“Can you go there just for a drink?”
Andrew gave her a look of polite disbelief. “Of course you can.”
And of course he would know these things. “Fine,” she said. “Just give me a minute.”
She ran upstairs and begged Lily to put Nathan to bed, and then checked on her mother, who had thankfully fallen into a doze.
“Damn, the prescription,” she said aloud, and Andrew, who was waiting in the hall, answered politely,
“Can I help?”
“No. I just...” She fished her mobile out of her bag and scrolled through her contacts for the number of the out-of-hours pharmacy. “We’d better make this quick,” she told him. “I have to drive into Whitehaven to pick up my mother’s prescription.”
“Why don’t I drive you? We can just as easily have a drink in Whitehaven as in Hartley-by-the-Sea. Raymond’s is overrated, anyway.”
“Oh, is it?” Her mouth twitched in a sardonic smile. “All right, then. Let’s go into Whitehaven.”
She grabbed her jacket, and they walked in silence to his car, parked down the street by the post office shop. Andrew nodded towards the shuttered windows. “Claire took a job there. Today was her first day.”
“She said she was looking for a job,” Rachel answered as Andrew pressed a button on his key ring to unlock a navy blue Lexus. “Glad she found one.”
“Yes, although I don’t know how long she’ll last. She came home today absolutely knackered. Stacking newspapers isn’t really her thing.”
“Is it anyone’s?” Rachel countered. “Most people have a job to make money.”
“Personal fulfillment is important too.”
“Must be nice for some,” Rachel answered, and then, annoyed she’d reverted to being snippy again, she turned her face towards the window.
“Yes,” Andrew agreed after a moment. He’d started the car and pulled away from the curb, driving up the steep hill that led to the A-road. “Not everyone can afford to work in a job they enjoy, I do realize.”
“Well done.” The words slipped out before she could suppress them.
Andrew didn’t respond for a moment. “You really have a chip on your shoulder, don’t you?” he finally remarked mildly.
Rachel turned to face him. “A chip on my shoulder?”
“About money. Or privilege. Whatever.” He shrugged, the movement so dismissive Rachel wanted to slap him.
“Yes, I suppose I do have a chip on my shoulder,” she said, her voice rising. “A bloody great Grand Canyon. But it’s easy for you, isn’t it?”
“Maybe from where you’re standing,” Andrew answered. “Yes. I can see that things aren’t easy for you. Like you said, you have a lot going on.”
Rachel didn’t answer. She’d wanted him to stay smug and condescending, because then she could feel justified in being angry. Instead she felt petty and mean.
“Do you enjoy your job?” Andrew asked. “Housecleaning?”
With effort she kept herself from a snippy retort. “I enjoy some things. Providing for my family—”
“The money aside, though,” Andrew interjected. “Do you enjoy the work?”
“Cleaning toilets and scrubbing floors? No, can’t say I do.” Rachel paused, thinking of Iris Fairley’s conspiratorial grin when she’d slipped her a custard cream. “I like the people,” she admitted. “Helping them, and I don’t mean just by cleaning their houses.”
“How, then?”
She shrugged. “I give people the odd cup of tea, a chance to talk to someone. It’s like free therapy for some, I suppose.”
Andrew was silent, and too late Rachel realized where he’d so neatly led her—right to helping Claire.
