10. Australian Shiraz
Inviting aromas, rich and spicy with a disappointing finish.

Gaynor sat in a chair outside Sam’s back door, still wearing his dressing gown, eating the toast he’d made her. The garden here was nowhere near as big as in the front. There was just a small patio area with a square of lawn and a few tubs.

All the glorious colour was in the front but Sam had led her out here, presumably thinking she shouldn’t sit in another man’s bathrobe in full view of the streams of Folk fans and locals wandering along the cliff top to the town.

“Won’t Victor have phoned home?” Sam asked. “Won’t he be wondering where you were?”

Gaynor shrugged. “Probably not. He can phone my mobile if he’s worried, can’t he.” She pulled a face. “But he won’t be. And I don’t much care if he is.”

She smiled at Sam. She felt strangely peaceful in an odd, pummelled, washed-out way. Like she’d walked twenty miles and just got out of a hot bath or woken after a night of very good sex.

Which she hadn’t. She didn’t know how long he’d stayed in bed with her. When she’d woken next, the room had been full of bright sunshine and she’d been startled to see from the bedside clock that it was almost eleven. She’d come downstairs to find Sam reading the paper. He’d got different clothes on and had shaved. He’d looked up as if her being there was quite normal. “Tea?” he’d asked, matter-offactly.

Now he looked at her seriously. “Come on. Be sensible. You’d better get home.”

She looked at him coquettishly. “Are you throwing me out? Have I overstayed my welcome?”

He sat down in a garden chair opposite her. “Don’t be silly. I’m thinking of you. I don’t want you to get into trouble – sounds as if you’ve got enough complications there already.”

Gaynor crunched at the last corner of toast and stretched. “I feel better. I feel very philosophical this morning.”

“That’s because you’ve had an emotional release. But the facts haven’t changed. You’ve still got a marriage that needs sorting out.”

Gaynor pouted. She thought about him climbing into bed with her and wished he’d put his arms around her again. “Torchlight procession tonight. Do you like Folk Week or are you glad it’s nearly over?”

“I don’t know. Don’t know much about it.”

She looked at him in surprise. “What – don’t you go to anything? But you still see it and hear it – you can’t really avoid it living here, can you?”

“It’s the first year I’ve been here. I’ve seen the old Morris dancers wandering about – I heard a couple of guys playing in your bar the other night…” He shrugged.

“Oh, I thought you’d lived here ages.”

“No.”

“Let’s go tonight,” she said brightly. “I’m not working

– Kate and Jack are both on. And Claire’s brother Neill and his mate Seb are staying – they’ll help if things get frantic. Let’s wander around the pubs and see the procession. You’ll love it – it’s a great atmosphere.”

Sam raised his eyebrows. “Is that a good idea? Should you be walking around with a strange man who’s not your husband?”

Gaynor shook her head dismissively. “It’s Folk Week – there’ll be thousands of people out and nobody will take a blind bit of notice. Anyway,” she went on, “I’m allowed

friends aren’t I? He obviously has them!”

“And do you?”

She looked sideways at him. “Are you asking if I have affairs?”

“I suppose I am, though it’s none of my business,”

“Well I don’t. I think people think I do. I’m quite flirty and cuddly and I mess around sometimes – well, you know that –” She felt herself blush. “But I’ve never – you know.”

She felt all at once guilty and compelled to tell the truth. She gazed at the scarlet mass of red geranium that burst from an old chimney pot on the paving stones and took a deep breath. “I nearly did once. I was drunk –” she laughed self-consciously “– again and this guy I’ve known for ages – he always tries it on – he’s very good-looking and all the women fancy him and, I don’t know – Victor was away and being awful half the time anyway – it was when he started getting all these funny moods and Danny, he was just sort of there…” She stopped and met Sam’s eyes, appealing to him to understand. He looked back calmly.

“I was out with my friend Lizzie,” Gaynor went on, “and she’s worse than me! We ended up at Lizzie’s flat with Danny and his mate Pete, and Danny made it very clear, you know. I was flattered and I very nearly but…”

“Is he the one who was waiting for you the other night out there?” Sam jerked his head backwards towards the front of the house.

She looked at him, alarmed. “Were you watching?”

“I just happened to look out of the window and I saw him spring out at you. I was a bit concerned – I just watched for a moment in case you needed any help. But you seemed to know him so – ” He shrugged.

