Kitabı oku: «His Honourable Surgeon», sayfa 3

CHAPTER FOUR

JAKE was in the middle of reviewing patient files ready for clinic when there was a knock on his door.

‘Come in,’ he called, and blinked in surprise when he saw Vicky. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I’d like to discuss a patient with you.’ She carried some films and a file with her. ‘My ED case.’

So it had been a genuine case—not just a phone call from a friend she’d phoned earlier and asked to give her an excuse to get out of having breakfast with him. He’d wondered. And he was shocked at the rush of pleasure he felt now he knew it hadn’t been an excuse. ‘Sure.’

She quickly explained Violet Carter’s case to him. ‘From the symptoms, I thought it was a TIA. Carotid rather than vertebrobasilar. Anyways, the ECG shows I was right. There’s carotid bruit.’ Carotid bruit was a murmur over the carotid artery in the neck, showing that blood was having difficulty passing through the blood vessel.

‘And?’

‘I want to send her down to Radiology for magnetic resonance angiography to check the site of narrowing. If the stenosis is big enough, I’d recommend an endarterectomy.’

An endarterectomy was surgery to remove the lining of the arteries: a very delicate operation. Jake remembered what she’d said that morning about wanting more surgical experience. ‘Have you done any before?’

‘A couple by open surgery.’

‘How about endoscopically?’

‘No.’

‘Right. Let me have a look at the MRA results. If we can do it endoscopically, I’ll lead and you assist; if it’s open surgery, you lead and I’ll assist. If both sides are affected, maybe you can do one and I’ll do the other.’

Vicky nodded. ‘She’s a nice woman, Jake. I like her. Feisty, independent—she’s really going to hate the idea of being an inpatient.’

Yeah. Jake knew someone else like that. Except—

No. Now wasn’t the time to think of Lily. Or wish he’d known back then what he knew now. If only he’d insisted…But he hadn’t. He’d deferred to her wishes.

He couldn’t change the past. Only the future—for someone else.

‘Let me know when you’ve got the results. I’m in clinic for the rest of the morning.’

‘OK.’ She gave him an odd look. But he wasn’t in the mood to find out why. He just wanted to see his patients and get his head back to where it ought to be before he met Violet Carter.

When Vicky reviewed the results, she sighed inwardly. Eighty per cent stenosis—the arteries were severely narrowed, which meant nowhere near enough blood was getting through them. This was definitely a case for operating.

She went to see Violet Carter. ‘How are you doing?’ she asked.

‘Fine. Can I go home now?’ Violet asked.

‘No. I’ve found out what caused your funny turn this morning. Your carotid arteries are narrowed.’ Gently, she ran her finger along one side of Violet’s neck. ‘They run both sides of your neck and they supply the blood to your brain. If they become narrow, not enough blood or oxygen reaches your brain.’

‘So what does that mean?’

‘They’re narrowed because some fatty material in your blood sticks to the lining of your arteries—it’s called atherosclerosis. You have a choice. We can do an operation called an endarterectomy—what that does is remove the lining of the arteries and the stuff that’s starting to block them, and the lining will grow back within a couple of weeks of surgery.’

As she’d expected, Violet caught on quickly. ‘And if I don’t have the operation?’

‘They could block completely. Which means you’ll have a full-blown stroke. If you want the figures, about half of people who have a TIA have a stroke within a year, and twenty per cent of those have a stroke within a month.’

‘And if I have a stroke, I’ll have to go into a home instead of being in my own place.’

Vicky nodded. ‘You won’t be able to look after yourself. You’ll need care.’

‘If I have the operation, I’ll be all right.’

‘There are no guarantees—but the odds are loaded in your favour.’

Violet seemed to be thinking about it. ‘Would I be awake during the operation?’

‘No, you’d have a general anaesthetic.’

Violet sighed. ‘So I’m going to have to stay in.’

‘For a few days,’ Vicky explained.

‘Which means I have to tell my daughter.’

‘If you were my mum, I’d want to know,’ Vicky said.

‘Your mum’s lucky,’ Violet grumbled. ‘She’s got a sensible one who doesn’t panic and run around like a headless chicken.’

Vicky’s common sense was nothing to do with Mara. Besides, there wasn’t room for two headless chickens in a family.

She pushed the thought away.

‘I hope she appreciates you,’ Violet said.

