St Piran’s: The Wedding of The Year. Caroline Anderson

stared at him, at the serious expression on his face, the conviction in his eyes, in his voice. Dare she trust him? ‘You always walk away,’ she said at last.

      ‘I didn’t the night James died.’

      She gave a soft huff of laughter and shook her head. ‘No, you didn’t, did you? Maybe it would have been better if you had.’ But then she wouldn’t have had Jem, and her life would have been empty and pointless. And she needed him now.

      ‘I know I’ve let you down,’ he said softly. ‘I know I’ve let Jem down. But I’m here now, and I’ll stay here for as long as you need me, and I’ll do whatever I can to help you. Just give me a chance.’

      She shrugged and looked away. ‘I can’t stop you. But I can’t lean on you, either. I have to do this on my own.’

      ‘No, you don’t,’ he said, trying to inject something into his voice that she could believe in. ‘And I’ll prove that to you.’ Even if it took years. A lifetime.

      Her shoulders were drooping, and his heart went out to her. Poor Kate. She was exhausted, he thought, exhausted and shocked and traumatised, and it was late. ‘You ought to eat,’ he coaxed gently. ‘Keep your strength up.’

      She shook her head. ‘I can’t eat. Not when he’s like this. Maybe later. I could murder a drink, though. I wonder when they’ll move him to PICU?’

      ‘An hour or so? Shall I go and get you something? Tea, coffee?’

      ‘Tea would be lovely. Do you mind? I really don’t want to leave him.’

      ‘On one condition—you sit down beside him and rest, and you eat something if I bring it back.’

      ‘You’re a bully, do you know that?’ she said, but she was smiling, an exhausted, rather watery smile that in a heartbeat could have morphed into tears, and she sat obediently in the chair he put there for her.

      ‘I’m looking after you is what I am,’ he said, and headed for the door. ‘Any special requests?’

      ‘Tea. And a sandwich, if I must, but no cheese. I’m going to have nightmares as it is.’

      ‘OK. Back in five.’

      He went through the door and down the stairs, pausing halfway because he felt suddenly light-headed. Damn. That was giving two units of blood, not drinking anything like enough to replace the lost fluid or taking in any food—apart from Jack’s biscuits, he’d had half a cup of tea, a cup of water and whatever he’d had in A and E in the relatives’ room, and that was all since his miserable half-sandwich and instant coffee at lunchtime. And it was—good grief—a quarter past midnight.

      And the café, when he got there, was shut, with a sign directing him to the main canteen some distance away.

      There was a vending machine, and he pulled some coins out of his pocket with fingers that were starting to shake violently, and put them into the machine, pressed the button for a bottle of sports drink to boost his fluids and blood sugar, and twisted the cap to loosen it. And it sprayed him.

      He swore, twisting it shut again, and suddenly it was all too much. He dropped his head forwards against the vending machine and resisted the urge to slam it into the gaudy metal case. Head-banging wouldn’t cure anything.

      ‘Is it broken again?’

      The voice was soft and feminine, and he lifted his head and stared vaguely at the woman.

      ‘Um—no. Sorry. Did you want the machine?’

      ‘No, it’s OK.’ She tilted her head on one side, looking at him keenly. ‘Are you all right?’

      He opened his mouth to say yes, and then stopped. The woman was slender and delicate, but curvy in all the right places. She was probably younger than Lucy, her dark hair twisted up into a clip, and there was compassion and understanding in her emerald-green eyes.

      ‘A friend’s little boy’s just been admitted,’ he said, gagging on the half-truth. ‘They had a car accident. His pelvis is fractured. I was getting us something to eat, but…’