met that guy. You know- the one who ran the organic coffee shop.”
“His name was Bill. And it was a juice bar.”
Raf makes an impatient noise.
“My car broke down.”
“And this put you in a good mood?”
“No, but I encountered a very lovely Good Samaritan who fixed it for me.” Serena tries and fails to restrain the smile that breaks forth at the thought of Bernie. She can't remember the last time she'd been this excited and energised by a first meeting with someone and hopes, fervently, that she’ll see her again. Hopes Bernie’s run will take her to Pierre’s tomorrow morning.
“Seriously? You've finally found someone who meets your exacting standards?”
“You make it sounds as though I've got a check list, Raf. I hardly think rejecting someone who gave me a lecture on the health benefits of abstaining from alcohol counts as fussy. And I'll probably never see her again anyway.”
***
As she gets into her car on Tuesday morning, Serena is unsure about her destination. Twenty four hours’ reflection have tamed her optimism and she is plagued by doubt, unsure whether she should forget the whole thing and just go straight to work. She is not a regular customer at Pierre’s after all and she really has no reason to go there. She has no arrangement with Bernie; doesn't know anything about her; has no real reason to think Bernie might be there again this morning. Except that Bernie had said she might see Serena around: surely that meant that Bernie hoped she might run into Serena at Pierre’s again? And Serena can't recall the last time she’d been so intrigued by a woman- or a man, come to that- as she is by Bernie. It’s not simply that she finds Bernie attractive, though of course she does. Serena is drawn to Bernie: something about the warmth of her eyes and the soft smile makes Serena ache to know her better.
Bugger it. If the worst comes to the worst, you can just buy a cup of coffee.
Serena has an unaccountable bout of nerves as she approaches the door to the cafe. She’s not usually one to second guess herself once she has resolved on a course of action. But she is apprehensive. What if Bernie isn't there? What if she is?
You're being ridiculous she tells herself and pushes open the door.
A quick glance around the busy interior tells Serena that the blonde is not inside and she feels a flicker of disappointment. Don't be absurd. It's not even 8 o’clock. She marches to the counter, orders her coffee and a pastry to-go and then takes a seat at a table facing the door.
She sips the coffee slowly, savouring the rich dark bitterness. But with each minute that passes the hope of seeing Bernie again diminishes a little and she cannot help the disappointment which seems to settle in her chest. This is ridiculous she chastises herself. You've only met her once. Stop acting like a lovesick schoolgirl.
At 8.15 Serena knows that she has to leave or she will be late and regretfully rises from her chair, picks up the pain au chocolat in its paper bag and heads for the door.
As she reaches towards the handle, the door swings open and a slim blonde in running gear charges through, almost knocking Serena over.
Serena cannot stop the smile which spreads across her face and is gratified to see that Bernie seems similarly glad to see her, her features lighting with pleasure when she realises who she has inadvertently bumped into.
“Serena!”
Bernie is out of breath. Flushed and beautiful.
“Hi.”
“Are you leaving?” Serena detects a definite tone of disappointment from the blonde.
“I have to get to work I'm afraid.” Serena pauses and then adds tentatively, “Tomorrow?”
Bernie beams at her. “Tomorrow.”
***
Serena practically floats into AAU at five past nine.
“You're late” Raf pounces almost as soon as she's through the door.
“Am I? Well, I'm also the boss.”
“You're never late. You went to Pierre’s again didn't you?”
“No” Serena really must stop attempting to lie to Raf.
Raf points to the paper bag.
“Ok, ok. I went to Pierre’s. The coffee is good. And the pain au chocolat really are delicious. And the queue at Pulses in the morning is getting ridiculous…” Serena trails off, Raf smirking back at her.
“And was she there?”
“Who?”
Raf gives her a withering stare.
“Fine, fine. She was there. Briefly.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“Give me strength. Did you talk to her again?”
“Briefly.”
“And?”
“And I'll talk to her again tomorrow.” Serena can't quite prevent the note of excitement from creeping into her voice.
***
Wednesday morning sees Serena parked outside Pierre's at 7.45. She smiles when she sees Bernie is already there, seated at a table outside and drinking an obscenely large americano.
“Health drink, is it?” Serena’s voice has a teasing note.
Bernie jumps and Serena inclines her head towards the cup.
Bernie smiles. “I'll have you know I've run ten miles this morning. I deserve a bloody coffee.”
Serena shudders. “Rather you than me. I'll just grab a drink. I presume you're OK?”
“I think I'll manage.” Another smile.
Those eyes.Serena places her order and is soon seated next to Bernie.
“I don't suppose you’d care to explain why we’re sitting outside in the middle of February?”
“Oh I'm sorry.” Bernie suddenly looks anxious. “We can move if you like?”
“It's fine. I'm dressed for it.” Serena gestures to her furry hat. “It just seems like an interesting choice of seat.”
Bernie stares at her coffee for several moments. “I've spent most of the last few years in the Middle East,” she offers eventually. “I rather missed the cold.”
Serena makes a disparaging noise. “This isn't proper cold. I spent three years living in Massachusetts and one thing I did not miss was the English winter. All rain and grey: it's not often cold like this- blue and crisp.”