Vicky made a noncommittal sound. Mara didn’t understand her and always said Vicky should have been born a boy. Especially after Vicky, as a five-year-old, had taken scissors to her tutu and ballet shoes and threatened to chop off her hair if anyone made her go back to ballet lessons. Mara also hadn’t appreciated Vicky getting herself expelled from finishing school in the first week. Or finding out that she could get herself made a ward of court so she could do her A-levels if Mara tried to make her go to another finishing school.

‘I’ll ring your daughter and explain the situation,’ Vicky said. ‘I can get you on this afternoon’s list, if you’d like to sign the consent form.’

‘And you’ll be doing the operation?’

‘With our consultant, Jake Lewis. I’ll introduce you to him before the operation,’ Vicky said. ‘Oh, and in the meantime…’ She pulled a magazine out of her pocket. ‘Just to stop you getting bored.’

Violet took the puzzle book and flicked through it. ‘Oh, yes! It’s got those logic problems in it. I like them.’ She smiled at Violet. ‘Thank you, love. That’s really kind of you.’

‘Pleasure. I had a feeling you’d enjoy it.’ Because Vicky could see herself like Violet, in forty years’ time. Except she wouldn’t have a daughter fussing over her, or teenage grandchildren. She just hoped a stranger would show her that same kindness.

Vicky introduced Jake to Violet, and noted approvingly that Jake treated the elderly woman with respect, rather than talking down to her. He explained exactly what they were going to do and how long she’d need to be in afterwards, and that they were going to do the operation by keyhole surgery.

Though when they were scrubbing up, she noticed the brooding expression in his eyes.

‘Are you all right?’ she asked.

‘Fine,’ he said curtly.

Hmm. Maybe it was surgeon’s nerves. Every surgeon she knew was keyed up before an operation—which was a good thing, as it meant they weren’t taking their skills for granted and there was less chance of them being sloppy. Some people talked too much when they were nervous. Jake clearly went the other way and barely spoke at all.

Jake had chosen to operate to Corelli, surprising her. She’d expected him to work to pop music rather than classical. Then she was cross with herself for reacting in the same snobbish way Mara would have done. Sure, Jake had an East-End accent rather than a posh one, but since when did the way you spoke dictate your tastes in music?

He talked her through the two-hour operation, clearing one artery himself and then giving her a chance to work on the other carotid artery. She liked the way he worked: deft, neat, precise. But as soon as the operation was over he seemed to switch back to the brooding, uncommunicative man he’d been while scrubbing up.

Something was wrong. Not the operation—it had been a complete success. She didn’t think it had been anything she’d done either. So had this op brought back bad memories? A patient he hadn’t been able to save?

When Violet was out of the recovery room and had settled back on the ward—with her daughter fussing round her bedside—Vicky quietly slipped out to the canteen on her break. She bought a slice of carrot cake and two coffees—he took his black and sweet, she remembered—then headed for Jake’s office and rapped on the door.

‘Come in.’

He was doing paperwork at his desk, and there was strain in the lines of his face.

‘What’s this?’ he asked when she closed the door behind her and put the coffee and cake on his desk.

‘Carrot cake.’

Cake. The Hon. Victoria Radley had brought him cake. ‘Why?’

She shrugged. ‘The men in my life are cake addicts.’

Jake tried to squash the pinpricks of jealousy. He had no right to be jealous. She was a colleague—a distant colleague at that, barely even an acquaintance. The men in my life… He didn’t think she meant that she had a string of men, but clearly she’d been good at keeping her relationships secret from the hospital grapevine. ‘Oh.’

‘Our cook made the best cake in the world,’ she said, almost as if explaining. ‘Which is why both my brothers are putty in the hands of any woman who gives them cake.’

Jake frowned. Was this her way of saying she wanted him to be putty in her hands? Or was she just explaining about the men in her life—her brothers?

As if in answer to his unspoken question, she said quietly, ‘You looked upset earlier. I wanted to make you feel a bit better. It’s also an apology for running out on you over breakfast this morning.’

He shrugged. ‘No problem. You were paged.’

‘Want to talk about it?’ she asked.

Then he realised what was going on. Vicky had made a fuss over little Declan, who’d been bullied. She’d fussed over Violet, too, but on the old lady’s terms—practical things, like bringing her a puzzle magazine. And now she was quietly adding him to her collection of lame ducks, bringing him cake and offering him a sympathetic ear.

‘I’m fine,’ he said stiffly.

‘No, you’re not. It’s something to do with Violet.’

How did she know?

