She wanted the indicator on, wanted him to turn the car around and take them back to bed, and, yes, she could maybe tell him about Harry.
About Courtney.
About the whole sorry mess.
End the dream badly.
After all, he was only here for two weeks, and even if he hadn’t been, she could hardly expect someone as glamorous and gorgeous as him to understand.
She didn’t want him to understand, she didn’t want him to know, so instead she blew out a breath and let the sat nav lead him to her door.
‘Good luck in Sydney.’ She really was terrible at this one-night thing.
‘Bridgette.’ He had broken so many rules for her and he did it again. ‘I know that you’re busy today, but maybe…’
‘Hey!’ She forced a smile, dragged it up from her guts and slathered it on her face and turned to him. ‘We’re not suited, remember?’
‘Completely incompatible.’ He forced a smile too.
He gave her a kiss but could sense her distraction.
She climbed out of the car and she didn’t say goodbye because she couldn’t bear to, didn’t turn around because she knew she’d head back to his arms, to his car, to escape.
But she couldn’t escape the niggle in her stomach that told her things were less than fine and it niggled louder as she made a half-hearted attempt at cleaning her room. By midday her answer came.
‘Can you have Harry tonight?’
‘I can’t,’ Bridgette said. ‘I’m on an early shift in the morning…’ Then she closed her eyes. She had reported her sister a couple of months ago to social services and finally voiced her concerns. Oh, there was nothing specific, but she could not simply stand by and do nothing. Since she’d asked Courtney to leave her flat, things had become increasingly chaotic and in the end she’d felt she had no choice but to speak out. Not to Jasmine or her friends—she didn’t want to burden them. Instead she had spoken to people who might help. Her concerns had been taken seriously, and anger had ripped through her family that she could do such a thing. Sour grapes, Courtney had called it, because of what had happened between her and Paul. And then Courtney had admitted that, yes, she did like to party, she was only eighteen, after all, but never when Harry was around. She always made sure that Harry was taken care of.
By Bridgette.
And as she stood holding the phone, Bridgette didn’t want to find out what might happen if she didn’t say yes.
‘I’ll ring the agency,’ Bridgette said. ‘See if I can change to a late shift.’
Even if it was awkward talking to her sister when she dropped him off, Bridgette really was delighted to see Harry. At eighteen months he grew more gorgeous each day. His long blond curls fell in ringlets now and he had huge grey eyes like his aunt’s.
Courtney had been a late baby for Maurice and Betty. Bridgette delivered babies to many so-called older women, but it was as if her parents had been old for ever—and they had struggled with the wilful Courtney from day one. It had been Bridgette who had practically brought her up, dealing with the angst and the crises that always seemed to surround Courtney, as her parents happily tuned out and carried on with their routines.
It had been Bridgette who had told them that their sixteen-year-old daughter was pregnant, Bridgette who had held Courtney’s hand in the delivery room, Bridgette who had breathed with hope when Courtney, besotted with her new baby, had told Harry that she’d always be there for him.
‘And I’ll always be there for you,’ Bridgette had said to her sister.
And Courtney was taking full advantage of that.
By seven, when Harry had had supper and been bathed, dressed in mint-green pyjamas, one of the many pairs Bridgette kept for him, and she had patted him off to sleep, she heard a car pulling up outside. She heard an expensive engine turning off, and then the sound of shoes on the steps outside her ground-floor flat, and she knew that it was him, even before she peeked through the blinds.
There was a loud ring of the bell and the noise made Harry cry.
And as Dominic stood on the step, there was his answer as to why she’d had to dash off that morning.
He waited a suitable moment, and Bridgette waited a moment too, rubbing Harry’s back, telling him to go back to sleep, ignoring the bell. They were both quietly relieved when she didn’t answer the door.
Still, last night had meant many things to Bridgette—and it wasn’t all about the suave locum. Seeing her old colleagues, hearing about the midwifery unit, she’d realised just how much she was missing her old life. She knew somehow she had to get it back.
It was a curious thing that helped.
When Harry woke up at eleven and refused to go back to sleep, she held him as she checked her work sheet for the week. She was hoping that Courtney would be back tomorrow in time for her to get to her late shift when an e-mail pinged into her inbox.
No subject. No message. Just an attachment.
She had no idea how Dominic had got her e-mail address, no idea at all, but she didn’t dwell on it, just opened the attachment.
It didn’t upset her to see it. In fact, it made her smile. She had no regrets for that night and the photo of them together proved it. The photo, not just of him but of herself smiling and happy, did more than sustain her—it inspired her.
‘Harry Joyce,’ she said to the serious face of her nephew. ‘Your aunty Bridgette needs to get a life.’
And she would get one, Bridgette decided, carefully deleting Dominic’s e-mail address so she didn’t succumb, like Arabella, in the middle of the night. The photo, though, became her new screensaver.
‘HE’LL be fine.’
It was six-thirty a.m. on Monday morning and Bridgette’s guilt didn’t lift as she handed a very sleepy Harry over to Mary, whom she had been introduced to last week. ‘It seems mean, waking him so early,’ Bridgette said.
‘Well, you start work early.’ Mary had the same lovely Irish brogue as Bridgette’s granny had had and was very motherly and practical. ‘Is his mum picking him up?’
‘No, it’s just me for the next few days,’ Bridgette explained. ‘She’s got laryngitis, so I’m looking after Harry for a while.’
‘Now, I know you’ll want to see him during your breaks and things, but I really would suggest that for the first week or two, you don’t pop down. He will think you’re there to take him home and will just get upset.’ She gave Bridgette a nice smile. ‘Which will upset you and you’ll not get your work done for worrying. Maybe ring down if you want to know how he is, and of course if there are any problems and we need you, I’ll be the first to let you know.’ Holding Harry, Mary walked Bridgette to the door and gave her a little squeeze on the shoulder. ‘You’re doing grand.’
Oh, she wanted Mary to take her back to some mystical kitchen to sit at the table and drink tea for hours, for Mary to feed her advice about toddlers and tell her that everything was okay, was going to be okay, that Harry was fine.
Would be fine.
It felt strange to be back in her regular uniform, walking towards Maternity. Strange, but nice. It had been a busy month. She was so glad for that photo—their one night together had caused something of an awakening for Bridgette, had shown her just how much she was missing and had been the motivation to really sort her life out as best she could. She had been to the social-work department at the hospital