What would he do without her?
Life was okay, he told himself as he walked down the beach path. He had a great housekeeper. He had a colleague to share his work, to halve his call roster.
He had two low-alcohol stubbies to celebrate Friday night.
Alone.
‘Morose R Us,’ he muttered as he headed down the track. ‘Get over it.’ There wasn’t a thing he could do about his situation and self-pity would get him nowhere. He needed to be grateful that Kit was okay, that Rose was giving him space, that he had two stubbies—and he had a new colleague.
He rounded the bend that blocked the view of the bay from the track—and his new colleague was sitting on the sand in front of him.
She’d obviously been swimming. Her hair, normally tied tightly back, had come loose and was coiling wetly down her bare back. She was wearing a simple one-piece bathing suit. She looked…
Gorgeous?
She swivelled and struggled to her feet, grabbing her towel to cover herself—and all he could see was fear.
She hauled the towel up in front of her.
Not fast enough.
Every time he’d seen this woman she’d been wearing long sleeves. At work she wore formal business-type blouses, tucked into trousers or skirts. At home she wore long-sleeved T-shirts with jeans or shorts.
He thought of the first time he’d seen her, with Kit. She’d been wearing a long-sleeved shirt then. It had been covered with blood and looked truly shocking.
What he saw now, in the moment before she hauled the towel around her, seemed just as shocking.
Blotches were etched deep into the skin of her upper arms. No, not blotches. Scars. Many scars. He hardly had time to see them though, before the towel was wrapped around her, shutting them from view.
She was standing now, fear fading as she realised who he was. But she took a step back, making a clear delineation between the two of them.
‘Sorry,’ she muttered, her voice shaky. ‘I shouldn’t have sat so close to the path.’
‘And I should have whistled as I walked,’ he told her, trying to drive away the panic he still sensed. ‘I usually do. It scares the Joe Blakes.’
‘Joe Blakes?’
‘What the locals call snakes. The advice is to sing as you walk, but if you heard me sing you’d know that it’d scare more than Joe Blakes.’
‘Are there snakes here?’ Her voice was still shaky but he knew it wasn’t from fear of snakes. Why was she frightened?
‘I doubt it,’ he told her, gentling his voice. ‘It pays to be careful, but we haven’t seen any in the dunes for ages. They’re more scared of us than we are of them. The boys’ noise will be keeping them at bay.’
‘Oh,’ she said neutrally, and he could see her fight to get her face under control. Her towel was drawn tight, concealing all.
Or not quite. One of the scars was just above her breast. Until now he’d put her long sleeved tops and high necklines down to her general uptightness. Now…
He’d seen scars like this. A long time ago. In paediatric ward during his training.
Abuse.
Cigarette burns.
Hell.
‘Rachel…’
‘I was just going,’ she stammered, reaching down for her bag. ‘I came down for a swim after work, to get some peace. I imagine that’s what you want, too. I’ll leave you to it.’
She was ready to bolt.
Cigarette burns.
He knew nothing about this woman apart from the fact that she had an impeccable medical record—and she’d won his grandfather’s scholarship. And there’d been foster homes.
Her scars were completely covered now, and he couldn’t ask. Maybe she hoped he hadn’t seen them.
He had to leave it like that, but he didn’t want her to bolt. There were ghosts behind this woman’s façade, and he was intrigued.
‘You know, once upon a time when I finished work on Friday nights I’d head to the pub beside the hospital,’ he told her, casually moving so he wasn’t blocking her way. So she knew she could leave if she wanted to. ‘Half the medics we worked with would be there. I can’t remember a single moment of peace but I wouldn’t have missed it for quids. Noise, laughter, a general debrief of the week’s traumas. Friends.’
He looked down at the two stubbies he was carrying and made a decision, right there and then, that the supreme sacrifice was called for.
‘So the drinks menu here might be limited,’ he told her. ‘But, in memory of all those Friday nights, I’m very happy to share. Do you drink beer?’
The fear and shock were subsiding. She had herself together. Almost. ‘I need to go home,’ she said.
‘No, I need to go home,’ he told her. ‘But not yet.’ Why did he get the feeling she wanted to run? He was sensing his way, the same way he’d approach a scared and wounded child. Or a startled kangaroo. ‘The roster says I’m on call tonight, not you,’ he said. ‘The boys are at home, but Rose is with them and they’re happy and settled. Kit’s safely in hospital. My phone’s in my pocket and I can be there in minutes if I’m called. I have a sliver of time to myself.’
‘Which is why you need peace.’
‘Which is why I need company,’ he said bluntly. ‘Of the adult variety. Of the colleague variety. Which is why I’m making the extraordinary gesture of offering you one of my precious stubbies.’
She stared at him for a long moment, as if trying to read his mind. Then she looked down at his stubbies.
‘You brought two.’
‘And I’m offering you one. You can’t imagine how generous that makes me feel.’
Her lips twitched, just a little.
‘Beer,’ she said.
‘I know, a piña colada with a sliver of lime and a wee umbrella would be more appropriate, but the ice would have melted while I walked down here. You want to slum it with me?’ And before she could answer he plonked himself down on the sand.
She stood, looking down at him. Disconcerted? She was torn—he could sense it. Part of her wanted to leave, but it would have been a rebuff.
He set the stubbies in the sand and waited. Stay or go? He was aware, suddenly, that he was holding his breath. Hoping?
Why? She was simply a colleague, paying her dues for two years before she got on with her life.
Or…what?
