‘Absolutely.’

‘Okay, so next you cover it in chlorhexidine,’ Cathy says. Tom widens his eyes, and she says, ‘Like iodine. I mean – I think. I’m pretty rusty on farm animals.’

‘The cow needs this C-section, Cathy,’ he says. ‘Or the calves will die.’

His hand drifts on to her hip. When she meets his brown eyes, he bites his lip and shifts his body on the grass.

‘Next is an L-line block,’ she says. ‘A local anaesthetic. And fit the sterile drapes around it, so you have only the abdomen available.’

‘You’re so smart,’ he says. ‘It’s so cool.’ He looks into the distance, at the cows. ‘I hope they make it.’

Cathy drops her gaze, unable to stop smiling. ‘You want more?’

Tom tilts his head, looking at her.

A fat drop of summer rain strikes him right in the crown of his head, and Cathy isn’t sure she’s ever wanted to cup the back of somebody’s head so badly as she does now. She shifts closer to him. Their torsos are pressed together. Cathy raises her head to look at him, and he isn’t ridiculing her, or backing away, or laughing. He’s just waiting, that half-smile quivering, eyes smiling. Just waiting for her. She leans towards him just as the rain really begins. Their lips meet, a soft, careful brush just at first. He opens his mouth immediately. It’s warm and then hot. His hand moves from her hip, coming around the small of her back to encircle her completely, pulling her towards him. Even though Cathy’s eyes are closed, she can tell there was just a flash of lightning, like a photographer’s bulb. Two seconds later, the thunder. They break off. Their faces are wet from the rain Cathy can’t feel. She looks into his eyes.

‘Well,’ Tom says after a beat.

‘It’s very rainy,’ Cathy says.

‘And we were talking about operating on cows.’ Tom raises an eyebrow. ‘Isn’t that kind of – a crime?’

Cathy giggles into his chest. ‘Maybe depraved,’ she says.

‘Call the vet police. Call the cops,’ Tom says. He pulls her even closer to him. His chest is firm. Her hands find their way in, inside the warm parka, and underneath his t-shirt and – she lets out a breath – finally. To that skin. She glances up at him and says something she’s never once said, not ever: ‘Want to come to mine?’

48.

Now

First Day of Trial R. v. Plant

‘By the woodland, yes,’ the barrister says. ‘And, as we understand it, he was put there immediately?’

‘Yes,’ I croak, in the witness box. Immediately, I think of exploring the countryside with Tom, and feel a pang.

Joe is staring steadfastly ahead. I wish Frannie were here. She understands exchanging glances, she understands a loaded look in a way that Joe doesn’t.

I am distracted momentarily by just how many participants there are in a trial. The judge, the solicitors and barristers, the jury, but the press too, the clerks who bring the Bible for the oath, the stenographer. They must all have their opinions of me, though they hide them well, beneath professional veneers.