“I’m sure you're right, but that’s not how I remember it. This is how I always remember English winter to be. But memory is a funny thing.”
“It’s like childbirth, isn't it?” Serena takes a sip of her coffee. “It's the most excruciating pain but you genuinely do forget it when you have a baby in your arms.” She grins at Bernie. “If only the teenage years were so easy to erase!”
Bernie laughs, a noise that is extraordinary and ridiculous and bears an uncanny resemblance to a goose honking. It’s a sound that fills Serena with unaccountable delight and she stares at her in wonder.
“I’m sorry” Bernie gives her an apologetic grin. “I do realise I sound ridiculous.”
“No!” Serena is surprised by the vehemence of her reaction. “It’s glorious.”
Bernie colours. “Not what my children think. Terribly embarrassing at school events apparently.”
“All children are embarrassed by their parents, no matter what they do. I think there were a couple of years when my daughter flatly refused to be seen with me in public- unless I was brandishing a cheque book, of course.”
“Just the one daughter?”
“Yes, Elinor. She’s twenty. But I have a nephew, Jason, who lives with me too- it’s a bit complicated.”
Bernie nods, doesn’t press for more. “Mine are grown up too. Cameron’s twenty five and Charlotte is twenty.”
They chat about their children, about what they’re doing and the difficulties of raising young adults, always skirting away from becoming too personal. Serena notices that Bernie says nothing about Cameron and Charlotte’s father and she’s tempted to ask, but holds back. Bernie, she has quickly realised, is reticent by nature, and Serena has no desire to press her for what she is not yet willing to give; she will, Serena assumes, volunteer the information when she is ready to do so.
“I'm afraid,” Serena says twenty minutes later, “that I need to get going.”
“Me too,” Bernie agrees. “I need to have a shower, get out of this running gear.”
“I have to admit I rather like the running gear,” Serena says with an impish smile as she gathers her things ready to leave.
Bernie blushes crimson and ducks her head. She pauses. “Serena?”
“Yes?”
“I run this way most mornings, at this kind of time.”
“That's good to know.”
***
Serena rushes onto the ward at precisely 8.55am, earning her a raised eyebrow from an amused Raf.
“I'm not even late,” she protests.
“And you're usually half an hour early, at least,” Raf points out. “I take it you saw her."
“I might have done.”
“And?”
“We had coffee, we chatted. We’ll probably do it again tomorrow.”
***
On Thursday morning, Serena’s pager wakes her at 4.15am. A quick call to the ward confirms that it is Raf who is responsible for her interrupted night: there is an RTC victim with crush injuries to the leg and he’s unsure how to proceed. Serena rolls out of bed and straight into scrubs: she’d only have to change when she got to the hospital anyway and she’ll grab a shower after theatre.
She is halfway across town before she realises that the call means she won't be able to meet Bernie for coffee. She feels an intense pang of regret: seeing Bernie has rapidly become the highlight of her day. She doesn't even have a mobile number to text her and apologise. I need to rectify that, and soon she thinks.
The drive is quick at that time of night and Serena soon finds herself in the scrub room with an anxious Raf. The operation goes well: they save the leg, though the patient will need extensive physiotherapy to retain full function. Still, given the condition in which he'd come in, it’s an impressive result.
“You did well Raf. It was a tricky one. You should go home, get some rest.”
“Thanks. Sorry I had to call you in.”
“Don't worry about it: you were right to.”
“Still. I'm sorry you had to miss Pierre’s.”
Serena glances at her watch. 8.20 am. Would Bernie still be there or would she have already left? Would she be sitting outside Pierre’s wondering where Serena is? Serena resolves to buy the coffee the following morning, hopes that Bernie will still be there.
***
Serena sleeps soundly on Thursday night, a consequence of her very early start and wakes on Friday morning refreshed and eager for the day. She tries not to think about how much of that eagerness is the prospect of seeing Bernie and the little knot of tension in her stomach that worries Bernie won't show up after her own absence the day before.
At 7.45 am Serena is seated at the table they had shared on Wednesday morning, a double shot latte and a pain au chocolat in front of her; and a large americano and an almond croissant at the place beside her.
Serena feels her pulse quicken as Bernie comes into view, her run slowing to a walk as she approaches the cafe. She knows the moment Bernie spots her, sees the blonde register her presence first with surprise, then pleasure, and finally sees her expression settle into wariness.
Bernie slides into the seat beside her, their legs brushing as she does so, sending a frisson of excitement shooting through Serena. She removes her hat to reveal tousled blonde hair; Serena has the strongest urge to reach out and touch it, but resists. You barely know her, she reminds herself.
“Is this for me?” Bernie asks, reaching for the drink and the croissant.
“Yes.” Serena pauses, unsure how to proceed. “I'm sorry about yesterday.”
“Nothing to be sorry about. It's not as if we had a definite arrangement.”
“Still, I wouldn't want you to think…It wasn't that I didn't want to be here. There was an emergency at work.”
