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‘How could I hate you, Triss,’ he answered simply, ‘when only a fool would fail to see why you acted as you did?’ He changed down
a gear. ‘We’re here,’ he announced, with an unmistakable note of relief in his voice.
Triss was disappointed that their arrival at the hospital meant that their conversation was cut short, but one fact remained in her mind, bright as a new lightbulb—Cormack didn’t hate her. He didn’t love her, no, but at least he didn’t hate her. So would that be foundation enough to start to reconstruct their relationship?
He insisted on carrying her all the way into the accident and emergency department. Triss initially felt mortified at such a brazen display of masculine strength, and she was only slightly cheered by the ill-disguised looks of admiration on the faces of every woman they passed, with Cormack striding along like a hero from a costume drama!
In A&E the nurse in charge said to him rather reprimandingly, ‘You really should have got a wheelchair, sir!’
To which Cormack replied, ‘But why bother? I rather like this method of transport!’
And so did Triss—that was the trouble. In fact, she really missed his warmth and strength when they told her to lie down on some horrible cold, unyielding hospital trolley.
When the X-ray result came back, Triss was given the all-clear. The doctor handed Cormack a sheet of instructions on what abnormal signs to look for which might indicate that she needed to come back to hospital. ‘And no emotional stress, please!’ he warned perceptively as he picked up on some of the incredible tension which seemed to be flowing between the two of them.
Unfortunately, the doctor’s instruction seemed to give Cormack the idea that he now had carte blanche to run Triss’s life as he saw fit!
He banished her to bed on their return home and saw Martha off, and then proceeded to take full charge of Simon for the next two days—as if he had recently graduated with honours in childcare!
‘How d’you know so much about babies?’ Triss enquired as she spooned up the tomato soup he had brought her on a tray and watched while he constructed yet another pile of wooden bricks for Simon to swipe at with a chubby fist.
‘How did you?’ he countered, with a lazy smile.
‘Instinct coupled with trial and error, I guess.’
‘Same here,’ he grinned. ‘Though I discovered to my cost that Simon doesn’t like having his hair washed!’
‘Er—no,’ agreed Triss, thinking that that was the understatement of the year!
‘I think I ended up with more water on me than on him!’
Triss giggled at the thought of her successful scriptwriter being defeated by a little baby at bathtime, then drew herself up sharply.
What on earth was she thinking of? Cormack wasn’t her scriptwriter. He wasn’t her anything. He was Simon’s father, nothing more, and obviously, being a regular sort of guy, he wanted their relationship to be as civilised as possible.
And so did she; she really did.
She was past the stage of seeing Cormack as Mr Evil and herself as the poor, betrayed victim. And she had more than exacted her revenge—a conclusion which brought her nothing in the way of satisfaction.
But the danger—for her, anyway—was that while Cormack remained here and continued to build a relationship with her as well as with Simon she might continue to weave all these pathetic little fantasies about him.
Sooner or later, the subject really must be addressed.
‘Do you think we could ever possibly be friends?’ she asked him suddenly.
‘Yes,’ he answered, much too quickly, and Triss felt her heart sink. Once he had loved her too passionately ever to be able to contemplate such a thing. And his complete reversal of opinion now must surely mean that his love for her had died?
‘Cormack—’ she began, but he shook his dark head decisively.
‘Not now, Triss,’ he told her gently. ‘Let’s wait until you’re better before we discuss anything. Remember what the doctor said about emotional stress?’
It was his gentleness which disturbed her most. Cormack being that solicitous could mean only one thing. He wanted her to be fully recovered before he told her that his marriage proposal had been an ill-conoeived idea, made on the spur of the moment.
But she had decided that she wanted him anyway—even if it was ridiculously one-sided. She had forgotten how golden life could be when he was around, and she could all too vividly picture the greyness of life without him.
But maybe Cormack was right. Maybe it was best if they tried their utmost to be friends. For surely enough water had now passed under the bridge for them to make that rational and adult progression? For Simon’s sake.
‘OK, then,’ she agreed falteringly.
