The Ideal Choice
Author
Caroline Anderson
Reads
19.0K
Chapters
10
Chapter 1
IT WAS an easy house to find. Even if the directions hadn’t been so clear, she would have had no difficulty in picking it out from the others in the pleasant, tree-lined little road, because the occupants were running amok.
It was a scene of utter chaos. There were bags all over the pavement, children seemed to be everywhere and the car doors were hanging open and obstructing the path. A young black dog of indeterminate origin and with the most enormous feet bounced around amongst the children, lolling tongue flying, clearly delighted with their company.
Tricia didn’t want to add to the confusion so she switched off her engine and settled back to watch, a smile edging round her lips as the scene unfolded.
It was clearly the aftermath of a major supermarket raid. A pair of long legs stuck out of the back of the big estate, and as she watched a man emerged with yet another child in his arms, stepped back and straightened up.
Lord, he was huge! Not only tall, but big, his body solid, his shoulders broad and heavily muscled. He wasn’t fat—far from it. Just built like a powerhouse. Tricia stared in fascination as he juggled several bags, the sleeping child and the car keys all at once.
‘Hey, you lot, come and give me a hand,’ he called, but he was ignored. With a sigh Tricia opened her car door and climbed out. If she could do nothing else, she could carry shopping bags. God knows she’d had enough practice.
The sleepy child was now snuggled against her father’s shoulder, his arm bulging as he hefted both her and three shopping bags. The other arm was soon reladen and he set off across the lawn towards the side of the house, keys now trapped between his teeth.
‘Mark, open the door, please,’ he called round the keys, but yet again he was ignored. The two children, a boy and a girl, ran towards the garden gate, both laughing, and then the boy ran through and slammed the gate behind him.
The scream ripped right through Tricia. She froze and watched as the man shed the keys and the shopping and sprinted to the gate, the little one still cradled in one arm, and crouched beside the screaming girl.
Tricia could hear him trying to soothe her, but by the sound of it he was failing dismally. After a moment she realised why.
The girl’s finger was stuck in the catch of the gate, and her frenzied and hysterical attempts to remove it were just making things worse.
‘He shut me in!’ the girl was sobbing. ‘Mark did it!’
‘I’m sure it wasn’t on purpose,’ the big man soothed, and hugged the child’s trembling shoulders up against his chest. ‘Hush, love. Mark, get me the pliers from the shed,’ he ordered briskly, then went back to his soothing—or tried.
The other child had woken by now, wiggled out of his arms and was using his back as an assault course. Tricia watched as the skinny little arms circled his neck and were used to lever her up, to the accompaniment of his choked protests.
One huge, hair-strewn hand came up and gently disentangled the arms from his windpipe, then resumed the steady stroking of the older girl’s hair.
At that moment Mark came running back, his face ashen with guilt and remorse. ‘I can’t reach,’ he said frantically.
The man tried to stand, but the little girl screamed again. ‘Don’t leave me, Daddy!’ she wailed, and he dropped back to his haunches beside her, his face echoing his frustration.
‘Stand on something,’ he suggested abruptly to the boy.
‘But I can’t—’
The baby, fed up with being ignored, was on her way up his back again, arms round the throat as before. ‘You’ll have to try,’ he croaked, and prised the little one off his windpipe again. ‘Bibby, go and help Mark.’
She shook her head, dislodging a hair ribbon and sending it flying to land at Tricia’s feet.
It seemed to free her from her trance.
Stooping to pick the ribbon up, she walked up to him, standing on the other side of the gate and looking down on him and his children. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ she offered quietly.
He tipped his head back and a grateful sigh escaped him. ‘What are you—an angel?’
She laughed softly. ‘No, just a good Samaritan. Can I help your son get the pliers?’
‘Would you? You’ll have to climb over the gate, I’m afraid.’
‘Easily done,’ she said, and hitching up her long, soft skirt, she swung one leg over, careful not to touch the gate, and then brought the other leg over to join it. Bibby was about to climb her father’s back again. ‘Shall I take the little one with me?’ Tricia suggested. ‘She could help us.’