Serena thinks she sees a flicker of relief cross Bernie’s face. “Well I'm glad you weren’t simply sick of the company.”
She reaches out and places her hand over Bernie’s, feels a jolt of electricity at the contact; from the start on Bernie's face she can tell the other woman feels it too. Bernie turns her huge brown eyes on Serena and it's all Serena can do to prevent herself from leaning forwards and kissing her. Instead, she brushes her thumb across Bernie’s, feels her heart thudding harder as she does so.
“It definitely wasn't the company,” she says eventually.
Serena feels something shift, feels the atmosphere lighten and deepen at once: from slightly awkward acquaintances to friendship and the promise of something more. They stare at each other for a long while, until suddenly it feels almost unbearable, and Serena is compelled to break the spell.
“So, you mentioned the Middle East the other day. Were you working out there?”
Bernie hesitates a little and Serena senses she is holding back, uncertain how much of herself to reveal. “Yes, I’m, or rather I was in the army. I’m recently retired.”
“Must be quite an adjustment.”
“I suppose so, but it has compensations.” Serena feels herself colouring under Bernie’s gaze.
“Certainly explains your success with my car.”
“Yes, have to be able to fix your own vehicle. No breakdown services in the Afghan desert.” They both chuckle at that. “What about you?” Bernie continues. “What were you doing in- was it Massachusetts?”
“Oh, graduate study, many moons ago.”
“Harvard?” Bernie guesses.
“MBA.”
“High flyer.”
“Perhaps,” Serena agrees. “My priorities have shifted a bit, the last year or two.” At Bernie’s inquiring look she continues. “I think I mentioned my nephew Jason lives with me. He has Asperger’s Syndrome. He's wonderful but his needs are such that I need to be at home a bit more.” She takes a deep breath. “And if I'm honest, I got passed over for the top job one too many times. I have at last realised that I ought to focus my energies elsewhere.”
“Old Boy’s club?” Bernie asks.
“Something like that.”
“Well I can relate to that.”
“I'll bet. Can't be easy, being a woman in the army.”
“It’s challenging. It's improving but it's slow progress. I’d like to think that it’s easier for the young women coming through.”
Serena nods. “I think that’s all any of us can hope for, really. And on that note, duty calls, I’m afraid.” She picks up her cup and drains the last of her coffee. “Umm, I'm not working tomorrow, so I won't be over this side of town.”
Bernie’s face falls a fraction. “Monday?” She suggests, her voice tentative.
“It's a date.” Serena rises and then, almost as an afterthought, takes a pen from her bag and writes her number on a napkin. She takes care to ensure that her writing is clear and even; she doesn't want the information to go astray. “Here,” she says. “Just in case.” She holds out the paper to Bernie.
Bernie takes the number with a small smile, folds it carefully and tucks it into the pocket of her running belt. Serena gives her a small wave, turns on her heel and marches off towards her car, resisting the urge to turn and look at the blonde again.
***
Serena hears her mobile beeping as she pushes through the doors of AAU. She roots one handed in her bag, juggling the stack of files with her other arm, until Raf swoops in and rescues her.
“Thanks.”
“No problem.”
Serena extracts her mobile and sees a text from an unfamiliar number.
Hi Serena, it's Bernie. Thought you should have my number too, in case of any further work-related emergencies!
She smiles and taps back a quick response.
Thank you. I really am sorry about yesterday. S xx
She pauses, considers whether she should delete the kisses, whether it seems a bit much. But then she reasons that she finishes all her texts that way, unless the recipient is Guy Self, and it's not as though there is a wrong impression to give to Bernie. She is interested. She is very very interested. She sends the text complete with the kisses.
“Your Good Samaritan?” Raf looks puppyishly excited at the prospect.
“Maybe.”
“Going well then?”
“I hope so.”
***
Her Friday shift is long and full of complex, painstaking surgery. By the time she escapes the hospital it is nearly 9pm and she thinks longingly of a long hot bath and a glass of Shiraz. She reaches the car and pulls out her phone, intending to call Jason to say she's on her way (a subtle hint to put the kettle on), when she sees a text notification from Bernie.
Don't worry about it. These things happen. I enjoyed this morning. Looking forward to doing it again. B x
Serena’s heart flutters a little bit. So she hasn't scared her off.
Me too. Just finished work. In need of wine. S xx
She sends the text and puts the car into gear. She is nearly home when she hears the beep signalling receipt of another message and resists the impulse to check her phone on the move: she’s far too familiar with the consequences of driving while distracted.
She parks in the drive and picks up her phone from the passenger seat.
At this hour? You deserve the wine, or something stronger! B x
Serena smiles and taps quickly.
No rest for the wicked! But I have a bottle of Shiraz with my name on it. S xx
When she enters the house she finds that Jason, bless him, has indeed made her the hoped for cup of tea and she drinks it gratefully, before joining him in the living room. She leaves her phone on the coffee table where she can be certain to see if a text arrives, but it remains silent all through Mary Beard’s latest musings on the Romans and the two glasses of Shiraz she has to accompany them.
Serena is getting ready for bed when she hears her mobile chirrup again. She picks it up from the bedside table, expecting it to be Elinor due to the lateness of the hour.
