Liz Fielding: The Last Woman He'd Ever Date

Bad choice of words, she thought as his mouth tightened.

‘It’s for your own safety.’

‘Safety? Archie isn’t going to bother me now I’m on foot, but who’s going to keep me safe from you?’ she demanded, clearly not done with ‘stupid.’

‘You’ve had a shock,’ he replied, all calm reason, which just made her all the madder.

‘Now you’re concerned!’

Too right she’d had a shock. She’d had a shock right down to her knees but it had nothing to do with Archie and everything to do with crashing into Hal North. Everything to do with the fact that he’d kissed her. That she’d kissed him back as if she’d been waiting to do that all her life. Maybe she had…

How dare he be all calm reason when she was a basket case?

‘It’s a bit late to start playing knight errant don’t you think?’

‘You’re mistaking me for someone else.’

‘Not in a hundred years,’ she muttered, catching her breath as she stepped on a sharp stone, gritting her teeth to hold back the expletive, refusing to let him see that she was in pain.

The last thing she needed was a smug I-told-you-so from Hal North.

It did have the useful side effect of preventing her from saying anything else she’d regret when Hal moved his hand from her arm and looped it firmly around her waist, taking her weight so that she had no choice but to lean into the solid warmth of his body, allow him to support her.

The alternative was fighting him which would only make things worse as she limped the rest of the way home, her head against his shoulder, her cheek against the hard cloth of his overalls. The temptation was to simply surrender to the comfort, just as she’d surrendered to his kiss and it took every crumb of concentration to mentally distance herself from the illusion of safety, of protection and pray that he’d put her erratic breathing down to ‘shock.’

When they reached her gate, she allowed herself to relax and took the fishing rod when he handed it to her, assuming he meant her to give it back to Gary.

‘Thank you…’ The word ended in a little shriek as he bent and caught her behind the knees, scooping her up like some bride being carried over the threshold. Hampered by the rod, she could do nothing but fling an arm around his neck and hang on as he strode along the gravel path that led around the house to the back door.

‘Key?’ he prompted, as he deposited her with an equal lack of ceremony on the doorstep.

‘I’m home. Job done,’ she said, propping the rod by the door, waiting for him to leave. She was damned if she was going to say thank you again.

‘Are you going to be difficult?’ he asked.

‘You bet.’

He shrugged, glanced around, spotted the brick where she hid her spare key. ‘My mother used to keep it in the same place,’ he said, apparently oblivious to her huff of annoyance as he retrieved it and opened the door. ‘In fact, I’m pretty sure it’s the same brick.’

‘Go away,’ she said, kicking off her remaining shoe in the scullery where the boots and coats were hung.

‘Not before the statutory cup of hot, sweet tea,’ he said, following her inside and easing off his own boots.

Her suit was damp and muddy, her foot was throbbing and her body, a jangle of sore, aching bits demanding her attention now that she’d come to a halt, responded with a tiny ‘yes, please’ whimper. She ignored it.

‘I don’t take sugar.’

‘I do.’

Behind her, the phone began to ring. She ignored it for as long as she could, daring him to take another step then, with what she hoped was a careless shrug—one that her shoulder punished her for—she limped, stickily, into the kitchen and lifted the receiver from the cradle.

‘Claire Thack…’

Hal pulled out a chair, tipped off the two sleeping cats and, taking her arm, eased her down into it before crossing to the kettle.

‘Claire?’

‘Oh, Brian…’

‘Is there a problem?’ Brian Gough, the news editor, sounded concerned rather than annoyed, but then she had always striven to be one hundred per cent reliable—hoarding those Brownie points that every working mother needed against the days when her daughter was sick and her needs had to come before everything, even the desperate necessity of making a career for herself. ‘Only I’ve just had Charlie on the phone.’

Charlie… That would be Charlie Peascod, the Chief Planning Officer. Her important ten o’clock meeting. She caught sight of the clock and groaned.

Hal heard her and turned. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked, with what appeared to be genuine concern.

‘No,’ she hissed, swivelling round so that her back was to him in an effort to concentrate. ‘I’m s-o s-sorry, Brian but I’ve had a bit of an accident.’

‘An accident? What kind of accident? Are you all right?’

‘Y-yes…’ she said as, without warning, she began to shiver.

‘You don’t sound it.’

‘I will be.’ Behind her there was a world of comfort in the sound of the kettle being filled. The sound of the biscuit tin lid being opened. She refused to look… ‘I was going to c-call you but…’ But it had gone clean out of her head. Her important meeting, her job, pretty much everything. That’s what a man like Hal North could do to you with nothing more than a kiss. ‘I f-fell off my bike.’

‘Have you been to the hospital?’ he asked, seriously concerned now, which only added to her guilt.

‘It’s not that bad, truly.’ And it wasn’t. She just needed to get a grip, pull herself together. ‘Just the odd bump and scrape, but there was rather a lot of mud,’ she said, attempting to make light of it. ‘Once I’ve had a quick shower I’ll be out of here. With luck I’ll catch the eleven o’clock bus.’

‘No, no… These things can shake you up. We can manage without you.’

Her immediate reaction was to protest—that was so not something she wanted to hear—but for some reason she appeared to be shaking like a jelly. If she hadn’t been sitting down, she would almost certainly have collapsed in heap.

‘Take the rest of the week off, put your feet up. We’ll see you on Monday.’

‘If you insist,’ she said, just to be sure that he was telling her, she wasn’t begging. ‘I’ll call Mr Peascod now to apologise. Reschedule for Monday.’

‘Oh, don’t worry about Charlie. I’m taking him to lunch and, let’s face it, he’s much more likely to be indiscreet after a glass of wine.’

Of course he was. All boys together. On the golf course or down the pub. No need for Brian Gough to make an effort with his hair, wear his best suit, flutter his eyelashes. He’d take Charlie to the King’s Head and over a plate of their best roast beef—on expenses—he’d hear all about what was going on at Cranbrook Park. It was how it had always been done.

Forget the news desk. At this rate, she’d be writing up meetings of the Townswomen’s Guild, reviewing the Christmas panto until she was drawing her pension. Thank goodness for the ‘Greenfly and Dandelions’ blog she wrote for the Armstrong Newspaper Group website. At least no one else on the staff could write that.

And that was the good news.

All that expensive education notwithstanding, it was as good as a single mother without a degree, a single mother who had to put her child first could hope for. Even then she was luckier than most women in her situation. Luckier than she deserved according to her mother.

The bad news was that the Observer was cutting back on staff and a single mother with childcare issues was going to be top of the chop list.

‘All done?’ Hal unhooked a couple of mugs from the dresser, keeping an eye on Claire while he filled a bowl with warm water. Despite her insistence that she was fine, she was deathly pale.