His eyes glittered, fine lines at their edges now and on the forehead above, like music staves. Happy music always played in Bay’s head, Pax remembered – Fats Waller or Louis Armstrong – old-fashioned and jazzy, ready to get the party going. He’d made her entirely happy once. Its simplicity was intoxicating.

Tell me what to do, Bay, the voice in her head pleaded before she could stop it. Tell me what will make me happy again. Please just tell me.

She could feel the heat of his body as he lowered his mouth to her ear again. ‘This bastard isn’t ever going to give up on us, you know.’ She felt his fingers thread through hers, raising her ringless right hand to kiss, blue eyes watching her over it with such old-school intensity she wanted to laugh. Yet it caught in her throat because her heart hurt. It literally hurt.

Tell me what to do! I’m begging you.

‘For God’s sake stop looking at me like that, Pax.’

Hearing voices and laughter, Pax sprang back as Blair and Luca appeared from the arch together, long strides matching, lopsided and mile-wide smiles lined up for comparison, one set in stubble, the other a white-blond beard, both surprisingly genuine.

‘Here come Russell Crowe and Gandalf.’ Bay propped a bottle under his arm and straightened his collars, eyes flicking across to meet hers, conveying an urgent farewell.

‘Give the lady her wine back!’ Blair called with gravelly amusement.

‘Everything okay here?’ Luca’s voice, soft and light by contrast.

‘Marvellous! Two old friends getting reacquainted,’ Bay said smoothly, still looking at Pax as he handed her the bottles, mouthing, meet me. ‘We go back a long way.’

Pax gave a barely perceptible shake of the head, turning away.

Eager to get going, Blair was already striding towards Bay’s Land Rover. ‘I’m going back a long way – back home, so we’d better make tracks.’

But Bay – whose manners had always been immaculate – was now shaking Luca’s hand to introduce himself. ‘Your reputation precedes you. I do hope we’ll see you riding out with the Wolds soon.’

Hugging the wine tightly, Pax counted the seconds until she could be alone with it. One small glass, she promised herself afresh. A dressage measure; just to take the edge off.

12

Ash must have been a good soldier, thought Bridge. Talking her through each stage of tidying up her messed-up face with minimal fuss, he was thorough, unhurried and no-nonsense, doing everything by the book from antiseptic swabs to rubber gloves. Not many men looked as unremittingly macho in disposable latex, at least not on their hands.

Any doubts she harboured about the dangers of receiving unqualified medical treatment – and there were a great many she was too hypnotised to voice – were eclipsed by the sheer presence of the man, as reassuringly in command as a comic strip superhero. Bridge found the combination of trust and fear A-Class, the high making her banter too sharply.