out an arm before standing on her right leg and bending her left up behind her.
The action pulled her top tightly across her breasts and he couldn’t help but notice they were slightly fuller than he remembered, not that he was complaining. ‘I’m clueless on Melbourne’s coffee standards. I don’t think I’ve had a cup there in eighteen months.’
Surprise danced across her high cheekbones and her left foot hit the sand. ‘Really? I thought you lived there?’
He saw the curiosity bright in her in her eyes and he seized on it, hoping it was an opening. ‘Let me buy you coffee. We can fill each other in on the last twelve years.’
‘I don’t have all day.’
It was said without an accompanying smile and her resistance crashed into him, wave after wave. If he’d thought he might have imagined hostility when they’d met at Bide-a-While, he was under no illusions now. What confused him was why it existed at all. Although he remembered a lot of arguments that summer, all of them had been with his father and none of them with Lauren. ‘What about coffee and the potted version, then?’
She stood still for a second and then her gaze fell to the sports watch on her wrist. He crossed his fingers behind his back. ‘Ten minutes,’ she said, ‘but let’s go to another café.’
‘I thought you said this one was good, and look...’ he pointed to a bloke with sun-bleached hair who was setting up a sandwich board ‘...it’s open.’
‘The other one’s closer to work.’ In an abrupt action that mirrored her words, she broke into a jog.
‘Come on, Basil,’ Charlie said. ‘We’re going to have to run to catch up.’
* * *
Lauren sipped her latte at the small outside table and blamed running-induced hypoxia for agreeing to chat with Charlie. Charles, Charles, Charles. Who was she kidding? He’d always been Charlie and using the formal version of his name wasn’t enough to keep old memories—good and bad—at bay. Right now, she was banking on the fact that by agreeing to this ten-minute catch-up of the last twelve years she’d be off the hook. Afterwards, she could cheerfully decline any future invitations without appearing rude. To be honest, she was flummoxed as to why he even wanted to do this when he’d been the one to walk away without looking back.
‘So...married? Children?’ she asked, determined to control the conversation. It didn’t prevent her from steeling herself for the inevitable phone photos of blonde-haired, blue-eyed children in private school uniforms. Or a family shot taken at a resort in an exotic location somewhere. When she’d been younger and daydreaming the vision of her life, she’d never anticipated that she’d be the single, childless woman forced to make polite comments about other people’s children. Yet that was exactly what she’d become.
‘Let’s face it, Lauren. You fail at most things so why are you surprised you can’t get pregnant?’ Jeremy’s words wormed their way back despite her attempt to block them out.
‘No to marriage and children,’ Charles said in a tone that gave no hint as to how he felt about the situation. ‘I was engaged once for a bit, but...’ He shrugged. ‘It didn’t work out.’
Why? She was still processing the fact that he was one of a rare species—a single, good-looking, heterosexual male in his mid-thirties—when he added, ‘What about you? Married? Kids? Committed relationship?’
She swallowed as the shame she thought she’d banished came back to bite her. ‘Divorced,’ she said softly.
‘Ah. Sorry.’
‘Yeah.’ She sipped her coffee, not certain if she wanted his sympathy or not. ‘It’s not something I ever thought would happen to me but—’ Shut up. He’s not your friend. He doesn’t need to know.
‘Stuff happens that we can’t always control.’
Her head snapped up at his sombre tone. ‘That sounds like the voice of experience.’
His eyes suddenly widened into inky black discs. He shot to his feet, tossed the light café table sideways and grabbed her roughly, hauling her out of the chair. She slammed hard into his chest and her breath flew out of her lungs. Fear invaded her, stiffening her body and making her blood thunder through her veins. A scream rose to her throat but before it broke out she was slammed onto the ground and Charlie’s body was rolling hers over and over.
THE TERRIFYING SCREECH of brakes penetrated Lauren’s terror, followed by the high-pitched sound of shattering glass. Shards rained down on her. A car horn blared. The acrid smell of rubber burned her nostrils. Her body protectively stilled, every sense on alert, trying to decode the situation—ascertain safety. She opened her eyes and found herself looking straight up into Charlie’s cornflower-blue eyes, still dominated by high-alert black. His gaze reflected everything she was feeling—shock, relief and an overwhelming sense of urgency.
‘Okay?’ he asked, his voice trembling.
‘I... Yes. I think so.’
‘Thank God.’ He pushed himself to his feet and grabbed her hand. She found her footing amongst the glass and vaguely noticed a rip in her pants.
People ran towards them. A man she didn’t recognise—his face white with shock—gasped, ‘I thought you two were dead for sure.’
‘We’re fine,’ Charlie said, his voice suddenly loud and commanding. ‘We’re doctors. You call the police and ambulance. We’ll check on the others.’
‘Go to the doctors’ clinic,’ Lauren called out, her voice not quite as steady as Charlie’s. She pointed down the street in the direction of the surgery. ‘Tell Lexie I need the AED and the emergency kits. All of them.’
‘Emergency kits. Got it.’ The man turned and ran.
Lauren quickly assessed the devastation in front of her. The rear of a small four-door sedan was protruding from the café and the jagged remains of the huge glass frontage hung over it like stalactites. Her thoughts took the obvious path—were the car’s occupants alive? Horrifying reality cramped her gut. What about the people inside the café? Had the car hit any of the staff or customers?
Charlie, who was already at the driver’s door, looked up as if reading her thoughts. ‘Triage inside.’
She nodded and ran. Fortunately, the door to the café hadn’t buckled and it opened. Steve, the young barista, and another man stood stunned and rooted to the spot, their horrified gazes fixed on the front of the car. Lauren saw a pair of female legs splayed at a rakish angle and protruding from under the car. As she dropped to her knees, she said firmly, ‘Steve. Find me a torch. You...’ she pointed to the second man ‘...do a head count. Tell me who else is hurt.’
Both snapped to attention. ‘On it.’
A phone with the torch app activated was thrust into Lauren’s hand and she crawled under the car. ‘It’s Lauren,’ she said to the woman, having no idea if she was a local or a tourist. Dead or alive. Conscious or unconscious. ‘I’m a doctor.’
The
