HELEN
‘I’m visiting my mother for a few days. Well, I’ll probably stay for a while.’
They looked at one another awkwardly for a few seconds until Rocky nudged her. She grabbed his lead and winced.
Nigel looked concerned. ‘What are we going to do about your burn? Let me look at it properly.’
She held it out to him.
He took off his glove and took her hand gently in his. A jolt of electricity shot up her arm as they touched. Wow! That hadn’t happened in so long. He quickly let go. He looked as confused as she felt.
‘I’ve got my water bottle. You can pour the contents of that over it for a start,’ he suggested.
He pulled it out of his pocket, removed the lid and handed her the open bottle. ‘I’ll hold Rocky’s lead.’
The cold water helped.
‘Is that better?’ he asked.
‘A little.’ She winced again. It was stinging.
‘Where are you living?’ he asked.
‘My parents’ house.’
‘But that’s a twenty-minute walk away.’
‘Yes, I know. It’ll be fine until I get back.’
‘No, it won’t. Come back to the Grange. It’s much nearer.’
‘Are you sure?’ Her hand was throbbing now.
‘Yeah. Mum will be pleased to see you.’
It seemed the sensible thing to do. But was it? Because as she looked at Nigel again, all those old feelings began bubbling back up to the surface.
She passed his bottle back to him.
‘Shall I keep hold of Rocky’s lead?’ he offered. ‘I’ve got gloves on if he tries to run off again.’
‘Thank you’ was all she could manage to say.
They walked side by side for a few paces while the path was wide enough, Rocky obediently walking at Nigel’s heel like a show dog at Crufts.
‘He’s calm now,’ Nigel said.
‘He will be unless he sees another rabbit.’
‘Why did you call him Rocky? You used to hate that movie.’
Movie, she noticed. He would’ve said film when she first met him, but all that time living in America was bound to have changed him. He hadn’t lost his English accent, though.
‘He’s a rescue greyhound. His racing name was Country Rocket, so his original owner called him Rocky - better than shortening his first name, I suppose. ‘
Nigel chuckled.
Helen stole a glance at him, remembering how his smile used to light up his face. ‘How long have you been back in Dashford?’
‘Less than a day. I flew into Heathrow yesterday afternoon.’
That explained why he looked tired.
‘It’s a long journey when you’ve got kids,’ she said.
‘I’m on my own.’ His expression clouded. A sore point then. She resisted the urge to stop and hug him. Not appropriate, Helen. Not after all this time.
‘When did you move back here?’ he asked.
‘Only a couple of weeks ago. I stupidly moved house just before Christmas. We had Christmas dinner surrounded by boxes. And the boys complained about the lack of a Christmas tree.’
‘How old are they?’
He wasn’t surprised to hear she had children then. Nancy had probably kept him up to date on all the Dashford news.
‘Eighteen and twenty-one. Old enough not to be that bothered by Christmas decorations, or so I thought. How old are your girls?’
‘Thirteen and sixteen.’
Helen grimaced. ‘The awkward age.’
‘Yeah.’
He didn’t say any more. They walked on in silence for another minute until they reached the back gate in The Grange’s garden wall.
‘How long is it since we last walked this way?’ she asked, thinking out loud more than anything.
‘August 1999. It was throwing it down with rain.’
So he remembered. ‘And you gallantly gave me your waterproof because I’d stupidly come out without one.’
‘You were never a fan of planning ahead,’ he said, laughing.
She grinned. ‘We can’t all be as organised as you, Nigel.’