Sorry. Wasn't ignoring you. Fell asleep in front of the tv. Hope you enjoyed your wine. Sleep well. B x
I did, thank you. Goodnight and sleep well- you clearly need it :) S xx
She replaces her phone on the bedside table, turns off the light, rolls over and falls instantly asleep.
***
Serena usually loves weekends. Loves nothing more than the luxury of a long lie in on a Saturday morning following a Friday night which inevitably involved too much Shiraz; an afternoon curled up with a good book and a cup of tea; and a roast with Jason on a Sunday evening. But this weekend, the weekend after she first meets Bernie, drags interminably.
It drags as she puts away the Waitrose order before lunch on Saturday; drags as she loads washing onto the machine on Sunday morning; drags as she and Jason disagree good naturedly about who’s turn it is to load the dishwasher on Sunday night. Saturday night is a bit better because she and Jason have been invited over for curry with Fletch, Raf and the Fletchlings. The latter at least provide a welcome distraction and she spends much of the evening nestled on the sofa next to Evie, as the latter tells her, earnestly and in great detail, about the boy she fancies in her maths class.
Serena is busy tucking into lamb biryani and saag aloo when her phone bleeps. She hunts in her bag for it, pulls it out and reads the message.
Hope you're having a better Saturday night than me. There's nothing on the telly and I have no whisky in. B x
She smiles and is about to tap out a response when she realises that the rest of the table is staring at her.
“Who's that from then?” Fletch is not one to beat around the bush. “You look very pleased about it.”
Jason finishes cutting his naan into precisely even pieces. “She's been getting texts all day. And she keeps smiling and won't tell me who they're from.”
“That's because it's no-one you know. Any of you.” Serena casts a particular severe glare at Fletch; Raf smirks at her but says nothing.
I'm having curry with friends and Jason. Apparently I keep smiling at texts. I can’t think who they might be from. S xx
Serena knows it's ridiculous to be this, well, smitten, with someone she barely knows. But she can't help it. It’s no use reminding herself that they’ve only had four conversations and one of them was barely worthy of the name. It's fruitless to ponder the fact that she knows nothing about Bernie at all, save her breakfast preferences and that she knows her way around an engine. It's a waste of time to repeat that she isn't even sure whether Bernie is interested in women. Because she knows. Serena knows, somehow, that she understands Bernie, that Bernie understands her, in a way few have ever done. She thinks Bernie's laugh is the most glorious sound she has ever heard. And she is as positive as she can be that Bernie wants her just as much as she wants Bernie.
So she spends her weekend in a state of nervous tension, alternating between frenetic activity and bouts of ennui which lead Jason to ask, mid Sunday evening, whether she is feeling ill. When she tells him that no, she's feeling perfectly alright, he asks if she wouldn't mind leaving the living room, because her restlessness is disrupting his concentration. Countdown is a matter which Jason takes extremely seriously, so, feeling ever so slightly chagrined, she decamps to the study and Hanssen’s latest staffing review. She stares at it for an hour, unable to concentrate and making absolutely no progress, before giving it up as a bad job and going to bed.
***
On Monday morning, Serena wakes brimming with excitement, thrilled with the prospect of seeing Bernie once more. She arrives at Pierre's at 7.50 and finds, to her astonishment, that Bernie is already there and seated at their table, coffee before her, gaze fixed intently on her phone. She is dressed, not in her usual running clothes, but in a pale pink wool coat. Her hair is not hidden below a hat, but might as well have been for the look of it: it is wild and free and messy and Serena once more has the urge to reach and touch it, run her fingers through it.
“Is this seat taken?”
Bernie looks up with a start, her expression softening when she sees Serena. “Hello, you.” Her smile is warm. “I know your coffee preferences but I'm afraid I had to guess at the pastry.”
Serena pulls the paper bag towards her and peeks inside. She smiles at the pain au chocolate. “Perfect, thank you.” She picks up the cup and drinks deeply. Bernie smiles, wraps her gloved hands around her own cup.
“You're looking a bit different this morning.” Serena tears off a piece of the pastry.
“Ah- job interview today.”
“Exciting.”
“Nerve-wracking.” They share a smile.
It is on the tip of Serena’s tongue to ask what the interview is for. She is eager to know more about her new friend- and intrigued as to what former army officers get up to in retirement. But she's still wary of seeming too intrusive, so she ignores the impulse to probe.
Instead she gestures at the newspaper open on the table. “What's happening in the world then?” And they launch into a discussion of the day’s headlines as though they have known one another all their lives.
Nearly half an hour later Serena looks at her watch. “I'm sorry, I’m going to have to get going. I have a meeting to get to at nine.”
“Of course.” Bernie offers her another warm smile. “Look, before you go.” She takes a deep breath and pauses.
“Yes?”
“Would you like to have dinner one evening? Not tonight: it's Charlotte's birthday and we’re going out. But another night?”
“I'd love to have dinner.” Happiness and excitement well up inside Serena. She grins at Bernie and Bernie beams back at her. Serena rises from the table. “I hope the interview goes well,” she says and she leans over to press a soft kiss to Bernie’s cheek.