“Yes, he gave me a lift home. Nothing happened…”

“As I said, it’s none of my business.”

“No, but I’m telling you it didn’t. I feel bad about the way I behave. You know – I still feel awkward about that first night with you in Greens. I always wake up in the morning and cringe at myself, but I don’t know – when I’ve had a drink I…”

He picked up her mug. “You’re as you are. No point beating yourself.”

“You didn’t like it much.”

“It was a bit of a surprise!” He smiled. “And I’m a miserable old git. But no harm done. The only one you seem to hurt is yourself. More tea?”

He went inside. She sat in the sunshine and drew her feet up on to the edge of her seat and hugged her knees. She felt peculiar. There was something of the confessional in talking to Sam. Part of her felt a huge urge to tell him all her sins. To hear his soothing tones telling her she was all right really – even if she knew she wasn’t.

She suddenly wanted to tell him everything…

But she smiled brightly when he came back. “What made you come to Broadstairs, then?”

He put a fresh tea down and sat next to her, gazing down the garden.

“We used to come to Margate when I was a child. When I came out of the police, I was in a bad way. Debra, my daughter, she suggested we came down here for a day out – she was trying to cheer me up.”

Gaynor laughed. “By coming to Margate? Who needs enemies when you’ve got relatives?”

He smiled wryly. “She meant well. But it wasn’t as I remembered. I didn’t feel comfortable there at all. But then we drove over here. Just by accident really – just drifted along the coast. Parked on the jetty, had a wander about – Debra wanted fish and chips – and then we came up here and this was for sale…” His voice was distant, almost as if he were talking to himself.

“It was the garden.” He was staring down at the flint wall at the bottom of the small patch of grass. “It was completely overgrown and neglected but I could see what was there.” He shook his head. “I told Debra I wanted to make an offer on it. I barely looked inside the house.”

“What did she say?”

“She told me to think about it. I said I had.”

“So,” he said, suddenly brisk again. “I sold up and came down here. Nothing to keep me in London any more. My son Joe’s abroad, teaching English in Italy, Debra’s got her own life – she’s very capable and independent – and property prices down here were a fraction of up there. I swapped a flat for this!”

“How long ago did your wife die?” Gaynor felt hesitant, wondering whether Sam would keep talking or suddenly clam up again.

“Six years ago, nearly. Debra was sixteen, Joe two years younger. Terrible age to lose a mother. Well, any age is, I suppose.”

“Is your mother alive?” Now she’d started questioning, Gaynor couldn’t seem to stop.

He shook his head. “No. Neither of them are now. I think that’s what cracked me up. There was Eleanor dying and having to hold things together for the kids and working all sorts of hours and then my father died and my mother just fell apart. I dealt with that – I had to – but after she’d gone, I fell apart myself. And then –” he gave an odd bitter laugh “– the kids had to look after me. Well they didn’t have to – I told them to get on with their own things but they were wonderful.” He sounded suddenly moved and stood up, picking up their mugs and her plate.

“I expect that’s because you’d been wonderful to them,” said Gaynor. “I can imagine you being a lovely father.” She suddenly felt all emotional again and turned gratefully towards the cat. “Oh look – hello, gorgeous.”

A sparrow that had been perched on a tub flapped away in alarm as Brutus sprang up on to the arm of her chair and stepped on to her lap, back arched. She stroked him and he rubbed the side of his face into her with pleasure.

“Where’ve you been?” Sam dropped his free hand on to the back of the cat’s head and he purred deeply. “You been down the jetty scrounging again? He came back the other day reeking of fish,” he said in an ordinary voice. “Knew straight away what he’d been up to.” He moved his hand to Gaynor’s shoulder. “And that’s what they’ll say about you if you don’t go home!”

She stood in the kitchen doorway once she was dressed, watching him rinse the breakfast things.

“So, shall we go out tonight?” she asked shyly.

He slotted a plate into the plastic drainer. “If you’re sure it’s OK.”

She nodded. “It’s OK. I’ll go home and get sorted out. I’ll come back at eight or something…” She hesitated for a moment and then crossed the room, put her arms around him and hugged him. “Thank you for having me.”