His relief was palpable. “Thanks. Bibby, go with the lady, please—all right, Emmy; we are trying.’ He tipped back his head. ‘The pliers, if you could?’
‘Of course.’ She whisked Bibby onto her hip, grasped Mark’s hand and marched down the path, the dog bouncing at their feet. ‘Now, where’s this shed?’
‘Here, in the garden. They’re on the top shelf,’ Mark added as they entered the gloomy little shed.
‘Up here?’
He nodded, and Tricia leant forwards over the untidy workbench and stared at the tool rack. No pliers. Now why didn’t that surprise her?
She took the oilcan out of Bibby’s hand and stepped back a little, scanning the mess in front of her. There they were, the red handles poking out from under a saw and a length of timber.
She picked them up, righted a can of paint and returned to the front garden, followed by the dog who was now trotting along with a paintbrush in his mouth. ‘Here—are these the ones?’
The man’s face lightened with relief. ‘Wonderful. Now, if you could just steady her finger while I get this bit here—there we are, sweetheart. All over now.’
He dropped the pliers, gathered Emma up against his chest and hugged her while she sobbed. Over the little girl’s dark, glossy head he smiled faintly. ‘Thanks. Right, I suppose I ought to put them all back in the car and take them up to Casualty so we can get this X-rayed.’
Tricia tried to help. ‘Why don’t you leave the other two and the shopping with me and take Emma?’
For a moment she thought he was going to agree, but then something happened in his eyes and his expression became shuttered and remote. He shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think so. I’ll manage.’
‘Because I’m a stranger?’
He looked uncomfortable, but met her eyes, his expression determined. ‘I never leave my children with people I don’t know very well.’
Tricia smiled. ‘Then that’s not a problem, because you do know me, actually—or of me, at least. I’m Tricia Page. I’m taking over from Linsey while she’s on maternity leave. And you’re Rhys.’
He looked faintly stunned. ‘You’re Tricia?’
‘That’s right.’ She held out her hand. ‘It’s good to meet you at last. I’ve heard a lot about you.’
He laughed. ‘Likewise. Hello, Tricia—and thank you,’ he said fervently. His hand engulfed hers, and she felt the shiver of awareness run through her skin like quicksilver. Then he released her and despite the late July heat her hand felt cold and very alone. ‘If you don’t mind, I will take you up on that offer,’ he was saying. ‘The last thing they need in Casualty is the entire tribe. I’ll open the house for you. Doodle! Come here, boy.’
The black dog bounced up, tongue lolling, the paintbrush abandoned in favour of some other game, and Rhys rounded up the other two children and escorted them all towards the back door, Emma quietly watching and sucking her finger from her vantage point on his hip.
He patted his pockets to no avail, then sighed.
‘I don’t suppose you have any idea where I dropped the keys?’ he said hopefully.
Tricia handed them to him. ‘They were on the lawn.’
He grinned ruefully and twisted the key in the lock, then shoved the door open. ‘Sorry about the chaos. Come in.’
Chaos? She nearly laughed. And she’d thought the scene outside was bad!
‘Um—I’ll put the kettle on for you,’ he offered, but the kettle wouldn’t fit under the tap because the sink was piled high with pans, and Emma started to whimper.
‘You go,’ she said to him firmly. ‘We’ll cope.’
He eyed her doubtfully, clearly torn. ‘Are you sure you can cope?’
Better than you, she nearly said, but she bit her tongue. ‘We’ll be fine,’ she soothed, and shooed him out with a smile.
The dog whined, Mark looked silent and withdrawn and Bibby’s lip began to wobble. Great, Tricia decided. She’d better distract the toddler first. ‘Oh, look at this—is this your toy?’ she asked, crouching down and retrieving a forgotten, vile-coloured plastic telephone from under the table.
Bibby grabbed it from her. ‘Mine,’ she said round her thumb, and slid to the ground out of Tricia’s grasp.
‘Shall we put it with your other toys?’ Tricia suggested.