She must have been able to read his mind, because she said quietly, ‘She got to me, too. I never really knew my grandparents because they died when I was very young. Violet’s the kind I would’ve liked as a gran.’ Her smile was suddenly bleak.

Jake knew exactly where she was coming from. The same place as him. Loss and loneliness. ‘She reminds me of my nan,’ he admitted.

‘You were close to her?’

He nodded. ‘She brought me up. My mum was a singer and Dad was her manager. They were always on the road, and Nan refused to let them drag me along with a home tutor or put me in boarding school. She said kids need a steady place to grow up.’ He looked away. ‘They were in America, flying interstate on my mum’s first US tour, when their plane crashed.’

He was half expecting Vicky to trot out the usual platitudes or try to work out who his mum was, but she surprised him. ‘Hard for you. How old were you?’

‘Twelve.’

‘That’s a really tough age to lose your parents.’

Something in her voice made him look at her. The expression on her face…she knew exactly how it had felt. It had happened to one of her schoolfriends, probably. Another of her lame ducks.

‘Yeah. But at least I had Nan.’ Then, to his horror, the words he’d tried to bury whispered out of him. ‘I just wish she’d seen me qualify.’

‘Missed it by much?’

‘Two terms.’

‘Ouch. But, if it helps, she’d have known from your prelims that you’d qualify.’

At least Vicky hadn’t gushed that his gran would have been proud of him. He appreciated that, because how did you ever know exactly how someone else felt—especially if you’d never met that person? That kind of reaction always drove him crazy.

Vicky Radley, on the other hand, was calm, practical and sensible.

He took a sip of his coffee to buy himself some time, and discovered that Vicky had sweetened it exactly to his taste. Which meant she was observant. He already knew she was clever, so she’d probably guess whatever he didn’t tell her. So he may as well spill the rest of it. ‘Nan died of a stroke. She had a TIA first, except she wouldn’t admit there was anything wrong. It was only when our neighbour found her that she admitted she’d had a “funny turn”. I rang home that night and got Bridget, who told me. I tried to get Nan to see her GP for a check-up at the very least. But she insisted it was nothing and I was making a fuss. Nan was one of the old school.’

‘Stiff upper lip?’

‘Sort of.’ Though not posh, like Vicky’s family. Lily Lewis had had backbone. ‘She grew up in London during the Blitz. She hated being evacuated, so she ran away and made her way back to the East End. The way she saw it, if she managed to get through the war without being hit by a flying V, she wasn’t going to let anything else throw her.’ Including losing her only child. Lily had been the rock Jake had leaned on after the plane crash, and, even though her heart must have been breaking, she’d held it together for his sake. ‘She’d just take the “funny turns” in her stride and pretend they hadn’t happened.’

‘TIAs.’

‘Yeah. She wouldn’t listen to me. And she ended up having a stroke.’

‘So that’s why you specialised in neurology?’ she guessed.

He didn’t want to answer that, though he guessed that the muscle he felt tightening in his jaw would give him away. ‘If you hadn’t persuaded Violet to let us do the endarterectomy, I’d have told her about my nan.’

‘Bullied her into having it done?’

‘Guilt-tripped her into it,’ Jake corrected. Then he saw a flicker of a grin on Vicky’s face. ‘What?’

‘Beat you to it. I told her the stats and let her work it out for herself: she could have it done and go back to her own home, or risk a stroke and being stuck in a care home. Or—worse, in her view—being fussed over in her daughter’s home.’

‘You understand your patients well.’ With a flash of intuition, Jake guessed, ‘You’re the same, aren’t you? You hate being fussed over.’

She nodded. ‘Worst nightmare. Comes of being the youngest of three—and the only girl.’

‘I remember you told me your brothers are both doctors. What are their fields?’

‘Plastics and ED. And they insist on referring to me as “our baby sister, the brain surgeon”.’

Teasing, but he’d guess that they were proud of her. And that they knew exactly what she was like: if they made a fuss over her and told her how they felt, she’d shut them out. So they teased her instead, saying the words in the way they knew she’d accept them.

Her family. People who loved her. Jake forced the surge of envy down. He’d made his decision years ago. Losing one family—his parents—had hurt enough. Losing his second, his nan, had been even harder. And he wasn’t going to risk it a third time. He’d go out with the crowd, sure. But he wasn’t letting anyone close. Wasn’t going to have another family that he could lose.

And that included Vicky Radley. Despite the fact that his whole body yearned to touch her, hold her, he wasn’t going to take the risk.

