‘No,’ Mr Raynor nodded. ‘I imagine these witch doctors guard their secrets closely.’
‘Yes,’ Morgan agreed, but Helen had the distinct impression that that was not what he meant at all.
Soon afterwards, he said he would have to be leaving, and Mrs Raynor took the opportunity to invite him for dinner on Tuesday evening.
‘Could we make that Wednesday or Thursday?’ he asked apologetically. ‘I—er—I have an appointment in London on Tuesday, and I don’t suppose I’ll be back much before ten.’
‘Of course.’ Mrs Raynor was eager to oblige. ‘Thursday, then. If that’s all right with you, Helen?’
Helen nodded. ‘Any night suits me,’ she shrugged, realising as she did so that she sounded offhand. But Susan’s words still lingered, and she half wished she didn’t have to see Morgan again until the day of the wedding.
Helen left her job at the hospital on Tuesday evening. She would be returning after her honeymoon, but it was good to feel herself free for almost three weeks. Not that she didn’t enjoy her work. She did. It gave her great satisfaction to know that she was helping someone recover the use of their limbs, particularly if the patient was a child or an elderly person who had given up hope of ever being able to walk again. But the quality of her work was demanding and this week before the wedding was demanding enough in itself.
Nevertheless, the following morning found her at a loose end, with her parents and Barry at work, and Jennifer in school. During the afternoon she planned to go to the flat she and Barry were going to lease and take along some of the household things they had collected over recent weeks, but the morning was fine and sunny and she didn’t much feel like applying herself to housework. Instead she took herself off into town, and in the paperback book department of W H Smith she encountered the one person she least wanted to meet.
‘Morgan!’ she said, rather dismayed, after practically walking into him round the end of one of the fixtures. ‘Fancy meeting you here.’
‘It’s my usual port of call on visits to England,’ he replied evenly, pushing a textbook on neural surgery back into the rack. ‘I always take a pile of books back with me.’
‘Yes,’ Helen nodded, folding her fingers firmly round the strap of her handbag. ‘Did you—er—did you have a good day in London?’
Morgan regarded her with a faintly mocking expression. ‘Do you really want to know? I got the impression you didn’t particularly want to meet me just now.’
‘Oh, no.’ Helen reddened. ‘It was just—I was surprised to see you, that’s all.’
Morgan inclined his head, and she moved jerkily away from him. Dear God, she thought sickly, what was wrong with her? Why couldn’t she stand near him without becoming overpoweringly conscious of his hard masculinity? Why did the very sight of him in his worn leather jacket and black suede pants affect her with something very like a physical shock when Barry never ever had this reaction on her?
‘Helen.’
He was speaking to her, and she swung round nervously, her fingers probing the buttons of her own suede coat. ‘Yes?’
‘Can I buy you a cup of coffee?’
‘What? Coffee?’ She moved her shoulders offhandedly. ‘I—why, yes, I—suppose so.’
‘Good.’ He gestured towards the exit. ‘Shall we go? I can call back here later.’
‘All right.’
Outside, he turned towards the market place and she fell into step beside him, wondering rather anxiously what Barry would say when he found out that she had been having coffee with his stepbrother while he was at work. And then, she decided, she didn’t care. She wasn’t doing any harm, and besides, if she was honest she would admit that she had wanted to accept Morgan’s invitation. But why that should be so after the way she had felt when she encountered him, she did not care to analyse.
They sat at a table in the window of a small cafe that overlooked the Shambles, and after the waitress had taken their order Helen was glad of the activity outside to distract Morgan’s attention. But presently, after the coffee was served, he looked her way, and she put her hands down on to her lap to hide their damp unsteadiness.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said at last, and her eyes flickered bewilderedly up to his.
‘Sorry?’
‘Yes.’ He tipped the front legs of his chair back and regarded her through narrowed lids. ‘I shouldn’t have invited you to join me. But I selfishly felt like some company.’
Helen didn’t know how to reply. ‘I—it was very kind of you invite me—–’
‘No, it wasn’t.’ He shook his head. ‘I didn’t do it out of politeness anyway.’
Helen licked her dry lips. ‘Wh—why did you do it, then?’
Morgan’s chair dropped back on to all four legs with a protesting creak. ‘Because I find I like talking to you,’ he said, and the ready colour that never seemed far away in his presence poured back into her face.
‘I—I shouldn’t have thought that was something to apologise about,’ she murmured awkwardly at last, but when she ventured a look at his face she saw the wry cynicism in his expression.
‘Something makes me think Barry wouldn’t agree with you,’ he remarked dryly. ‘He made his feelings very clear the other evening.’
‘Oh, Barry says a lot of things he doesn’t really mean,’ exclaimed Helen, moving her shoulders protestingly. ‘He’s very glad you’ve come home.’
‘Is he?’ Morgan sounded unconvinced. Then as once before, he changed the subject, saying abruptly: ‘My father tells me you’re a physiotherapist. Do you like working with old people?’
Glad of the respite from personal matters, Helen said: ‘Not all my patients are old. There’s a fair percentage of children, too, and in any case, I like the work.’
‘Very commendable,’ he remarked, raising his coffee cup to her. ‘Have you ever thought of working outside the hospital system? In schools for handicapped children, for example?’
‘I’d like to,’ she answered frankly, ‘but I still have my training to complete.’
‘You didn’t go to university.’
It was a statement and she shook her head. ‘No. You did, though, didn’t you? What made you decide to be a doctor?’
Morgan shrugged. ‘I don’t know. An interest in humanity, I guess, combined with a lucky ability to remember anatomical terms.’
Helen smiled, relaxing somewhat. ‘I don’t believe that. Your father said you got a double first.’
‘My father talks too much,’ he retorted without rancour, and Helen sipped her coffee, thinking affectionately of the man who had made her feel so welcome in his home.
‘I suppose he told you about my marriage breaking up,’ Morgan said suddenly, and Helen’s new-found relaxation fled.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘There’s no need to look so flabbergasted—it’s no secret. Pam and I separated two years ago. We were totally incompatible.’
Helen cleared her throat. ‘He—I believe he did say something about it. Does—I mean—your daughter lives with you, doesn’t she?’
‘Yes.’ Morgan finished his coffee and pushed the cup aside. ‘Pam never wanted children. I don’t think she’d have married me at all if Andrea hadn’t already been on the way.’
‘Oh!’