Bibby turned and trotted off, and Tricia followed, trailed by Mark and the dog.
The sitting room looked like a bombsite. Toys, cushions, half a glass of orange juice, an apple core, professional journals and early-reading books—all were strewn across every surface.
With the efficiency born of years of practice, Tricia scooped and plumped and straightened and wiped, and within seconds the place looked at least tidy, if not immaculate.
The dog immediately climbed onto the settee. ‘Hey, you! Down!’ she said firmly, and the dog slid guiltily onto the floor, tail wiggling sideways in appeasement. She patted him, and immediately he perked up and looked his wicked young self again.
‘He’s not allowed on the furniture,’ Mark said, ‘but he sneaks on if Dad’s not in here.’
Tricia smiled. ‘I’ll bet. He’s a lovely dog—what is he?’
‘A labradoodle.’
She laughed. ‘A what?’
‘Labradoodle. That’s why we call him Doodle. His mum was a labrador and his dad was a standard poodle.’
‘Hence labradoodle. I see. Obvious, really.’ She tugged the dog’s soft, floppy ears and he grinned ingratiatingly at her. ‘You’re a wicked chap, aren’t you, Doodle?’
The tail thumped.
‘Dad says he’s our nanny, like the dog in Peter Pan. He takes us for walks.’
At that the dog’s ears pricked, but Tricia shook her head. ‘Sorry, old man, not just now. We’ve got jobs to do. The shopping’s still outside.’
‘I’ve got a train-set in the garage we can play with,’ Mark told her as they went back to the disaster kitchen, clearly hoping to distract her with an irresistible offer.
‘Have you? My brothers had one. Perhaps we’ll play with it later if you like.’
‘No,’ Bibby said. ‘Horrid trains.’
‘She just takes the hump because I won’t let her touch it,’ Mark said with the bored condescension of a child twice his age. Tricia hid a smile.
‘Really? Well, perhaps you could let her do something, if she was very careful.’
‘She wouldn’t be. She’s a girl,’ Mark said with scorn.
‘I’m careful with things, and I’m a girl.’
Mark looked at her doubtfully. ‘You’re a grown-up. It’s different.’
She picked up a pan and tipped cold water and a few strands of over-swollen spaghetti down the sink, and closed her eyes. Different indeed. She had to wash up—he didn’t.
She opened the back door and went out into the garden to collect the scattered shopping bags. It was a scorching hot day, of course. She just hoped the frozen foods weren’t all melted from standing in the midday sun.
Mark trailed beside her and she handed him a bag. He looked at it in amazement. ‘What’s that for?’ he asked blankly.
‘To take into the kitchen—to help me.’
He stared at her as if she’d sprouted horns, opened his mouth and then shut it again and trailed after her once more. She set the bags down, checked on Bibby and the dog and went back for the next lot. Mark didn’t come this time. Instead he ambled up the garden, kicking a stone, and went behind the shed.
Seconds later she heard a rope swing creak. So much for her helper.
The shopping was harder to deal with than the dishwasher would be, but there was nowhere to stack the shopping until she’d dealt with the washing-up. She cleared the sink waste, tipped out the other pans and rinsed them, then emptied the dishwasher and restacked it with the dishes and pans strewn around the worktops.
When it was humming nicely and the surfaces were clear, she unpacked the bags onto the worktops in what seemed like the right area, although it was hard to tell because the cupboards were all but bare. The fridge and freezer were suffering the same malady. It seemed that the shopping trip had been somewhat overdue.
She put the mostly still frozen things into the freezer and the fresh food in the fridge, then took the food out of the fridge again, stripped out the original contents, chucked half of them out and wiped the racks, then restacked the reduced contents into the clean cabinet.
He was busy, she kept reminding herself. He was holding down a difficult job, keeping his family of three children together entirely without help and maintaining the house into the bargain. So what if the sink was full of spaghetti and the fridge had cholera? The kids looked well, he looked shattered and they were all still together after two years.