Asking her to breakfast this morning had been a mistake. He’d been listening to his libido instead of his common sense. Well, he wasn’t going to make that mistake again. ‘Thanks for the coffee and cake,’ he said, though he hadn’t touched a crumb. ‘See you later.’

‘Sure.’

To his relief, she took the hint and left his office.

Though he could still feel her presence in the room after she’d left. Still smell her perfume. And it made him ache for her.

An ache he dared not let himself soothe.

CHAPTER FIVE

A MONTH they’d been working together. Four short weeks. And Vicky couldn’t get Jake out of her head. Worst of all, she’d gone to Chloë’s christening, had had a cuddle with her goddaughter at the party afterwards and had had this weird almost-vision of holding another baby.

A baby with huge brown eyes, just like her daddy’s.

This was bad. Really bad. Vicky never, but never, fantasised like that. She didn’t want children and she didn’t want a life partner. She wanted a career. She wanted to blaze a trail in medicine and discover new things. She wanted to save people.

So why couldn’t she get his face out of her head?

It was worse because she’d seen him practically naked at the pool. Jake’s swimming shorts were perfectly demure, but she’d seen him dive into the pool at the gym they both went to. She’d seen his perfect musculature, the light sprinkling of hair on his chest, his strong, sturdy body. And she’d wanted to touch—something that had sent her straight to the side of the pool and out to the showers before she’d done something stupid. Like suggesting breakfast together. And not after a session at the gym, either.

She really had to do something about it. Sooner rather than later.

She sealed the envelope, addressed it and wrote PERSONAL on the front so Jake’s secretary wouldn’t open it, then slipped into Jake’s office and put it in his in-tray.

Jake stood at the top of the Canary Wharf tower. He’d done this before, and he knew it was safe—he had a harness on and protective clothing—but adrenalin was still fizzing through him. In a couple of minutes he’d be walking backwards off one of the tallest buildings in London. Abseiling his way down.

And the ward had come up trumps. Everyone had signed his sponsor form, from the auxiliary staff through to the director of Neurology, even though the money wasn’t going to benefit their hospital.

Maybe the name had tipped them off. The Lily Lewis Unit. Named in honour of his grandmother—even though they hadn’t been able to save her—because of the amount of money Jake had raised in her memory. Money that had bought vital equipment for the unit. Money that had saved people, the way he hadn’t been able to save his grandmother.

He’d jumped out of planes—twice, once for his mum and once for his dad—and swum the equivalent of the English Channel. He’d abseiled down several buildings in London. Bungee-jumped from a bridge in New Zealand. Run marathons.

He couldn’t think of a better way of using his spare time.

‘This one’s for you, Nan,’ he whispered, as he stepped backwards into space.

And he ignored the fact that it was a pair of slate-blue eyes in his mind, not his grandmother’s twinkling brown ones.

The following morning, Jake was going through his in-tray when he found an envelope. Handwriting he didn’t recognise. Marked PERSONAL.

Odd. He slit the top of the envelope and shook out the contents. It was a cheque—a large cheque—from the account of V. C. Radley, made payable to the Lily Lewis Unit.

What on earth…?

He looked in the envelope again, but there was no note. Just the cheque.

Minimum fuss, like Vicky herself.

But she’d already signed his sponsorship form, given him a similar donation to those of the other senior staff. This didn’t add up.

He slipped the cheque back into the envelope, put it in his jacket pocket, then went in search of her on the ward. ‘Sorry for interrupting,’ he said quietly to the patient she was talking to. ‘Dr Radley, could I have a word in my office when you’re free?’

‘Of course, Mr Lewis.’ Polite and neutral, just like he’d sounded.

Though inside he was fizzing. Just seeing her face drove his pulse up several notches. Oh, this was bad. He didn’t do relationships. He was focused on his career and on fundraising. He didn’t have space in his life for anybody. Especially someone who was so far out of his social league, she may as well be from another planet.

He forced himself to go steadily through his paperwork, but he found himself looking at the clock every few seconds. And it was another twenty minutes before she knocked on his office door.

‘Take a seat,’ he said, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk.

‘What’s the problem?’ she asked as she sat down.

‘You’ve already given me a cash donation. Why this?’ He took the envelope from his jacket and waved it at her.

She shrugged. ‘Why not?’

‘Vicky, that’s an awful lot of money.’

She was silent for a moment. Then she sighed. ‘The grapevine must have told you by now about my family.’

‘Well, yes,’ he admitted.

‘My father was a baron.’

