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Chapter 16
Solo looked down at the hand on his arm. Neatly manicured nails on slim fingers, so damn pretty, so damned good at eliciting an immediate response from his body.
And now she was asking for a completely different one.
She was offering to listen. This was the side to Polly he’d glimpsed on the ward, a woman who displayed a huge heart and the most generous listening ear.
“Yes,” he said. “Actually, it would be good to talk.” He glanced around the brightly lit jam-packed restaurant. “Maybe we should finish up here and go somewhere quieter for a drink.”
The green eyes that met his were serious. “Okay.”
“For now, let’s discuss tomorrow’s PTSD group.”
“Sure.” She dimpled. He loved that puckish little smile, so full of mischief. “Let’s get one thing straight, though,” she said. “It’s my turn to bring the Tim Tams…”
Half an hour later, neither of them had finished their meal—maybe Polly because of her food hang-up, and him, because he’d lost his appetite with the Drew stuff hanging over him—but at least they’d sorted out the PTSD group. Polly was planning a discussion on trust, and they’d agreed that they would allow feedback on medication issues for half an hour.
As they split the bill, he realised how tight the knot had been in his stomach for months. Would talking to Polly untie it? Or would opening up to her add a whole heap more complications?
They walked onto the busy street and Polly said, “There’s a really great wine bar five minutes’ walk from here, it’s low-key. I go there when I want a quiet chat with colleagues.”
“You and quiet in the same sentence?”
She smiled. “It happens. Probably a lot more than I let on.”
When they’d both got a glass of wine, they sat down at a table in a secluded corner and Solo got the sense Polly was just letting him settle.
He had the ridiculous urge to take her hand in his, thread his fingers through hers. If she was his girlfriend…Eghhh… just forget it…
He drew in a deep breath. “Have you heard of a guy called Drew Faulkner?”
She narrowed her eyes as if in thought, then a look of comprehension dawned. “The soldier from Afghanistan who saved that convoy from a suicide bomber?”
“Yep. The very one.”
“Oh my god. He left the army after that, though, didn’t he? Wasn’t he onSurvivora couple of seasons back?”
“Yep.”
“And…” She screwed up her nose as if trying to remember. “He got all that flack from the media for exploiting his fame, and then, shit, he attempted suicide not long ago, right?” Her hand flew up to her mouth. “Oh, Jesus Christ, is he the guy in the photo with you in your wallet?”
Of course she’d remember the story. Events like that stuck in mental health workers’ minds. Potential suicides—those were the things that stopped you sleeping at night. Praying that you were never the one on watch when some poor soul slipped through the net.
Except, thank god, Drew’s attempt hadn’t succeeded.
Polly’s eyes were growing wider and wider as he saw her piecing the threads together. “He tried to jump off the Gap, like, six weeks ago, didn’t he?” she said. “And some guy—a doctor—stopped him… that—that was you? The doctor who stopped him?”
He nodded,
“Fuck!”
“He was very unwell,” Solo explained. “And he’s been hospitalised ever since.”
“What happened?”
“Oh, Christ, where do I start?” Solo flexed his fingers in his lap.
“Maybe at the beginning?”