No mean achievement
She had left a thawed pizza out while the oven heated, and now she popped it in on a reasonably clean oven tray, knocked up a quick salad and went to find Bibby.
She was in the sitting room, sprawled over the dog on the settee, both of them fast asleep.
Or more or less. The dog cracked an eye open, thumped his tail once and went back to sleep, confident that he wouldn’t be evicted as long as he was acting as Bibby’s pillow. Bibby didn’t stir.
Tricia checked Mark out of the kitchen window, watching the dark head appear over the top of the shed as he played Tarzan on the rope. She could hear the odd jungle cry, high-pitched and warbling, and felt a smile tip the corners of her mouth. He was so like his father to look at, with the same gorgeous smoke-grey eyes.
She had a sudden mental image of Rhys, stripped down to a loincloth, swinging through trees on a liana and pausing to beat that huge, deep chest with his powerful fists. His jungle cry would be deep, echoing through the forests of suburbia and shocking all the sweet little old ladies out of their cotton socks!
She chuckled, but the image was strong—too strong. Her heart fluttered for a moment, and she closed her eyes and leant against the worktop. Strange, she thought, that in all her talk of Rhys Linsey had never once mentioned just how damned attractive the man was...
The sound of a car on the drive jolted her out of her fantasy. Mark heard it too and streaked round the corner of the house as she opened the back door. She followed him at a rather more sedate pace and found Rhys, sporting rather more than the loincloth of her fantasy, just helping Emma out of the back of the car, her finger strapped to the next one and both bound in a most impressive bandage. It was held up against her chest by a narrow, padded sling around her wrist.
She gave the child her attention. ‘Smart sling,’ she said with a gentle smile.
Rhys grinned wearily. ‘She didn’t want it but I explained how impressive it would be, and with a greenstick fracture—well, it might help the swelling.’
‘My finger’s broken,’ Emma told her solemnly.
‘So I gather.’ She crouched down, inspecting the proffered bandage. ‘How does it feel now?’
‘Funny.’ Her little nose wrinkled. ‘Sort of numb but it feels like it’s bouncing.’
Tricia smiled, unable to help herself. ‘Bouncing? Is that why the bandage is so big—to make room for it to bounce?’
Emma giggled, turning her face into her father’s leg and wrapping her arms around him. His hand came down protectively across her shoulders, soothing instinctively, and Tricia found herself mesmerised by the repetitive action of his thumb against the child’s skinny shoulderblade. Such a big hand, she thought, and so gentle—so tender.
A lump formed in her throat, put there by his action and by her knowledge of his recent history. She blinked away the sudden, unexpected moisture and straightened, turning away.
‘I did my best with the shopping, but I wasn’t sure where everything went,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘I expect you’ll get irritated because you can’t find anything in your system.’
His laugh was soft and rueful. ‘Tricia, I don’t have a system.’
A smile escaped her feeble attempt to control it. ‘I did rather wonder,’ she confessed, and met his eyes. Such a clear grey, she thought—so open, so honest, without a trace of guile. How could his wife have left him like that, without a word?
Not that she knew much about the event. Linsey had been fairly close-mouthed on the subject, but she had been furious on Rhys’s behalf. Now, meeting him for the first time, Tricia could see why.
She followed him back into the kitchen, and promptly cannoned into his broad and quite unyielding back. ‘What the—? Oh, my God, Tricia, you didn’t need to do this!’
She saw faint colour run up from his collar and stain the back of his neck a fascinating ruddy brown. He shook his head and walked on into the kitchen, staring round in disbelief.
‘I was bored,’ she explained, to soften what she now realised in dismay he had taken as criticism. ‘Anyway, didn’t Linsey tell you I’m a tidiness freak? I used to make her life hell.’
His laugh was short. ‘She did mention it.’
She smiled tentatively. ‘I’m sorry—did you want that soggy spaghetti for anything special?’
His mouth lifted at the corner. ‘Sorry. I’m an ungracious pig. Thank you, Tricia. Thank you very much.’
She pointed at the oven. ‘I stuck a pizza in there—it was thawing and I didn’t think you would have had lunch yet. There’s salad in the fridge, too.’