***
On Monday afternoon, Ric and Serena are dispatched to St James’ for a meeting with the Clinical Commissioning Group about the provision of elective general surgery procedures in Holby. It's the sort of tedious necessity with which NHS management is unfortunately rife. It's also ridiculously long and it's a good three hours before Ric, Serena and Andrew MacLeod, head of General Surgery at St James’, manage to make their escape.
“I swear these things get longer and longer” Andrew grumbles. “Any chance we could skip them and just treat some patients?” Genial and bumbling, Andrew reminds Serena of a young Elliot Hope. He gives them a cheery wave as he departs in the direction of his ward, while Ric and Serena step into the lift.
“Hold the lift please,” calls a voice from behind them. They are joined by a man of medium height with short dark hair who Serena recognises but can't place.
“Ric,” the man says jovially.
“Marcus, good to see you. It’s been far too long.” Ric shakes the man’s hand warmly. “Serena, do you know Marcus Dunn, head of orthopaedics here? Many years ago, when I was a registrar at New Green, he was my house officer. Marcus, this is Serena Campbell, Deputy CEO at Holby.”
“Ms Campbell” Marcus shakes her hand politely. “I think we might have met once at a conference.”
“Of course, I knew I knew you from somewhere.”
“It's a pleasure to see you again.” They reach the ground floor and walk towards the entrance. Marcus surveys the car park. “Ah, there she is.” He turns back to Ric and Serena. “I'm going to have to dash I'm afraid, it's my daughter’s birthday.”
“Wish Charlotte a happy birthday from me.”
“I will Ric, thank you.”
They watch as Marcus crosses the car park and climbs into a waiting car, a grey Mazda MX-5. Serena watches as he climbs in and leans over to kiss the driver on the cheek, before sitting in the passenger seat, giving Serena a clear view of the driver, a woman with familiar messy blonde hair. She is suddenly filled with dread.
“Ric, who’s that in the car with Marcus?”
Ric looks up from his phone to glance at the car. “Marcus’ wife, Bernie. Actually, you probably know of her: she’s Berenice Wolfe, trauma surgeon with the Royal Army Medical Corps. She’s just left the army. Andrew was telling me earlier they've offered her a job here.”
Fuck
Serena stares at the car in bewilderment and shock.
Bernie is married. She's married and she's a bloody trauma surgeon.
Bile rises in her throat and she struggles to contain the tears of anger and confusion that threaten to spill over.
“Right, well, productive meeting, thanks Ric. I must go: I need to get back to AAU.”
And she turns and almost runs across the car park, leaving a confused Ric behind her.
***
Serena drives back to Holby, a maelstrom of emotions, only just managing to concentrate on the road. She sits in the car for several minutes, trying to regain her composure, before striding across the car park and into the hospital. She slips through the door to the ward and walks briskly to her office, shutting the door firmly. She then sinks into her chair, trying to contain her anguish but not entirely succeeding.
Barely thirty seconds later there is a knock.
“Serena?”
Raf. She knows he won't go away: he's too persistent.
“Serena?” He enters the office, shutting the door behind him. “What's wrong?”
She's crying now, full sobs of anger and humiliation.
“Hey.” He crosses the room and wraps her in a hug. “Hey, what's the matter?”
“I saw her at St James’,” Serena mumbles into his shoulder.
“Your coffee date?”
Serena nods.
“Is she a patient?”
Serena shakes her head. “She's Berenice Wolfe.”
“What, the Berenice Wolfe, the army trauma surgeon? What's she doing at St James’?”
“New job apparently. I knew she'd been in the army, Bernie that is, but I had no idea she was a surgeon. I certainly had no idea she was Berenice bloody Wolfe.”
Raf stares at her. “Ok, but, surely it's not that bad? I get that it's a bit of a shock, but her being a surgeon isn't a problem is it? If we didn't date other medics none of us would have a love life at all!”
“She's married Raf.” Serena can't keep the despair from her voice. “I swear I had no idea. I thought, well…”
“I know, I know” he whispers consolingly. “Look, don't jump to conclusions. There might a perfectly reasonable explanation.”
“What possible explanation could there be, Raf?” She snaps. “How do you explain that the woman I had coffee with this morning, who was flirting with me and definitely not wearing a wedding ring, is apparently married to Marcus sodding Dunn?”
Serena would be amused by Raf’s look of confusion, if she wasn't so angry- at Bernie, at the situation, at the fact that she'd met someone so perfect and she turned out to be bloody married.
***
On Tuesday morning, Serena doesn't go to Pierre’s. She doesn't text Bernie either; she doesn't know what to say. At 8.00 am, she is in her office when a text arrives.
Hi Serena, just wondering if you're coming to Pierre’s this morning. No problem if not. B x
Serena deletes the text and goes back to her report, though she suspects none of what she is writing is making any sense.
At 8.30, another text:
I presume there was another work emergency. Let me know you're ok. How is Friday for dinner? B x
Serena deletes the text. She tries very hard to ignore how much she'd been looking forward to dinner.
