They were already back to Claire. So much for chitchat. “So why are you so worried about her?” Rachel asked.
Andrew didn’t answer for a moment. “As you know, she’s been through a difficult time,” he said finally. “But there’s more to it than just her breaking up with her fiancé. I’m not even sure they are broken up, permanently, but...” He sighed. “Claire should tell you herself what’s going on—”
“Claire and I really don’t have that kind of relationship,” Rachel cut him off. “We were friends when we were children. Before last week I hadn’t seen her since her graduation party, and then only because I helped with the catering.”
Andrew looked up from his study of his drink. “Even so. I don’t see any other friends queuing up, do you?”
“Claire had plenty of friends in primary.” Rachel spoke matter-of-factly. “She was the most popular girl in Year Six, and as far as I could tell, she kept that status at Wyndham.”
“I don’t know if any of those girls were actually real friends.”
And I was. She’d been a good friend to Claire West until she’d been unceremoniously dumped. Rachel sighed. “So what do you want me to do, exactly?”
“Just keep an eye on her. It would be better for her not to be alone right now.”
As if Rachel needed one more person in her life to watch over. “I’m happy to check up on her when I come to clean,” she said, although happy was stretching it. “But other than that...”
“Couldn’t you drop in every day or two?” Andrew asked. “I know you’re busy—”
“You keep saying that, but I’m starting to think you don’t mean it.”
“Sorry.” He gave her a rueful smile as he raked a hand through his hair, and Rachel’s stomach did a surprising little flip. When he dropped the whole pompous thing, Andrew West was actually good-looking, in an uptight, nerdy sort of way. Although there was nothing nerdy about his wavy dark hair or deep blue eyes, or even the broad shoulders she could detect under the fleece. No, unfortunately it was just his personality.
“Does Claire think she needs checking up on?” Rachel asked.
“She’s . . . resistant.”
“And she’s also an adult. So maybe I should let her make her own decisions.”
“Claire’s never been good at making her own decisions.”
Which was a horribly patronizing thing to say, and yet Rachel could see the truth in it. When they were little Claire had always let Rachel make her decisions. At school Rachel had even carried Claire’s lunch tray and picked out which meal she’d eat. But she’d liked taking care of Claire. And Claire had been so grateful, smiling up at her, relief evident in her face whenever Rachel stepped in and took over.
“Claire is never going to learn to make her own decisions if everyone keeps insisting on making them for her,” Rachel said. “She’s twenty-eight years old. Maybe it’s time for her to grow up.”
“I take your point,” Andrew answered, “but now’s not the time for that particular life lesson.”
What was it about Claire that made everyone want to look out for her? Was it her sense of fragility, or did simply being chronically helpless make proactive people step in and take control? Rachel couldn’t say, even for herself. What she did know was that she didn’t want to help Claire now nearly as much as she had when they were seven.
“I’m not sure there’s ever a good time for that life lesson,” Rachel said as downed the last of her wine. “I had to learn it when I was twelve.”
Andrew frowned. “What happened when you were twelve?”
“My mother broke her back.” Rachel wished she hadn’t mentioned anything; she couldn’t stand pity, especially from someone who could spare it so easily. “Everyone’s life sucks sometimes, you know.”
“Yet you seem to think only yours does.” Andrew spoke mildly, but Rachel recoiled all the same. Heat rushed into her face, and she put her wineglass on the table with a decidedly loud thunk.
“I think I’ll get that prescription now.” She reached under the chair for her coat and yanked it on. Andrew watched her, unperturbed.
“I’ve upset you.”
“Well done, Sherlock.” Rachel stood up, hugging herself, all the things she’d liked about this place now jarring, irritating her. This was not her life.
Andrew put his half-pint of lager, barely drunk, on the table. “Where do you need to pick up the prescription?”
“Lowther Street. There’s a late-night pharmacy.”
“All right.” He left a pound on the table and then walked out of the bar, holding the door open for her first. Rachel went through, averting her head. She felt stiff and jerky, and while she knew her hurt was obvious, she couldn’t make herself relax.It was an overemotional reaction considering she barely knew Andrew West and he barely knew her. But in that case, how dare he make such an assumption about her?
