happened.’
He nodded, kissed her cheek and left her there, getting back into the car and driving away, his eyes on the rear-view mirror until he couldn’t see her house any longer.
Colleagues. What a curiously unpalatable thought.
‘Oh, Kitty, how could I be so stupid? I’ve gone and fallen in love with him,’ she told the cat. Scooping her up, she sat down on the sofa and tried to cuddle her, but the cat was hungry and not having any of it, so she fed her, unpacked her suitcase and hung up Amy’s dress.
The pashmina was crumpled, but she put it on a hanger and sorted out her washing, started the first load off and then emptied the dishwasher, cleaned the kitchen and got the vacuum cleaner out. She’d be fine if she kept busy, she told herself, but then she realised she couldn’t see, so she gave up, had a howl, blew her nose and made a cup of tea and went to phone Amy.
She’d be gagging to know how it had gone, but she’d only get a very edited version of the truth, and she could always talk about Will. Amy would be fascinated.
Except Amy wasn’t there. Amy was obviously out havingsome fun of her own, and so Libby put the phone back in the cradle and flicked through the television channels.
Nothing. There was never anything on, and in the middle of a Sunday there was hardly going to be anything riveting. A film she’d seen dozens of times, some sheepdog trials—she threw the remote control down in disgust and went out to the kitchen, dragged the washing out of the machine, loaded it with the next lot and carried the pile of wet clothes upstairs to hang in her bathroom—because, of course, today it was raining.
April showers, torrents of rain falling like stair-rods, hammering on the windows and bouncing off the roof of her little conservatory. Nothing would dry outside today, and precious little would dry inside. And she’d let it drift for too long.
Oh, damn, she thought, and decided to have a bath. A nice long, hot soak, a cup of tea and a book. And who cared if it was the middle of the day?
‘How’s he been?’
‘Good.’ The PICU charge nurse talked him through the charts, and he went and spoke to the parents—exhausted, drained, but still fighting—and bent over the bed with a smile.
‘Hi, Jacob. How are you doing?’ he asked, although the boy was unconscious and on a ventilator. ‘I’m just going to have a look at you, see what’s going on here.’
He scanned the monitors, examined the damaged limbs for swelling, checked the pulse in his feet and nodded. ‘His legs and pelvis are looking good,’ he said to the parents.
‘Do you think so?’ Jacob’s mother Tracy said, hope in her voice. ‘We can’t really tell, but his toes are nice and pink and he’s been—I don’t know, quieter, somehow. More as if he’s resting, more comfortable.’
He felt the tension ease a fraction. Not completely, he would never become complacent, but Jacob seemed more stable.
‘He’s making progress. I’m happier with him than I was before the weekend, and I think we’ll get a good result.’
Then he headed to the ward and had a chat to the boys, checked with the nursing staff that they had no problems or queries and then left the ward, hurrying to get back out into the fresh air again, restless and uncertain about how to fill the rest of the day.
Which was absurd, because he had a mountain of paperwork to deal with on his desk at home, his laundry was in no better a situation than Libby’s—although to be fair that was because he hadn’t got round to dropping it into the dry cleaner’s for them to deal with—and he ought to go to the supermarket before it shut at four.
He’d do that first.
He must be crazy.
Andrew sat at the end of Libby’s little cul-de-sac and stared at her house pensively. He’d told her the situation, told her he didn’t want a relationship, and he didn’t, he really didn’t, so why the hell was he here, hovering outside like some kind of
He nodded, kissed her cheek and left her there, getting back into the car and driving away, his eyes on the rear-view mirror until he couldn’t see her house any longer.
Colleagues. What a curiously unpalatable thought.
‘Oh, Kitty, how could I be so stupid? I’ve gone and fallen in love with him,’ she told the cat. Scooping her up, she sat down on the sofa and tried to cuddle her, but the cat was hungry and not having any of it, so she fed her, unpacked her suitcase and hung up Amy’s dress.
The pashmina was crumpled, but she put it on a hanger and sorted out her washing, started the first load off and then emptied the dishwasher, cleaned the kitchen and got the vacuum cleaner out. She’d be fine if she kept busy, she told herself, but then she realised she couldn’t see, so she gave up, had a howl, blew her nose and made a cup of tea and went to phone Amy.
She’d be gagging to know how it had gone, but she’d only get a very edited version of the truth, and she could always talk about Will. Amy would be fascinated.
Except Amy wasn’t there. Amy was obviously out havingsome fun of her own, and so Libby put the phone back in the cradle and flicked through the television channels.
Nothing. There was never anything on, and in the middle of a Sunday there was hardly going to be anything riveting. A film she’d seen dozens of times, some sheepdog trials—she threw the remote control down in disgust and went out to the kitchen, dragged the washing out of the machine, loaded it with the next lot and carried the pile of wet clothes upstairs to hang in her bathroom—because, of course, today it was raining.
April showers, torrents of rain falling like stair-rods, hammering on the windows and bouncing off the roof of her little conservatory. Nothing would dry outside today, and precious little would dry inside. And she’d let it drift for too long.
Oh, damn, she thought, and decided to have a bath. A nice long, hot soak, a cup of tea and a book. And who cared if it was the middle of the day?
‘How’s he been?’
‘Good.’ The PICU charge nurse talked him through the charts, and he went and spoke to the parents—exhausted, drained, but still fighting—and bent over the bed with a smile.
‘Hi, Jacob. How are you doing?’ he asked, although the boy was unconscious and on a ventilator. ‘I’m just going to have a look at you, see what’s going on here.’
He scanned the monitors, examined the damaged limbs for swelling, checked the pulse in his feet and nodded. ‘His legs and pelvis are looking good,’ he said to the parents.
‘Do you think so?’ Jacob’s mother Tracy said, hope in her voice. ‘We can’t really tell, but his toes are nice and pink and he’s been—I don’t know, quieter, somehow. More as if he’s resting, more comfortable.’
He felt the tension ease a fraction. Not completely, he would never become complacent, but Jacob seemed more stable.
‘He’s making progress. I’m happier with him than I was before the weekend, and I think we’ll get a good result.’
Then he headed to the ward and had a chat to the boys, checked with the nursing staff that they had no problems or queries and then left the ward, hurrying to get back out into the fresh air again, restless and uncertain about how to fill the rest of the day.
Which was absurd, because he had a mountain of paperwork to deal with on his desk at home, his laundry was in no better a situation than Libby’s—although to be fair that was because he hadn’t got round to dropping it into the dry cleaner’s for them to deal with—and he ought to go to the supermarket before it shut at four.
He’d do that first.
He must be crazy.
Andrew sat at the end of Libby’s little cul-de-sac and stared at her house pensively. He’d told her the situation, told her he didn’t want a relationship, and he didn’t, he really didn’t, so why the hell was he here, hovering outside like some kind of
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