The staff of AAU tiptoe around her all of morning. She's not sure whether they witnessed her upset the previous afternoon or whether Raf and Fletch have briefed them to tread carefully. Either way, she is torn between gratitude for the care they show her and irritation that it is perceived necessary. She has always tried hard to separate her personal life from the ward and her anger with Bernie only increases at the realisation that she has caused that barrier to collapse. Not that the staff, save Raf (and presumably Fletch) are aware of who has caused their departmental head to react in such a manner.
She buries herself in work, hovering over all the juniors, double checking scans and taking all the procedures. She is in the middle of insisting that yes, she really does need to do Mr Wright’s endoscopy, when Raf takes her by the arm and steers her into the office.
“Serena,” he says when he has closed the door, “slow down.”
“I'm fine.”
“It's 3pm and I've barely done any work today. I haven't set foot in theatre because you’re so busy trying to stop yourself from thinking you won't allow anyone else to pick up a scalpel. I'll do the endoscopy. Go get a cup of tea.”
Chastened, Serena slopes off towards Pulses. She is about to order her usual double shot latte when she is struck by a vivid image of Bernie’s smile as she sat opposite Serena in Pierre’s, thumb brushing a crumb of pastry from her lip. She sighs. Not a latte. She orders a pot of Earl Grey and silently curses Bernie for managing to deprive her of her favourite drink.
***
Wednesday morning brings another confused text from Bernie, which Serena deletes and then attempts, unsuccessfully, to ignore. She can't help but think of the texts she and Bernie had exchanged over the weekend. She can't quite believe that what she had thought, a mere two days ago, was the first heady throes of a new relationship, has descended into chaos quite this quickly and completely.
There is no further communication until Wednesday afternoon. Serena and Raf are in the office, poring over a patient’s test results and debating the best course of action. The noise of a mobile ringing begins to emanate from Serena’s desk drawer.
“Aren't you going to answer that?”
“No.”
“Why?”
Serena sighs. “Because it's her.”
Raf stares at her. “You haven't looked at it. How can you possibly know that?”
“Because that's her ringtone,” Serena mutters.
“That's her…” Raf sits down heavily on the desk. “You've really got it bad haven't you?”
Serena nods miserably. “I, she, I thought…”
Raf pats her on the hand.
The mobile signals the arrival of a voicemail message. Serena extracts the phone from the drawer, dials through to her voicemail and deletes the message without listening to it.
Raf raises an eyebrow. “Don't you think you ought to listen to what she has to say?”
“What's the point? There's nothing she can say."
***
On Thursday morning, there is no text. Serena is torn between relief that she doesn't need to deal with Bernie any more, and disappointment that she has apparently given up so easily.
She is morose all day, her mood not helped by a run-in with Guy over the research budget and a new F1 with the bedside manner of a porcupine.
Raf catches her in her office, just as she’s getting ready to go home.
“So, shall I meet you there or would you like me to pick you up?”
Serena stares at him blankly.
“Tonight.”
“Tonight?” Serena repeats, confused.
“The fundraising gala? Three line whip from Hanssen for department heads? I'm going as your plus one?”
Serena’s heart sinks. Of course. The annual ‘hobnob with the local great and the good to attract money for medical research’ extravaganza. Serena’s attendance is mandatory, not only as department head and deputy CEO, but because Hanssen regards her as his most valuable asset in the fund raising stakes. Nobody, he had reminded her several weeks previously when he had issued the ‘invitation’ can work a room full of dull monied suits like Serena. He is expecting her to talk and flirt and generally charm the attendees out of their money.
And really, it's the kind of thing she is very very good at. Serena is charisma personified, relishes her ability to beguile others, to have them eating out of the palm of her hand. It's a skill she puts to unashamed good use, whether in the service of her own purposes or the hospital’s.
But today, she really, really isn't in the mood. The absolute last thing she wants to do after a long, frustrating day of infuriating colleagues and incompetent juniors, is to don an evening gown and eat lukewarm canapés. She wants to go home, climb into her warmest, fluffiest, least sexy pyjamas and drink a bottle of Shiraz in front of something depressing.
She sighs. “I’d completely forgotten. Can you pick me up? I think I'm going to need a glass of wine or two.”
“Sure.”
“Better get home and get my glad rags on.”
***
The fundraiser isn’t as bad as Serena had feared. Two glasses of champagne have improved her mood considerably and she has charmed sufficient donations out of wealthy pockets to earn herself a break. She casts about for Raf, and spies him trapped in conversation with Guy.
Stealing herself for a mission of mercy, she procures two further glasses of wine and approaches them.
“So, Mr Di Lucca, where is Mr Fletcher this evening?” Guy makes only minimal efforts to hide his sneer.
“He’s at home with the kids”
“Did he not fancy joining you?”
“I’m sure he’d have been delighted to, but as the invitation list is consultants only, I’m afraid it wasn’t an option. I’m only here because Ms Campbell needed someone to serve as her arm candy.”
Serena snorts into her champagne. “Come on then Mr Di Lucca, let me show you off on the dance floor.”