The mouth quirked again. ‘Don’t tell me—you got bored.’
She laughed. ‘No. I thought the children would be hungry.’
‘They will—you’re very kind. At least join us.’
She hesitated for a second, then nodded. ‘OK. Thank you. I can’t get into the surgery until you can take me over and show me the alarm system anyway, so I might as well.’
He struck his forehead with his palm and pulled an expression of dismay. ‘Hell, Tricia, I’m sorry. You’ll be wanting to get settled in and all I can do is grouse because you’ve looked after my children and cleaned up the kitchen. I’m a rat.’
He sent Mark, who was standing watchfully by studying the exchange, to wash his hands, and carefully wiped Emma’s, avoiding her new bandages.
‘Where’s Bibby?’ he asked.
‘Asleep on the dog.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Really?’
She nodded. ‘In the sitting room.’
He went and looked, then came back sporting another faint flush and a grim, tight-lipped expression. ‘You tidied up in there too,’ he said flatly.
‘Only a little. I just straightened the magazines and gathered up the dirty cups.’
He harrumphed and started chucking tins into a cupboard. ‘Bloody women. They step over the threshold and start interfering.’
She stared at his back, her face frozen. ‘I’m sorry. I was only doing what was needed—’
‘In your opinion.’ He whirled round, slamming a tin down on the worktop. ‘Listen, lady, when I need help, I’ll ask for it. OK? Until then, just butt out.’ He turned back to the cupboard, throwing the tin inside. ‘I’m up to here with women who think—’
Tricia didn’t wait to hear the rest. Without a word she picked up her handbag and let herself out of the back door. He was so busy banging tins and swearing about her he wouldn’t even notice, she reasoned, and did a bit of swearing herself as she marched down the path and round the corner. She didn’t cross the lawn. The path with its echoing slabs was much more suited to her temperamental exit.
She stalked up the pavement to her car, marched out into the road and flung the door open in the path of an oncoming car. There was a screech of brakes and a blast of horn, and she sank into her seat with a sniff and glared at his house.
‘You are such a fool, Tricia Page. When will you learn not to interfere?’ she ranted at herself. She started the engine and pulled out, precipitating another episode of braking and horn-blowing, and drove down to the sea front. She’d go for a walk, explore the town, get some fresh air. Then, when tempers were cooler and she thought he might be more likely to let her into the practice, she’d go back.
Maybe.
And maybe not. Maybe Linsey’s idea of having her there to cover her maternity leave was a lousy one. If she’d had any sense she’d have steered clear of Milhaven, Linsey and any single male whom Linsey might have had her eye on as a prospective mate for her last remaining bachelor girlfriend—because that, Tricia realised belatedly, was what her friend had had in mind.
‘We’ll be out—Rhys will let you in,’ she mimicked furiously. ‘I’ll just bet.’
She turned her car in the direction of Sway, drove out into the forest and found two cars in Matthew and Linsey’s drive.
She let herself in through the gate, parked the car beside their two and marched up to the door, still fuming. Her bell-ringing was less than subtle, and seconds later the door was answered by Matthew, barechested and splashed with paint.
‘Tricia What a nice surprise!’
‘Don’t give me that—where is she?’ she demanded, and pushed him out of the way. ‘Lins? Where the hell are you?’
Linsey appeared at the top of the stairs, heavily pregnant, rather more clothed than Matthew but similarly paint-splattered. ‘Hi.’
‘Hi nothing. Bloody-minded gorilla.’
‘Oh, dear.’
‘He doesn’t like women very much, does he?’
Linsey sat down on the top step. ‘Rhys?’
‘Of course Rhys. He said they get over the threshold and interfere—’
‘What did you do?’
‘I washed up.’
Behind her Matthew groaned. ‘Oh, dear.’
‘And I tidied the sitting room.’
‘Whoops.’
She turned on him. ‘You’re telling me whoops. He was not impressed.’
‘Why did you do it?’ Linsey asked, coming slowly down the stairs.
