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Yanking open her door, she jackknifed out of her car, clicked the lock button, and marched to the centre before she could talk herself out of anything.
She was barely through the doors before an older woman stopped her.
‘Can I help you?’
‘I’m Anouk,’ she began. ‘Anouk Hart. I...’
She trailed off. Should she say she was here to meet Sol? Or just that he’d given her forms to fill out the other day? Or perhaps she shouldn’t mention him at all; she didn’t want people to think she was just using the centre to somehow wheedle her way in with him.
‘Oh, yes, Anouk.’ The woman smiled. ‘I’m Barbara. Sol has been telling us all about you. So have Izzy and Katie.’
‘The girls are here?’
‘Yes, Katie particularly, of course. Izzy only got out of hospital yesterday but the first thing she did was ask when you would be coming in.’ Barbara laughed.
‘It always amazes me how resilient kids are.’ Anouk shook her head. ‘Only a week ago she was in my Resus department.’
‘Now she’s home and already back to helping her mum,’ the woman agreed. ‘Inspirational. Just like so many of the kids I see come through those doors.’
‘I can see why Sol cares so much about this place. I guess not everyone with a privileged childhood wants to see what other people have to go through.’
‘I know. I like to think that’s why Sol—and Malachi, for that matter—set up this place. They might be rich, influential men now, but neither of them has ever forgotten how appalling their own childhoods were.’
Anouk blinked. She fought to keep her expression neutral.
‘Right.’
‘I mean, not just as young carers themselves but how they had to drag themselves out of the gutter,’ Barbara continued, clearly under the impression that this wasn’t news to Anouk. ‘Without them getting the message out, people with clout wouldn’t even know about us. This centre, and the new one they are building, simply wouldn’t exist.’
Anouk made a sound of acknowledgement, but her head was spinning.
Sol had been a young carer? He had dragged himself out of the gutter?
It didn’t make any sense. But what confused her most was that Barbara didn’t seem worried about discussing it. As though it was common knowledge.
As though she was talking about a completely different Solomon Gunn from the playboy neurosurgeon who relished his Smoking Gun nickname.
Was it possible that his colleagues didn’t know the man at all?
Even she herself sometimes forgot how other people envied her childhood when they knew she was the daughter of a late Hollywood actress. They couldn’t see the darker, uglier side of that life. Was it the same for Sol? People said he was a wealthy neurosurgeon, coming from money, and they made judgements. She had made judgements.
Would the real Solomon Gunn please step forward?
‘So, anyway, we thought you might like to spend the afternoon with Libby. She’s a friendly little girl, six, sole carer for her mother, although...’ Barbara paused, half stating, half questioning ‘...you’ll know that we don’t discuss that side of things here?’
‘Yes, I know. This is a place she can come and just be a child.’
The woman nodded her approval.
‘At the moment Libby is making Father Christmas faces for the Christmas Fayre. Are you any good at crafting?’
‘I’m not known for it.’ Her laugh b
etrayed a hint of nerves, but that couldn’t be helped. ‘But I’m keen to learn. Sol isn’t here?’
‘There was a problem at the construction site. Besides, I think he thought you might find it easier getting to know the children in your own time.’
Without him looking over her shoulder, did he mean? Either way, it was odd but, taking the complication of having to interact with Sol out of the equation, she could practically feel some of her tension slipping from her shoulders, through her body to the floor, and away from her.