A flicker of amusement crossed his face; his hands were wet and soapy but he raised one eyebrow as he squeezed her back with the crook of one arm. And she found herself smiling too. And wondering for a mad moment, as a frisson ran through her, what it would have been like if he really had…

The house felt strange and empty as if she’d been away a long time instead of just one night. Chloe had left a message on the answer-phone at ten the night before. Gaynor looked at her untouched bed and suddenly felt a stab of guilt – what would Victor say if he knew she’d spent the night in another man’s, however innocently? Suppose he’d phoned the wine bar and Claire had told him she’d gone early? She shook her head. He wouldn’t do that – he’d try home and then ring her mobile. But there was never much signal down at the bottom of the town there so if he couldn’t get through…

As she looked at it, the phone rang again, making her jump.

“Where’ve you been?” Chloe demanded.

Gaynor felt herself spluttering: “When? What do you mean?”

“I called last night and this morning. Dad’s mobile’s been switched off the whole time and yours…”

“I was working in the wine bar. Didn’t get home till the early hours,” said Gaynor, making a snap decision to lie through her teeth and hope for the best. “I was late up this morning – must have slept through the phone or been in the shower or something. Victor’s away – there’s a big presentation up in Edinburgh – some radio station pitch or something.”

“Oh!” Chloe sounded displeased. “I wanted to see when Ollie and I could come down.”

“Well, anytime,” said Gaynor with forced cheer, adding, “when Victor’s back of course. I don’t know what…”

“And why’s his phone switched off?”

“I really don’t know.”

But it was a very good question, thought Gaynor, dialling the number herself. The answer-phone cut in at once. She slammed down the receiver ready to slap that robotic-sounding operator – she’d heard enough of her lately to last a lifetime.

On impulse she dialled EBDT.

“His daughter’s been trying to get hold of him,” she told Ziggy, not wanting to sound too desperate.

Ziggy was unfazed. “They’ve got back-to-back meetings all day,” she said brightly. “You want me to get him paged at the hotel? Or I’ll get hold of Laurence?” Gaynor relaxed. So he was at least where he said he was.

“Don’t worry, I’ll catch him later.” Gaynor made her own voice sound casual.

“Should all be over by about four,” said Ziggy. “They’re on the 18.10 back to Heathrow.”

“Oh yes,” said Gaynor, as if she knew already, although her heart began to beat a little harder. “And where is he this evening? He did tell me but…”

There was the tiniest pause. “Not sure I’ve got that down,” said Ziggy. “Dinner with the client, I’m pretty sure…”

Yeah, right, thought Gaynor. So why not stay up in Edinburgh another night and have dinner there? Ziggy didn’t know where Victor was going, that was the truth. But playing the good secretary, she was prepared to cobble something together.

“I think it might be at Crystal’s,” Gaynor said, pretending to remember. Ziggy sounded relieved. “Could well be,” she said cheerily. “Have a good weekend yourself.”

Oh sure, Gaynor thought as she put the phone down. If it was work on a Friday night then why didn’t Ziggy know about it? And if it wasn’t, then what was he doing that was more pressing than coming home? They’d be clear of the airport by 7.30pm – plenty of time to get back to Broadstairs if he wanted to.

But as she showered, scrubbed and exfoliated, smoothed scented body lotion along her limbs, took extra care with her hair and make-up and dithered over what to wear, she realised that she was quite glad he hadn’t. Because, right now, she wanted to go out with Sam.

He’d showered too. He was wearing a soft denim shirt and smelt of soap. She suddenly wanted to feel his arms around her again, to put her head on his shoulder once more.

“You look nice,” he said.

She looked down at her pink jeans and cropped T-shirt and ran a hand across her stomach. “I’ve been wondering whether to get my belly button pierced.”

He screwed up his nose. “I wouldn’t.”

She stood in the garden as he locked his front door. The air was soft – she could smell the jasmine that climbed up the side wall. The sea opposite was oily smooth, the evening sun gleaming on it. All her senses suddenly seemed heightened – colours were vibrant, sounds clear, smells evocative; even her skin felt sensitive. She looked at his fingers as he dropped the keys into his pocket, knowing he couldn’t but wishing he would take her hand. He walked along a yard apart from her, seeming awkward.

“So,” he said as they wound down the path to the jetty, behind knots of holiday-makers, “where are you taking me?”

“There’s a great group on in the Frigate,” she said. “We’ll start there?”

But from the jetty, beyond the Coastguard’s with its crooked walls and beams and white rendering, she heard the dancers. Tinkling bells and mellow chords from the accordion sounded above the large crowd. She glanced up at Sam and saw he was looking that way too.