She takes him by the arm and steers him towards the dancing. It's fun, even if Raf is a perfectly atrocious dancer; he’s a good friend and his company is restful after the stress of the previous few days.
“Can we sit down?” Raf asks some time later. “My feet are killing me.”
“Isn’t that supposed to be my line?” Serena quips. “Go and find a table; I'll get us another drink.”
She is halfway to the bar when she spots her.
Bernie.
She is dressed in an ankle length sheath of black silk, bias cut and perfectly fitted. It hangs in spaghetti straps from her shoulders, exposing the hollows of her collar bones, flowing over the swell of her curves, skimming her bust and her hips. She looks beautiful.
She is dancing with Marcus: his hand on her waist; hers on his shoulder. Serena watches as he leans in to whisper something in Bernie’s ear and Bernie throws back her head in mirth, the ridiculous honk of a laugh resonating through the ballroom.
Serena turns on her heel and flees.
She makes it to the foyer of the hotel before Raf catches up with her.
“I take it that was her?”
She nods, not trusting herself to speak.
Raf says nothing, simply enfolds Serena in an embrace and hugs her tightly, pressing a kiss to her hair. “Better?”
She nods against his shoulder. “I'd probably better go and fix my makeup.”
Raf pulls back a little and eyes her critically. “Not too bad” he says, swiping a tear from her cheek. “I'll go and get the car.”
Serena turns towards the ladies, only to come face to face with Bernie. Their eyes meet and for a perfect, wonderful moment, the rest of the world disappears and it’s just the two of them.
“Serena” Bernie says hoarsely. And Serena watches as Bernie’s eyes rake over her body, sees the other woman take in the deep ‘V’ of the neckline, allowing her eyes to linger on Serena’s cleavage. Desire is plainly visible in Bernie’s eyes and Serena wonders fleetingly whether Bernie sees that desire reflected back at her in Serena’s own expression.
Serena doesn't say anything; can't say anything. And before she manages to formulate a coherent sentence, Bernie sprints away in the direction of the ballroom. Serena stares after her in confusion, and then retreats to the Ladies’ to repair her appearance.
When she emerges ten minutes later into the foyer, she almost walks into Andrew MacLeod.
“Serena!” He kisses her on the cheek. “You look ravishing.”
“Thank you Andrew. You look very handsome.”
He quirks an eyebrow at her. “I'm not a benefactor you need to flatter Serena.” He looks down at his rather rotund belly, the buttons of his dress shirt straining. “I left the realms of handsome long ago, unlike the young man I saw on your arm earlier.”
“Raf is a dear friend but very much bats for the other team these days.”
“Really?”
“Don't get ideas- he's also very much taken.”
“Ah, the good ones always are.”
The door to the cloakroom opens and a couple emerge. Bernie is wearing her pink wool coat; her face bears signs of recent tears. Marcus has an arm around her waist and is talking to her quietly as he escorts her through the front door.
“Such a shame,” Andrew says as he watches them leave.
“What do you mean?”
“Marcus and Bernie. It's such a shame they've split up.”
Serena gapes at him.
“Didn't you know? Yes, the divorce was finalised last week. Not much for it really, once Bernie realised she, how did you put it, ‘bats for the other team’. Still, it's nice they're still friends. Good for Cameron and Charlotte.”
“Yes” Serena says vaguely. “Yes, it must be. I'm sorry Andrew, I really need to find Raf.”
She gives him a quick wave and exits the hotel as fast as her uncomfortably high heels allow for. But there is no sign of Bernie or Marcus in the car park. Just Raf, hovering near the entrance, ready to drive her home.
***
Serena wakes on Friday morning to a dry mouth and a thumping head courtesy of several glasses of champagne rounded off with most of a bottle of Shiraz after she got home. She can hear the sound of Jason in the shower and knows it must be around 7.15. She heaves herself out of bed and into the en suite, where she brushes her teeth, drinks three glasses of water and take the paracetamol she finds in the bathroom cabinet. Then she falls back into bed, grateful that she’d had the foresight to rota herself off that day.
But try as she might, sleep will not come: her brain is awash with confusion. Part of her is mentally doing cartwheels: Bernie isn't married, after all. But Serena had cut communication so comprehensively, it hardly seems likely that Bernie would want to speak to her again. But surely it's worth a try? What have you got to lose? Women like Bernie Wolfe: brilliant, brave, beautiful women, do not fall into Serena’s lap every day of the week. All the same, Serena can't escape a niggle of doubt. Why didn't she tell me about Marcus?
Serena groans with frustration, rolls over and buries her head under the pillow.
***
On Saturday Serena takes night shift. It's an unpopular slot and one consultants usually avoid, but Serena feels it's only fair to the rest of the staff for her to do the odd few antisocial hours.
No sooner has she hung up her coat than Raf barrels through the door.
“Have you called her?”
“Good evening to you too.”
Raf makes an impatient noise. “Have you called her?”
“No. And I'm not sure I'm going to.”
“Why on earth not?”
“Because she probably hates me: I wouldn't blame her if she did. And because even if she isn't married any more, she still lied. Why didn't she tell me?”