Was, he noted. Past tense. So their discussion a few days ago…Maybe she’d been sympathetic because she’d been there herself, not just supported a friend through it.

‘I inherited money from the estate when I was much, much younger—money that my trustees invested in property. Which means I don’t have a mortgage, and as a senior registrar I’m on a decent salary.’ She stood up again and pushed her chair back. ‘So it’s not the big gesture you think it is. I can afford it. And I’d rather give the money to a good cause that will make a real difference to someone’s life than waste it going clubbing and ordering bottles of overpriced champagne to rack up the profits of some sleazy barman.’

Any second now she was going to walk through that door and things between them would be awkward to the point of screaming. He was making a real mess of this. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said quickly. ‘I meant to say thank you—and I wanted to say it quietly and without embarrassing you, the same way you gave me this cheque. But I’m a bit overwhelmed. People don’t usually give me donations this big—not unless they’ve lost someone, too.’ Was that it? Had her father died from a stroke, which was why she’d specialised in neurology?

She didn’t meet his eye. ‘Consider your thanks accepted.’

‘Vicky.’ He couldn’t leave it like this between them. ‘Can I take you out to dinner?’

‘No need.’

She thought he was trying to come on to her. Well, he was. And he wasn’t. ‘I meant, in friendship. As a way of saying thank you for your support. I’m not trying to talk you into a date.’ Ha. Not much. He hadn’t been able stop thinking about her since he’d met her, and he was getting close to the point of breaking all his personal rules and asking her out for real.

‘I’d rather you took the money you’d spend on a meal and added it to the fund.’

OK. So she didn’t want dinner. She was probably used to being wined and dined in all the best restaurants in London. Places where you had to have a name to get a table, or book up about a year in advance. Places where dinner for two would cost a week’s wages for the average person.

So maybe he should offer her something different. ‘OK. How about next time we both have a day off, you let me take you somewhere out of London?’

‘Where?’

Vicky nearly clapped her hand over her mouth in horror. The word she’d meant to say was ‘no’. ‘Where’ was tantamount to saying ‘yes’.

‘Come with me and you’ll find out.’

Tempting. Too, too tempting. Just as she was about to grab her self-control with both hands and throttle it into submission, he added, ‘As a friend.’

A friend? She’d never actually had a male friend. Except Seb and Charlie, and they didn’t count because they were her brothers.

‘Please?’

The word—coupled with the look in those deep, dark eyes—undid her. ‘OK.’

He smiled. ‘Good. By the way, you’ll need to wear jeans and trainers.’

Hmm. She had running shoes, the ones she used at the gym. But jeans…She never wore jeans. Always suits. ‘Why?’

‘You’ll see when we get there. So shall we synchronise off-duty?’

That sounded so cool and professional, it couldn’t possibly be a date. Vicky relaxed and took her PDA from the pocket of her white coat. ‘Fine.’

‘Next Wednesday?’ Jake suggested.

This was too close to a date for her comfort, but she swallowed the panic. He hadn’t meant it as a date. ‘I can do that.’

‘Pick you up at your place?’

Her hesitation must have tipped him off, because he added, ‘Not because I’m going to stalk you. But because it’ll be quicker.’

‘All right.’ She gave him her address.

‘Ten o’clock. So the rush hour is over.’

‘Ten o’clock.’ She typed ‘JL’ next to the date and time in her PDA. ‘I have a ward round to finish, unless there was anything else?’

‘No. See you later, then.’

Vicky made a noncommittal noise, and left his office.

Several times over the next three days she was tempted to cancel the arrangement. Except it wasn’t a date…was it? All the same, she bought a pair of jeans. And at three minutes to ten on Wednesday morning she was leaning against the window-sill of her living room, which overlooked the road. Ninety seconds or so later, she saw a small red car pull into the parking space nearest to the gate, and Jake climbed out.

She’d seen him in a suit at work. She’d seen him in his swimming gear. But she wasn’t prepared for the sight of Jake in a pair of faded denims, a crew-necked black sweater and sunglasses. He looked positively edible, and she had to take six deep breaths before she was able to answer her door and maintain her façade of being cool and professional.

He gave her a long, appraising look, then nodded in approval. ‘You’ll do.’

It was one of those bright, warm April days, so she didn’t bother with a coat. She made sure her door was double-locked, then followed him to his car.

He wasn’t playing classical music on the stereo, she noticed. So maybe that bit in Theatre had been a pose, something to impress.