‘Do you like Morris dancing?” she asked hopefully, already feeling uplifted by the music that floated across.

He nodded thoughtfully. “There’s a sort of innocence to it, isn’t there?”

The jetty was packed. Families sat on benches eating chips in paper, couples wandered entwined, children were pushed in buggies or carried on shoulders, babies slept in slings. Lying the length of one of the benches a huge bearded man was snoring, his pewter pot lying empty on his ample stomach. “He’s had a good day,” said Sam.

Everyone seemed to have done. Gaynor smiled at a toddler shrieking with glee from her father’s shoulders, watched the knots of tanned youngsters with their plastic glasses of beer and Bacardi Breezers. She jerked her head at Sam to follow her and began to edge her way through the crowd until they came to the inner ring surrounding the dancers.

A large woman in a voluminous patchwork dress smiled and pushed her children in front of her so Sam and Gaynor could squeeze in and get a view of the six big men in their baggy white blouses, green neckerchiefs and red trousers. She’d always been taken with Morris dancing. These were big men but they fell lightly on their feet, the bells strung around their knees jangling as they skipped too and fro, the accordion played by an old guy in coat tails, his brown wrinkled face split into a grin beneath his battered top hat.

Gaynor looked happily at Sam, enjoying the familiar scent of sea and beer, watching the dazzle of colours in the evening sunshine.

“And how many years have you been doing this?” he asked as they dropped coins in one of the yellow buckets prominently rattled before them and wandered back along the jetty.

“A fair few. I’ve been in Broadstairs ten this summer.”

“What brought you?”

“Victor. After he rescued me from the gutter.”

Sam raised his eyebrows. “Is that your appraisal of what happened, or his?”

She flushed. “Oh it’s just a joke he makes. I was working part-time in a nightclub, living in a grim old bed-sit in Kilburn. I think he fancied himself as Rex Harrison – whisking me away from it all! The first month I moved down here was August – and Folk Week.”

She remembered how enchanted she’d been. By the beach and the jetty, the little back streets, the white-washed cottages. How lucky she’d felt. How grateful…

They were still some distance from the Tartar Frigate but already she could hear the music pulsating through the open door of the old flint pub. As they reached it, she glanced through at the packed bodies.

She laughed. “Are you ready for this?”

“Mmmn,” he said, uncertainly. “The music sounds good…”

“Come on then. What do you want to drink?”

The heat and noise hit them like a warm wall. Gaynor began to wriggle through the solid mass of drinkers towards the bar. The odours of ale and suntan lotion, sweat and excitement mixed with the cigarette smoke that hung in a blue haze beneath the low beams. Over to her left, a group were belting out an Irish jig. She saw Sam’s head standing out above the crowd but the players were almost hidden from view. Still the music scorched the air, vibrated through the ancient floor boards and up into her feet. She already wanted to dance.

By the time she’d been served, Sam was near the front. He turned and saw her coming, pushing a shoulder and arm towards her, drawing her through to stand beside him. “Look.” He gestured, taking his beer, pointing to where the fiddle player, his eyes closed in some sort of ecstasy, crouched low over his bow, the strings blurring in a dizzying cascade of notes. The guitar man swayed to his strumming and the thud from the bodhran set her body twitching. She moved rhythmically to the music, tapping her foot, rocking gently against Sam.

He appeared transfixed, standing quite still, watching. As the number ended and the pub erupted into fervent applause, he clapped hard, then turned and gave her a huge smile.

“He’s good on that fiddle,” he said when they’d retreated outside for air at the end of the first set.

“I haven’t heard you play your piano yet,” Gaynor said, perching on the wooden railings that edged the jetty and looking out across the beach.

He shook his head dismissively. “Oh, I’m rusty now. I wasn’t bad once but…” He shrugged. “Life goes in other directions. There was never time – always too much else going on with the kids and stuff. I tried to get Debra to play

– she was good when she was young – seven, eight years old. The teacher said she had a real aptitude but she lost interest.” He smiled. “Debra’s very clever but she’s efficient rather than arty. Know what I mean?”

Gaynor fiddled with one of the plastic cups they’d been given to take drinks outside. “I’m neither. I always wished I’d played an instrument. David used to play the violin but my father put him off. Couldn’t stand the sound of him practising.”

“You look artistic to me. Your jewellery, your clothes and things. You strike me as creative.” “No, I’m not really.” “What are you good at, then?”

