‘Is April all right?’ I ask, feeling nauseous.
He clutches his hands to his head, looking a little like he might cry.
‘Go and see to her,’ I urge, stepping backwards. ‘I’ll be fine.’
‘Bridget!’ he calls after me.
‘I’ll be fine!’ I call back, putting my head down and hurrying away in the direction I’ve just come from.
I’ve passed the shock stage by the time he comes to the campsite to find me. Now I’m an emotional wreck, and I reallyhatebeing an emotional wreck.
‘I don’t want her to see me like this,’ I call determinedly throughHermie’s closed door. No way am I letting him in. April is in her pram, but she’s awake. I can see her chubby little legs kicking from here.
‘I’ll come back when she’s asleep,’ Charlie promises, leaving me be.
I watch him walk up and down the internal campsite road, from the lower paddock to the top paddock, over and over again, until eventually he returns.
‘She’s asleep,’ he calls, knocking gently. ‘Bridget, please, open up.’
I peer out of the darkened window, and, sure enough, April’s legs have stilled.
I openHermie’s side door and sit back down on the bench seat, tucking my hair behind my ears. I’m too mortified to meet his eyes.
‘Bridget,’ he says quietly, crouching at my feet and resting his bare forearms on my lap.
I shake my head.
He reaches up and brushes my cheek with his thumb. As soon as I meet his eyes and see his devastation, mine fill with fresh tears.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers, sliding his hands around my waist and pulling me towards him. He rests his cheek against my ribcage and my hands automatically cradle his head. It’s such an intimate, unfamiliar position to find ourselves in, yet it feels oddly natural.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers again.
I brush my tears away with one hand and stroke his hair with the other.
‘It’s okay,’ I mumble. ‘It’s not your fault.’
He shudders.
‘Charlie,’ I say gently, continuing to run my hand through his hair. It’s so much softer than I thought it would be. It always looks so dishevelled. As my thoughts drift off on this tangent, I realise my tears have dried up. ‘Hey,’ I say.
He lifts his head and stares up at me, disoriented, confused, bewildered, as if he’s adrift – lost at sea. I force myself to edge over on the bench seat and pat the space beside me.
He slowly, weightily, pulls himself to his feet and sits down, dragging his hands over his face and slumping backwards until his head hits the seat back.
‘Rough morning, huh?’
‘Just a bit,’ he replies wearily.
‘What happened?’
He stares at the ceiling in a daze.
‘It can’t be much worse than what I heard,’ I say. ‘Can it?’ I ask with alarm.
He jolts. ‘No. That was bad enough.’
‘So Kate thinks I’m a hussy and a media whore. She has a point,’ I say with a light laugh.
