Joe suddenly desperate to retreat as far and as fast as he could into the confines of his own safe world.
He wasn’t interested in a relationship, and that was the end of the matter.
It didn’t matter how attractive Vicky was—or any other woman for that matter. It didn’t matter how good it felt to have her hand wrapped around his arm, knowing that the contact was giving her the support she needed. It didn’t matter that he could smell the hint of flowers and musk drifting from her skin or that her long blonde hair was like spun gold against the dark fabric of his suit. It didn’t matter that the last hour had made him feel more alive than he had in several years and that he was actually looking forward to sharing a meal with her.
As the common idiom went, he’d been there and done that already, and had the scars on his heart to prove it.
He was just about to make their excuses when Frankie grabbed Nick’s arm, her face suddenly pale and clammy as she hurried towards the nearest bathroom.
‘Oops! Sorry, folks,’ Nick said with a slightly strained chuckle before he followed her. ‘Graphic illustration of the fact that morning sickness isn’t confined to mornings.’
The realisation that Frankie was already pregnant brought the swift stab of painful memories and Vicky’s hastily smothered gasp told Joe that she hadn’t known about the pregnancy either.
At least the spreading ripple of understanding laughter meant that people had overheard Nick’s devious way of announcing his impending fatherhood. That should take people’s minds off the fact that he and Vicky were leaving so soon.
‘I think that’s our signal to fade into the woodwork,’ he suggested quietly, but she didn’t say a word.
He escorted her towards the door, wondering why she suddenly felt so fragile beside him, and had to glare at the overzealous photographer when he wanted to take yet another picture of Vicky. She certainly wasn’t in the mood to have a camera pointed in her direction and Joe actually had the strange impression that if he moved too fast she might shatter into a thousand fragments.
Her movements were quite wooden as he helped her into her coat and she was moving almost like a sleepwalker as he ushered her out of the hotel and into his car.
He waited for her to fasten her seat belt but she just sat in the dark silence of the car, staring blindly out of the windscreen.
‘Vicky?’ he prompted. ‘Seat belt?’
‘Hmm?’ The expression she turned on him was somehow dazed and he had to repeat the reminder before she began to fumble her compliance.
‘Let me,’ he offered, speaking softly and moving slowly to take the catch from her, feeling as if he were dealing with an injured animal.
He wanted to take her hands in his and try to persuade her to talk about what had brought this on, but now was neither the time nor the place.
Knowing that any one of the people they’d just left could emerge from the hotel to see them sitting together in his car, he started the engine and set off out of the car park.
Obviously they were going to have to abandon the idea of going out for a meal. Vicky wasn’t in any fit state to cope with the niceties of public dining. The only option was to take her home, but whose?
It wasn’t far to the place where he’d had his painful run-in with the escaped bullocks and, just past it, the fork in the road that demanded a decision.
One way led to the renovated farm labourer’s cottage she’d told him about when she’d been trying to distract him from the pain of his dislocated shoulder; the other led to the small stone-built farmhouse which was more a refuge than a home to him.
The thought of inviting anyone into his safe haven made him uncomfortable, but the thought of delivering Vicky to a solitary evening felt equally wrong.
Anyway, he temporised as he accelerated away from her turning, she needed to eat and he had no idea what she’d have in her kitchen. At least he knew his fridge could supply the essentials, thanks to Vicky’s persistence. And there was a wry, pleasing irony that he would be feeding her with the food she’d chosen and bought for him.
‘We’re here, Vicky,’ he said as he pulled into the small enclosed yard to one side of the house.
He wasn’t surprised when she didn’t comment but his understanding turned to concern when she didn’t react when he opened the door beside her.
The harsh brilliance of the safety light, activated by their arrival, flooded the interior of the car and painted its silent inmate with unforgiving accuracy.
She looked as perfect as a marble statue, but when had marble statues ever had silvery tears trickling down their cheeks?
‘Come on, Vicky. Out you get,’ he encouraged as he reached across her to release her seat belt. He had to stretch his shoulder some way beyond what was comfortable to reach it, but that hardly mattered when Vicky was in such misery.
She didn’t even seem to realise that she was crying as he let them into the house through the back door which took them straight into the kitchen.
It wasn’t the first time that he’d been grateful for the enveloping warmth of the Aga cooker. He didn’t even bother taking her coat off as he grabbed a chair and settled her in it as close as possible to the warmth.
For just a moment he stood there looking at her, feeling completely at a loss.
He hardly knew the woman, for heaven’s sake. What on earth was he supposed to do or say to help her, to bring her out of this?
‘Tea,’ he muttered, reaching for the kettle and putting it on the hob to boil. ‘If in doubt make a pot of tea.’
He was out of his depth here, and didn’t mind admitting it. The psychiatry he’d learned during his training was enough to tell him that Vicky’s mental state was no steadier than her physical one. All he could think to do was bury himself in the familiar ritual of pouring milk into the waiting mugs while he waited for the tea to steep.
Did she take sugar? He didn’t even know her well enough for that small detail, had never bothered to notice such a thing when they’d been in the same room. Whether she did or not, she was having some. She was borderline shocky and the sugar boost would give her body something to fight with.
‘Here.’ He crouched beside her chair and wrapped her icy hand around the chunky handle. ‘It’s hot, but see if you can sip it.’
She barely acknowledged him and the way those silent tears continued to slide down her cheeks, one after another, caused something unfamiliar to tighten inside his chest.
‘Please, Vicky.’ Joe reached up to cup one damp cheek in his hand and turned her to face him. ‘Please, drink some of the tea. You need it.’
As though waking from a nightmare, she focused on his face and blinked, almost as if surprised to see him there.
‘Joe?’
He’d never heard her voice sounding so lost and alone. He might not join in with the banter that usually characterised any gathering of staff at Denison Memorial, but he couldn’t help having noticed that this strikingly beautiful