‘Because I was looking after the kids while he took Emma to hospital with her finger.’
Both Matthew and Linsey frowned. ‘Finger?’ they said in unison.
‘Oh, fiddle. Put the kettle on and I’ll tell you all about it.’
She did, starting at the beginning and working through to the end. ‘So now what?’ she demanded.
‘He’ll apologise,’ Matthew said calmly. ‘Just let him vent his spleen for a while and cool his heels, then he’ll settle down again.’
‘But it’s my fault!’ Tricia wailed. ‘He’s right, I did interfere, but only to help—’
‘You didn’t interfere; you simply took over the domestic tasks while he dealt with an injured child,’ Linsey said reasonably. ‘He’s only sore because you’ve bruised his ego.’
‘I know,’ Tricia said miserably. ‘I really didn’t mean to. I just didn’t think.’
‘Nor did he. Don’t worry, Tricia; he’ll come round. He’s very defensive about the fact that he’s not coping well. He knows he isn’t, but he can’t seem to get sorted. Actually, we’re rather worried about him. He never goes out or has fun any more, and the house seems to be a prison for him.’
‘Doesn’t he have a cleaning lady?’ Tricia asked, thinking that the place could certainly have done with one.
‘Yes. She’s on holiday.’
‘So he can accept her help—’
‘No. He can employ her. He won’t accept any help, any handouts, any charity, any gestures of friendship that could be construed as an implication that he can’t manage.’
‘But that’s ridiculous!’ Tricia exploded. ‘Of course he can’t cope! Nobody could under the circumstances!’
‘But Rhys has to,’ Matthew said quietly, ‘because he can’t trust anybody else. He daren’t rely on anyone else, except maybe his parents on rare occasions.’
Tricia let her breath out on a sigh, and with it her anger. ‘Poor man,’ she said softly. ‘Poor, poor man.’
Matthew’s smile was wry. ‘I shouldn’t let him hear you say that, if I were you. Not if you want to draw a pension.’
Tricia smiled, but it was a sorry effort. Her heart was aching for him, and she was still angry with herself for having so thoughtlessly gone in and ‘helped’ to so great an extent. And she was worried too, about Emma and her bouncing finger.
‘Do you suppose he’s calmed down yet?’ she asked her friends.
Linsey grinned. ‘I expect so. He doesn’t hold a grudge. His temper’s legendary, but, big as he is, his kids aren’t frightened of him, which must tell you something.’
Tricia chuckled. ‘Yeah—it tells me they’ve missed the point!’ she said drily.
Matthew shook his head. ‘No. He’s all hot air. He’d never hurt you, or anyone. Only himself. He’s good at that.’
‘I’d noticed. I’ll go back and see if I can talk to him—apologise or something. Then perhaps I can persuade him to let me into my flat—but if I fail, would one of you come over and do it, please? I mean, I know you were supposed to be out, but as you’re not...’ she said, her voice ripe with sarcasm. ‘Unless it was all a ruse to throw me into the bosom of his family so I would be totally captivated...?’
Linsey looked vaguely uncomfortable, and Matthew shot her a keen look. ‘Not on my part,’ he said firmly. ‘And yes, of course we’ll come and let you in if there’s a problem. We’ll be here.’
She went out with them to her car, only to find that a small group of ponies had taken advantage of the open gate and had sneaked in and were now munching happily in the herbaceous border.
‘Oh, no!’ Tricia wailed. ‘Oh, hell’s teeth, I can’t do anything right!’
Behind her, Matthew and Linsey laughed.
Rhys scraped the last of the pizza and salad into the bin, flung the dishes in the sink and then thought better of it, emptied the dishwasher and reloaded it. God, he was a fool. Poor Tricia. It was kind of her to help, to think of bringing in the shopping and getting the kids some lunch, and all he’d been able to do was slam around the cupboards like a demented adolescent and complain that she’d helped!