Raf eyes her skeptically. “This isn't about why Bernie didn't divulge her marital history. This is about your hurt pride. And that's a stupid reason not to call her. “
“Is it?”
“Yes! Serena, you were practically skipping in here last week you were so head over heels about this woman. Don't let her get away. Do something about it.”
“Ok, ok. I will.”
Raf waits expectantly.
“What? Now?”
“Yes. So I know it's actually happened.”
“Alright, alright.” Serena digs her mobile out of her bag, hits contacts and scrolls through to Bernie’s name. She waits while the call connects, unsurprised that it rings through to voicemail: she hadn't really expected Bernie to answer.
“Bernie, it's Serena. Look, I'm sorry about last week. I, well I had my reasons. I'd like to try and explain. Could you call me? Thanks.”
She tosses the phone onto the desk. “Happy?”
“Very.”
***
Having almost resolved not to attempt to contact Bernie, once she actually does so, Serena is desperate for Bernie to respond. She spends the next three days leaping to attention every time her phone rings, or a text arrives. She even answers calls from unknown numbers in case it's her. It isn't of course.
By Tuesday evening, Serena accepts that Bernie is not going to call. She goes to Albie’s with Raf and Fletch and gets spectacularly drunk.
***
On the following Saturday, Serena wakes to an empty house. Jason is at Alan’s for the weekend and she has nobody to please but herself. She can feel the after effects of the previous night’s post shift drinks: nothing terrible, but her head is a little fuzzy and her stomach a little queasy. What she needs, she realises, what she really really needs, is a latte and a pain au chocolat from Pierre’s.
And really, she reasons, as she showers, dresses, climbs into the car and navigates her way through the Saturday morning traffic, she has no reason not to go to Pierre’s. It's her favourite cafe: it would be ridiculous to avoid it forever. It's probably safe on a Saturday anyway. Bernie isn't likely to be there. And if she is, well, it wouldn't be the end of the world.
Serena is in the queue when she spots her, in her ridiculously tight lycra, wending her way across the floor of the cafe, her eyes intent on her phone. She looks spectacular and Serena feels her mouth dry.
Heart hammering, Serena takes a step towards her. “Bernie.”
Bernie looks up, her face betraying her shock before she schools her features into a more neutral expression. She nods. “Serena.”
“Could we talk?”
“I don’t think there’s anything to say Serena.” Bernie’s tone is icy; Serena is suddenly very glad she was never a misbehaving soldier under Major Wolfe’s command.
“Please. I’d like to apologise. Could we just, take a seat, over there?” Serena points to a table in the corner and Bernie gives a reluctant nod.
When they’re seated, Serena takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry for giving you the silent treatment. I saw you and Marcus together at St James’” she offers. “It was the day you asked me out to dinner. You were picking him up and Ric said you were married. I thought, well, I assumed, you’d lied to me.”
Serena ventures a glimpse at Bernie. Her expression is impassive.
“It was an honest mistake. I…Could you, that is…I like you Bernie. I more than like you.” Serena reaches across the table, her fingertips brushing the back of Bernie’s hand.
Bernie snorts and snatches her hand away. “Well you managed to get over me remarkably quickly if that’s the case.”
“I'm sorry?”
“I saw you Serena.” Bernie’s voice is quiet and strained. “At the gala. Dancing with him, and then afterwards.”
Serena stares at her. “You think- me and Raf?”
“He was all over you.”
“Well he's a very good looking man” Serena fires off before her brain can regulate her mouth.
Bernie huffs.
“He's also my registrar,” Serena adds.
“Well you wouldn't be the first!”
“He's gay.”
Bernie’s head whips up to look at Serena.
“He’s practically married to my ward manager.”
Bernie’s expression softens from shock into a smile. “Really?”
Serena smiles back and reaches across the table; this time Bernie allows Serena to take her hand. “They have four children.”
Bernie bursts into laughter and Serena can't help but join her.
“So,” Bernie says when she's recovered her composure. “You and Raf, you're not…”
Serena shakes her head. “Definitely not.” She pauses, weighs her words carefully. “And even if he were single, and straight, I still wouldn't be interested.”
Bernie looks up at Serena, hope and fear in her eyes. “And why is that?”
Serena runs her thumb across the back of Bernie’s hand. “Because I find I’ve developed very particular tastes recently.”
Bernie’s mouth quirks into the tiniest hint of a smile. “Really?”
“Really,” Serena confirms. “Beautiful blonde trauma surgeons with messy hair.” She finally gives into temptation and reaches out to brush a strand from Bernie’s eyes. “Besides,” she adds with an impish grin, “I doubt he looks as good as you do in lycra.”
Bernie grins, and for several long moments they smile at one another, not speaking. Then Bernie’s eyes flicker downwards to Serena’s mouth. Serena leans in and then hesitates, giving Bernie time to back away; willing her not to. She doesn’t move. Serena closes the distance between them.
Their first kiss is soft, chaste, a barely discernible touch of the lips.
Their second, which Bernie initiates five seconds later, is passionate, raw and leaves them panting for breath.
They get the coffee to-go.