Page 8 of Be More Capybara

‘Where are you living?’ he asked.

‘My parents’ house.’

‘But that’s a twenty-minute walk away.’

‘Yes, I know. It’ll be fine until I get back.’

‘No, it won’t. Come back to the Grange. It’s much nearer.’

‘Are you sure?’ Her hand was throbbing now.

‘Yeah. Mum will be pleased to see you.’

It seemed the sensible thing to do. But was it? Because as she looked at Nigel again, all those old feelings began bubbling back up to the surface.

She passed his bottle back to him.

‘Shall I keep hold of Rocky’s lead?’ he offered. ‘I’ve got gloves on if he tries to run off again.’

‘Thank you’ was all she could manage to say.

They walked side by side for a few paces while the path was wide enough, Rocky obediently walking at Nigel’s heel like a show dog at Crufts.

‘He’s calm now,’ Nigel said.

‘He will be unless he sees another rabbit.’

‘Why did you call him Rocky? You used to hate that movie.’

Movie, she noticed. He would’ve said film when she first met him, but all that time living in America was bound to have changed him. He hadn’t lost his English accent, though.

‘He’s a rescue greyhound. His racing name was Country Rocket, so his original owner called him Rocky - better than shortening his first name, I suppose. ‘

Nigel chuckled.

Helen stole a glance at him, remembering how his smile used to light up his face. ‘How long have you been back in Dashford?’

‘Less than a day. I flew into Heathrow yesterday afternoon.’

That explained why he looked tired.

‘It’s a long journey when you’ve got kids,’ she said.

‘I’m on my own.’ His expression clouded. A sore point then. She resisted the urge to stop and hug him. Not appropriate, Helen. Not after all this time.

‘When did you move back here?’ he asked.

‘Only a couple of weeks ago. I stupidly moved house just before Christmas. We had Christmas dinner surrounded by boxes. And the boys complained about the lack of a Christmas tree.’

‘How old are they?’

He wasn’t surprised to hear she had children then. Nancy had probably kept him up to date on all the Dashford news.

‘Eighteen and twenty-one. Old enough not to be that bothered by Christmas decorations, or so I thought. How old are your girls?’

‘Thirteen and sixteen.’

Helen grimaced. ‘The awkward age.’