Helen
Nigel stood up. Always the gentleman - that hadn’t changed.
‘Pixie and I were discussing Casablanca.’ He nodded towards the woman with pink hair who was now rearranging books on a table.
He sat back down. ‘Wasn’t she?’
‘No. Ingrid Bergman was the female lead.’
‘So where does Lauren Bacall fit in?’
‘She and Humphrey Bogart were a couple off-screen. They always said they were the loves of each other’s lives.’
Nigel looked down at his cup of tea. Not a good topic, Helen, considering where he might be with his marriage currently.
He changed the subject. ‘No Rocky today?’
She laughed. ‘You seem more interested in my greyhound than me.’
‘No, I am interested in you.’ She could see the panic in his eyes as he realised what he’d said. ‘As a friend, of course,’ he quickly added.
‘Of course.’ Helen tried to ignore the sinking feeling in her stomach.
It was ridiculous to think otherwise. He hadn’t been that attracted to her when she was young and reasonably good-looking.
He was hardly going to be attracted to her now she was racing headlong towards the menopause.
‘Rocky was sprawled out in front of the fire when I left, still exhausted from our early morning walk.’
‘I thought greyhounds liked exercise.’
‘Apparently not. Running around the track at Harringay cured him of enjoying exercise for life. Except when he sees something small and furry.’
‘How’s your hand?’
She showed him her palm, making sure they didn’t touch. She didn’t need more heart palpitations. ‘It’s feeling a lot better today, thanks. Your nursing skills helped.’
Helen’s practice run-throughs of this conversation hadn’t involved Rocky and the state of her hand either. She changed the subject to something she had rehearsed. ‘How are you feeling today? You look perkier than you did yesterday.’
‘Thanks. I managed to get a decent night’s sleep. You caught me at a particularly low point yesterday.’
He’d given her the opening she was hoping for.
‘You can tell me to mind my own business, but is everything ok with you and your wife?’
He closed his eyes and shook his head.
He only used to look like that when something was seriously wrong. Like the day he discovered his father was having an affair. He’d sobbed in her arms then.
Pixie was rearranging the paperbacks on the bookshelf nearest the wood burner now. They needed somewhere more private to talk. ‘Would it be easier if we went for a walk along the beach?’
‘But I promised you a coffee.’
‘I don’t mind. We can have one later.’
He smiled. ‘I would prefer a walk. Thanks.’
‘Let’s go then.’