What was the matter with him? She was a colleague, for heaven’s sake! A friend of a friend, no less. And a very beautiful woman. A single woman. A friend of Linsey’s—Linsey who mothered him and fussed over him and hugged him and was desperate to find him another wife. She was a trap—a beautiful, sensuous, feminine trap.
Don’t forget that, he reminded himself. Not that he was likely to forget anything about her. She was engraved on his memory, from the top of her fingerdried, soft blonde chin-length bob to the tips of her painted toenails encased in those delicate, strappy little sandals. And every inch in between.
The memory of her soft, full breasts under the baggy T-shirt made his body tighten. Damn, it had been so long—too long. He shouldn’t be reacting this way.
He threw the last dish into the machine, shut the door and pulled open the fridge, taking a can of lemonade out and wandering into the garden with it.
He would rather have had beer, but he’d finished with alcohol now. One bender too many.
Mark was next door, playing with Stephen, Emma was in bed sleeping off the effects of her traumatic morning and Bibby was still draped over the dog in the sitting room.
With a soft sigh that might have been mistaken for contentment, Rhys lowered himself onto the big teak sun-lounger under the apple tree and stared up into the branches.
Lord, she was pretty. Soft, full, warm, generous eyes like pools of clear water reflecting the sky, a delicate nose, fine-boned jaw and cheeks, a mouth that smiled often and with kindness—and those breasts. A man could die happy, buried in their softness.
He closed his eyes and groaned. What a fool. She was off limits, a definite no-no. A sweet, decent woman, a dedicated physician, and, above all, Linsey’s closest friend—no, Tricia Page was definitely off limits, he told himself.
His body didn’t listen.
She found him in the garden, sprawled on a sun-lounger in the cool shade, a can dangling from his fingers. He was fast asleep, and in the house she could hear Bibby crying. She was unbearably torn.
He needed to sleep, to escape the nightmare of his life and take away the haunting shadows in his eyes, but if she left him and went to see Bibby, would he resent her interference again? Even so, she couldn’t bring herself to wake him.
She went into the house and found Bibby sitting by the dog, her face crumpled with sleep. ‘Hello, sweetheart,’ she said softly.
The dog whined and wagged his tail, and Bibby held up her arms to Tricia in a gesture of trust that brought tears to her eyes.
‘Need a wee,’ she wobbled.
Well, that was easily dealt with. ‘Come on, my love,’ Tricia murmured, and, scooping her up, she carried the little one to the loo, helped her balance on the seat and then lifted her down. ‘Shall we find Daddy?’ she asked as they both washed their hands.
Bibby nodded soberly.
They were heading for the back door when it occurred to Tricia that there was no sign of Mark or Emma. They found Emma in her bed, still fast asleep, but of Mark there was no sign.
Tricia was immediately worried. Was he all right? Had he slipped out somewhere? Perhaps she should wake Rhys after all.
Hand in hand they went back out to the garden, Doodle at their heels, and as they walked towards Rhys Tricia heard Mark’s voice in the next garden, calling to a friend. Panic over. Now she just had Rhys to deal with.
‘He’s sleeping,’ Bibby said in a stage whisper, regarding her father thoughtfully.
‘Shall we let him sleep and I’ll push you on the swing?’ Tricia asked softly.
Again Bibby nodded. “Cept Doodle barks when I’m on the swing.’
‘How about the sandpit? We could make something.’
So they sat on the slabs of the patio with their feet in the sandpit, and Doodle snuffled around the garden, cocked his leg against a likely-looking plant and then came and flopped beside them, tongue lolling, head propped on his paws.
The can had slid from Rhys’s fingers with a little plop, but he didn’t stir. The lemonade dribbled out onto the grass, and Tricia watched as he lay as motionless as the dog. Heavens, he must be exhausted to sleep through Bibby’s gentle chatter and the wild yelling of the boys next door, she thought. She heard a cry from inside and went in, leaving Bibby in the sandpit under Doodle’s watchful eye, and found Emma sitting on the stairs nursing her hand and looking lost
‘Hello, darling. How’s your hand?’ she asked.
‘Sore. Daddy yelled at you.’