As if he guessed what she was thinking, he said, ‘This is what I drive to rather than work to.’

‘Who is it?’

‘Keith Urban. Aussie country rock.’

She’d never heard of him. ‘It’s nice.’

For a moment, she thought she saw him grin. Amused, because she was being so polite. She hated people laughing at her. She folded her arms. ‘So where are we going?’

‘You’ll see when we get there. Sit back and relax,’ he advised.

There was nothing else she could do. Obviously, he knew exactly where he was going, so he didn’t need her to navigate. Sitting doing nothing made her uncomfortable—she never lazed around like this—but she hadn’t thought to bring a journal with her.

That was when she realised she’d expected him to make conversation. Except he didn’t. He just drove and hummed along to the CD. In some respects, that was good: there was no pressure to be polite. But Vicky grew more and more keyed up, trying to work out where they were going. It wasn’t immediately obvious from the signposts; the M25 circled London so it could lead to just about anywhere. But when they turned off onto the A127… ‘Southend? We’re going to the seaside?’

‘It’s the nearest coast to London,’ he said.

The seaside. Vicky couldn’t ever remember going to the seaside as a child. They’d always had a week skiing at Klosters in the spring, then a week in Derbyshire with some distant relatives where her father had taken the boys climbing and Vicky had been stuck tagging along with Mara and a bunch of girls who’d liked dressing up and had regarded her as weird. That had been when Vicky had discovered a book of card games and had taught herself poker—then had fleeced her brothers of their pocket money until they’d agreed to make their father take her climbing, too.

After their father died, they hadn’t gone skiing any more. She hadn’t had the heart for it. And the idea of going on holiday with Barry, Mara’s husband, hadn’t borne thinking about. She’d used studying as an excuse to get out of family holidays, and the habit had stuck.

‘Don’t look so worried. You might even enjoy it,’ he said softly as he parked the car.

‘Sorry. I don’t usually spend my days off like this.’

‘You spend them studying.’ He smiled at her. ‘Well, today you’re playing hookey. Recharging your batteries. And you’ll be so relaxed that you’ll catch up with your studies in record time tonight.’

She followed him out of the car. The seaside. The sound of the wind whipping the water into froth. Seagulls shrieking. Maybe it was the school holidays or something, because there were children on the beach, making sandcastles.

Vicky had never made a sandcastle.

Almost as if Jake had read her mind, he dived into the nearest shop and came out with two buckets and two spades.

She frowned. ‘What are those for?’

‘Challenge. Loser buys lunch.’

‘What sort of challenge?’

He grinned. ‘Biggest sandcastle wins.’

She knew the theory, but practice was another matter. She hadn’t played with sand since nursery school. Her first bucketful of sand was fine. The second was missing a corner, and the third collapsed completely. And somehow Jake was already on the second storey of his castle.

He must have seen the dismay on her face, because he stopped. ‘Change of rules. We’re working as a team.’

‘It’s OK.’ This was the sort of thing Jake ought to be doing with his kids, not with her. Not that he had any kids—well, to her knowledge. But he was clearly the sort of man who wanted children, wanted a family. Unlike her. She wanted her career. First, last and always.

‘I have an unfair advantage, because I spent two weeks at the seaside every year,’ he said. ‘Nan used to find us a bed and breakfast somewhere on the east coast, usually wherever Mum had a summer season booked. I used to sit backstage while Mum sang at night, but we used to spend the days together on the beach, making sandcastles and looking for shells and poking around in rock pools and skipping stones. I even found some fossils when we went to Whitby one year. I found some jet, too.’

Simple, childish pleasures. Vicky had never had that. Her father had always been too busy with the estate—and when he hadn’t, he’d tended to concentrate on Charlie. Mara had only wanted to do girly things—things that had bored Vicky rigid—so she’d found a hidey-hole in the attic at Weston where she could read. All she’d needed had been her torch, a glass of milk and the doorstep sandwiches Cook had wrapped in greaseproof paper and smuggled up to her.

‘Sounds like fun.’ She strove to keep the wistfulness from her voice.

‘It was. We didn’t have much money after my parents died, but Nan always saved up for our holiday. She said there’s something about the sea air that blows your troubles away.’

‘I don’t have any troubles.’

He could see that. ‘I guessed this one really wrong.’

‘How do you mean?’

He’d made a mess of it. May as well finish it with honesty. ‘You didn’t strike me as the sort who ever went to the seaside. I wanted to give you a day with a difference.’