Second Thoughts

There was a chair that was obviously his, pulled up near the fire with a remote-control unit on an old oak table beside it. A large grey cat with unblinking emerald-green eyes stared at her from its depths, then tucked his nose in his paws again and went back to sleep. Blu-Tack, obviously.

She chose the chair on the other side of the fireplace and sat down, almost vanishing into its welcome embrace.

Bliss. She kicked off her shoes, tucked her tired feet up under her bottom and fell instantly asleep.

He was quite surprised at how right she looked, sitting curled up in the other chair with her head resting on one hand like that. Her wrist was bent, so he carefully eased her arm down and replaced it with a cushion.

It didn’t disturb her. Her grey eyes fluttered open for a second, she made a funny little noise and snuggled further down, and then was still again.

Andrew scooped Blu-Tack off the chair opposite and settled himself into it, the cat on his lap, and touched the remote control. Soft music flooded the room, and he rested his head back and relaxed, content to watch her sleep.

There was something strangely intimate about it that touched him, deep inside. It surprised him, just as her Tightness here had surprised him.

He hadn’t meant to issue the invitation. It was quite out of character, but perhaps it was time to break out a little. Oh, true, he’d taken her out for the occasional drink, but he’d never kissed her goodnight — unless you counted a peck on her sweetly scented cheek. He supposed it was in part a reluctance to disturb the balance of their working relationship, a relationship that had meant a great deal to him in the six months since he had taken up his consultancy.

The children’s outpatients sister was one of the most important people on the team, and he had come to rely very heavily on her. Apart from her background knowledge of many of the patients, her gentle efficiency and firm kindness had to be seen to be believed. She would be a wonderful mother — was a wonderful mother, he corrected himself, thinking of the serious, intelligent but delightful child asleep upstairs.

While Jennifer dozed, he had cooked Tim a prawn omelette with salad and a microwaved jacket potato — Tim’s choice. Another surprise. Andrew had been quite prepared to do fish fingers and beans and chips, but the child had looked doubtful — not rude enough to decline, but definitely not enthusiastic. Andrew had asked him to choose, given him a list of possibilities and that was what he’d selected.

‘We don’t have chips and things like that at home,’ Tim had told him guilelessly. Only when I go out for the weekend with Dad. I don’t like them much.’

Interesting. Andrew had filed it for future reference. Likewise the business of the bath.

‘Do you usually have a bath before you go to bed?’ he’d asked.

‘Mum always makes me. Dad doesn’t.’

‘I think you’d better have one, then,’ Andrew had said, and put that in the file, too.

After Andrew tucked him into bed in the little room overlooking the orchard, he had left him reading for a little while and gone downstairs to prepare a meal for himself and Jennifer. When he’d gone back up half an hour later, Tim was asleep, his book still in his hand.

Andrew had looked at it and was surprised at how advanced it was, well beyond Tim’s seven years. He stroked the soft brown hair back off his little brow, tucked the quilt in round his slight shoulders and then turned down the light, leaving a soft glow in case he woke. Then he had gone down to Jennifer.

As he watched her sleep, a curious contentment stole over him, together with a touch of regret because he knew that when they went back the house would seem empty. For now, however, it was just exactly right, and he would enjoy the moment and let tomorrow take care of itself.

Jennifer woke to soft lights and the haunting sound of a flute — and pins and needles in her right foot.

She straightened up and blinked. ‘Oh — you shouldn’t have let me sleep,’ she said, embarrassed.

‘You were tired.’

‘But Tim ——’

‘Tim’s in bed. He’s had supper and a bath, and he’s out for the count.’

She dropped her head back against the chair. ‘Oh. Thank you. You shouldn’t have done all that.’

‘I’m pampering you, remember?’

His smile was kindly teasing. She returned it, then winced as the circulation came back into her foot.

‘Pins and needles?’ he guessed, and she nodded, wriggling it. He turned the cat off his knee and crouched in front of her, taking her foot in his large, warm hands and massaging it gently.

‘Ow,’ she mumbled.

‘Hell, isn’t it? How’s that?’

She felt suddenly uncomfortable with this big man kneeling at her feet.

‘Better, thank you,’ she told him and almost snatched it out of his hands, further embarrassed by the growl from her stomach.

‘Hungry?’ he asked with a smile.

‘Apparently.’ She laughed a little awkwardly.

‘Supper’s ready when you are. There’s a cloakroom at the bottom of the stairs if you want to freshen up.’

She looked dreadful, she thought as she looked at herself in the mirror. Her hair was tousled, her cheeks were flushed and crumpled from the cushion and she looked — wanton was the nearest she could come up with, and it unsettled her.

She splashed her face with cold water and went back into the big farmhouse-style kitchen, where Andrew was just setting the huge old refectory table.

‘OK?’

She nodded, avoiding his eyes. ‘Can I do anything?’

‘Eat,’ he said with a grin.

It was no hardship. The meal was wonderful, a seafood concoction with mushrooms and a delicious creamy sauce under the lightest, fluffiest mashed potato she had ever tasted. It was served with fresh sprouting broccoli and glazed carrots, both homegrown, he told her.

‘Where did you learn to cook like that?’ she asked him, replete, as she sat at the table under orders not to move and watched him clear up.

He laughed. ‘Self-defence. I can’t stand canteen food and I can’t afford a housekeeper. Anyway, I enjoy it. Coffee?’

‘Mmm. Can I —— ?’

‘No. Go and sit down, I’ll be with you in a tick.’

‘Actually, I think I’ll go up and check on Tim, if you really don’t need my help.’

‘Top of the stairs, turn left and follow your nose. He’s in the little bedroom at the end.’

‘OK.’ She ran lightly up the stairs, noticing as she went the higgledy-piggledy collection of pictures on the walls, etchings and pen and ink drawings and little watercolours, the occasional photograph, an oil on wood. There was no theme, except perhaps the straightforward one of personal choice, pictures collected for no better reason than that he liked them. And what better reason was there?

She found Tim, his cheek cradled on his hand, fast asleep in a wonderful old captain’s bed, the forerunner by some hundred years of the modern chipboard equivalent. His lashes dark against his pale cheeks, he looked terribly vulnerable and very small. He also looked as if he belonged in this room, with its distinctly Boys’ Own flavour.

She brushed a kiss on his cheek, whispered ‘Goodnight,’ and tiptoed out.

‘OK?’