Tricia nodded. ‘Just a bit. Don’t worry; we’ll sort it out. I’m in the garden with Bibby and Doodle, and your Daddy’s having a rest out there—want to come?’
The little girl slid off the step and stood up, holding her good hand trustingly up to Tricia. The tiny fingers felt so familiar. How many times had she led a little brother or sister by the hand? How many times had she soothed tears, wiped noses and bottoms, cleared up after parties, put toys away, folded tiny clothes, cooked and cleaned and wiped and tidied—it hardly bore thinking about.
Sometimes Tricia felt as if she’d been a mother all her life.
And sometimes she felt as if she’d never be a mother at all, because life was ebbing away and Mr Right just didn’t seem to notice her. Not that she’d noticed him either. She wasn’t sure there was such a thing.
Was she too fussy? Was it too much to ask for a kind, funny, loving, intelligent partner? One that didn’t want her as a doormat or a substitute for his mother—or, come to that, as a mother for his children?
At least Rhys had complained when she’d helped. Most men in his position would have asked her to move in on the spot!
She went back into the garden with Emma and watched as the little girl went into the sandpit with her smaller sister and started to organise her. Predictably there was a scuffle, and before Tricia could intervene Bibby screamed at Emma in frustration and Rhys jackknifed off the sun-lounger, eyes wide in panic.
‘Bibby?’ he yelled.
‘We’re here; it’s all right—they just had a tiff.’
His eyes swung round and fastened on her like lasers. ‘You again! I thought you’d gone.’
She stood up and walked towards him. Her heart was pounding, not because she was afraid but simply because she hated rows and confrontations.
She stopped at his feet and looked endlessly upwards into his furious grey eyes. ‘Yes—but not for good, I’m afraid. I came to apologise.’
‘So why didn’t you just wake me and apologise?’
‘Because you looked tired, and Bibby was quite happy playing in the sand—’
‘It’s not your job!’
She hung onto her patience with difficulty. ‘It’s never been my job. It hasn’t stopped me doing it before.’
He looked puzzled, as well he might. He didn’t know her family history.
‘Besides,’ she went on, ‘I’m still waiting for you to let me into the surgery so I can unpack and get settled in in my flat, but we couldn’t go while the girls were asleep, so there was no point in waking you up.’
He glared at her for a moment longer, then stabbed his big hands through the dark, thick strands of his hair. It flopped again, soft and glossy, and Tricia found herself itching to touch it, to see if it could possibly feel as good as it looked.
‘I didn’t mean to sleep,’ he said gruffly. ‘I just lay down for a few minutes in the shade.’
He sat abruptly, the adrenalin obviously having worn off, and dropped his head into his hands.
‘I owe you an apology,’ he muttered.
‘Maybe,’ Tricia conceded. ‘And maybe I owe you one. I didn’t mean to take over; it’s just habit. At home, whoever got to a job first did it. There were too many of us for rows and rotas. We just all got on with it. Everybody did something, no matter how small or insignificant, or how young we might have been. We all pulled our weight. We had to, with ten of us.’
‘Ten children?’ he exclaimed.
‘No. Eight children and my parents. Eight in nine years. I’m the oldest.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘That I’m the oldest?’
His smile was fleeting and tentative. ‘No, that I overreacted. It’s just been fairly bloody for the past two years, and I don’t cope well, I know that.’
‘I think you cope very well. Your children are fit and well and clean and polite, you’re holding down your job—what more could you ask?’
His head tipped back and he looked up at her, his eyes fathoms deep. The smile came back again, even more fleeting and touched with sadness. ‘Time off for good behaviour?’ he said wryly. He sighed and stood up again. ‘Girls, come on, we have to take Dr Page over to the surgery now.’
He walked up to the fence and leant on it, exchanging a few words with the neighbour about Mark, and then he strapped the girls into the back of his car and slid behind the wheel.
‘Follow me; it’s not far.’
Tricia knew exactly where the surgery was, but she followed anyway. She’d had enough goes at his ego today already. It wouldn’t hurt to pander to it just this once.