She flushed again. “Nothing.” She took a swallow of her drink, stung. It sounded like the sort of thing Victor would say.

“Hey!” He touched her arm. “I didn’t mean it like that. I meant, genuinely, tell me about what you are good at, where your talents lie.”

“I don’t have any.”

“I don’t believe that.”

They passed Greens on their way up Harbour Street. Gaynor could see it was filled to bursting point, bodies crammed together behind the glass of the large front window, groups standing on the pavement outside. She felt a moment’s tug of guilt, thinking of Sarah and Claire trying to deal with all those people, but she had phoned Sarah earlier and Sarah had said it was still OK.

“Do you need to go in?” Sam asked. She hesitated for a moment, then shook her head and led him on up the hill to where a duet of keyboard and sax were playing at The Nickleby.

It wasn’t so hot in here but their bodies were still crushed together – the length of her arm was pressed against his. She felt the reverberations of the music run through her. She stole a look at his profile; he was standing very upright, looking directly ahead, watching the group intently. She looked at his strong features, the set of his jaw. There was something very ‘straight’ about him – honest. Like you’d know where you were. Quite different from Victor – she was beginning to wonder if he ever said anything she could believe. She looked at Sam’s fingers curled around his half-full pint of beer. The same pint he’d been holding for the last hour, while she’d had several glasses of vile pub wine.

She found herself thinking of those hands touching her. She realised with a shock how much she wanted him.

When they left, the light was fading but the air was still warm and soft. Gaynor felt strangely cocooned amongst the floods of revellers, hooting and laughing as they jostled for their places on the pavement for the torchlight procession. She watched young girls in minute skirts and loud boys in baggy jeans and yawny-eyed children wearing illuminated head-bands sparkling red and green and fractious parents trying to keep hold of them. She felt light and happy.

A never-ending stream of people poured along the High Street, holding plastic beer mugs or ice creams, candy floss or burgers. Minute by minute the throng on the pavements grew thicker. Clusters of foil balloons bobbed above the heads and the air was filled with the cries of children either pleading for one or wailing after getting their wish and then letting it slip from their fingers.

Vendors carried armfuls of flashing headgear and pushed trolleys of sticky toffee apples. The air was filled with the smell of fried onions from the hot dog cart. Gaynor felt all at once that stimulation of being part of a crowd and the comfort of being lost in one.

She put a hand on Sam’s arm. “OK?”

He moved aside to let her stand in front of him at the edge of the road, so she’d have a better view, nodding at her.

From the top of the High Street lights shone. “They’re on their way, Mother,” came a loud northern voice a few yards away. A couple of policemen made their way along either side of the road. “Move back, please. Keep in.”

And then the police van with blue lights flashing and reflecting off the shop windows came past, followed by a dragon. Eight feet tall and black-cloaked, it made a show of peering into the crowd, snapping its jaws, stooping down low to bring its long teeth up into children’s faces to much squealing and adult laughter. Coins were slotted down its throat and it swung on, followed by the first of the torch bearers, holding up their flames high into the night.

Troupes of dancers in costume stopped and twirled to the strains of an accordion. A fire-eater slid a burning taper into his mouth and roared out flames, then more Morris dancers, and jesters with bells on their toes, and harlequins, came jauntily down the hill. On the procession swept, full of music and colour and dancing and twinkling lights. Here and there, someone in mufti came by holding a torch and either a self-conscious grin or a slightly bewildered air, as if they weren’t quite sure what they were caught up in.

Finally, too soon, the brass band marched slowly past followed by the surge of the crowd as the people-packed pavements burst back into the road.

Sam was grinning. He took Gaynor’s arm and then dropped it again, as though suddenly embarrassed. Ignoring him, she tucked her arm purposefully back through his. “It’s OK,” she said as they shuffled their way behind a sea of people, along Albion Street where the fish and chip queues stretched for miles and the pubs spilled their drinkers on to the pavement. “Nobody gives a shit.”

The crowd thinned and they left the noise behind as they walked up the path towards his cottage. She wondered if he was going to invite her in. She didn’t want to go home yet. She knew the house would feel big and empty there on her own. Victor had seemed unbothered about missing most of the week – once he had loved it as much as she did, but now he clearly had other preoccupations. She thought of Sam the night before – the way he’d held her and patted her, had made her feel so cared for. She wanted to sit with him again, to talk to him, to feel safe.

They stopped at his gate. He pushed it open and stood there, looking slightly ill at ease. She put a hand back on his arm. “I’ve had a really good time tonight.” She smiled.

He looked at her seriously. “So have I.”

She felt a little drunk and reckless. “Oh, look there’s Brutus.” She used the cat as an excuse to push the gate further open, move past him, cross the front lawn and sweep the cat up into her arms. “How are you, beautiful boy?” She sat down in one of the wooden chairs outside the French doors and put her handbag on the table. “What a fabulous night,” she said, kicking off her shoes and shaking back her hair. Brutus wriggled free of her grasp and leapt gracefully from her arms, winding himself briefly around Sam’s legs and then disappearing around the side of the house.

Sam stood opposite her, his hands leaning against the back of the other chair. “What are you going to do now? How are you getting home? Shall I call you a cab or … I’ll walk you but I don’t want to put you in an awkward position…”

She shook her head. “No need for that – I walk home from the wine bar all the time. You don’t get much safer than Broadstairs, do you?”

“Probably not,” he said. “But lots of women wouldn’t do it.”

Gaynor shrugged. “Sarah worries about it but it never occurs to me to be at all alarmed. It’s funny,” she went on, “because I’m afraid of the dark. But only when I’m inside. Outside I feel alive and sort of filled with positive energy walking alone at night. Indoors, though, I have to have the lights on. When Victor’s away I have lamps lit all over the place. It makes me feel claustrophobic, otherwise. I imagine things leaping on me...” She risked a provocative smile.

He nodded. “I can understand that,” he said straight-faced.

She smiled up at him again. “So I’ll be fine but I thought you might make me a coffee first.”

“Sure. I was just thinking of you. It’s late. Your husband…”

“I’ve told you, he’s away. He won’t know what time I get home.”

He looked at her for a moment then unlocked the door.

“I don’t want to go home at all really,” she said when he returned with two mugs. “Look at all those stars.”

They both looked upwards at the velvety, diamond-studded sky.

“I know,” he said quietly.

She toyed with her teaspoon. “I’d rather stay here with you.”

“I know,” he said again. “But you’re not thinking it through. It’s not a good idea.”

She felt rebuffed. “You didn’t mind last night.”

He stirred his coffee, his voice reasonable. “You were very upset last night – I was looking after you. Doesn’t mean I felt comfortable with it.”

“Oh.” She felt all at once foolish and hurt and quite unable to stop herself pushing on. “Oh, so you didn’t want me here.”

“I didn’t say that,” he said, in the same calm tones. “Look, you’ve had quite a bit to drink and you’re trying to create an argument where there isn’t one. I tried to take care of you last night and I would again. If you really want to stay here you can – the spare bed is made up – but I don’t think you should.”

“I don’t want to stay in the spare bed…” She knew she’d die a thousand deaths in the morning but she was locked into it now. The bold, pushy Gaynor-on-the-pull that sprang to life after a bottle of wine was in full flood, and all sober Gaynor could do was look on and prepare to cringe. “I want to sleep in your bed. I want to make love with you!”

He appeared unfazed. “You feel like that because I’ve looked after you.” He gave a small smile. “A bit like falling for your therapist. It’s not real. And,” he went on, “you’d feel terribly guilty in the morning and so would I. For taking advantage of your emotional state when you’ve been drinking, not to mention sleeping with another man’s wife.”

She glared at him. “Taking advantage of me? How quaint.”

“I’m old-fashioned.”

“And I know my own mind.”

He remained resolute. “And I know mine and I know what would be honourable and what wouldn’t…”

“Honourable?” For a horrible moment she thought she was going to cry. “So you’re kicking me out and you don’t want me.”

“I’m your friend and I’m here for you. Do you want more coffee?”

“No, I’m going home.”

She picked up her denim jacket and pushed her feet back into her shoes. “Goodbye,” she said, as she swung her handbag over her shoulder, knowing she was behaving like a spoiled child, her feelings a mass of hurt rejection and humiliation and a huge, gaping pit of loss.

“I won’t bother you again,” she said over her shoulder, as she prepared to sweep out.

He put out a hand and grabbed her arm, holding her still for a moment. “I’m here for you,” he said. “I’m here and I’m your friend.”

He let her go, adding, almost sadly. “Remember that if you change your mind.”