‘Good,’ Beth said softly. ‘You deserve to be happy as you are.’
Something flickered between them – a pause, heavy and fragile. Kieran wanted to reach for her hand, but before he could, Angela burst in. ‘Oops, sorry! Didn’t mean to interrupt anything.’
‘You’re not,’ Beth said quickly. ‘What’s up?’
‘Jinnie’s poorly, Ed’s out, and I’ve got a dental appointment. Can you look after Ruairi for an hour?’
Beth looked at Kieran, a spark of panic in her eyes. Then it vanished, replaced by an expression of resolve. ‘Of course. Bring him here.’
A few minutes later, Ruairi was snoozing in his car seat in the corner. Angela blew kisses, promised chocolate as thanks, and dashed off.
‘He’s a cutie,’ said Kieran, watching the baby wriggle in his sleep.
‘They all are,’ said Beth, stacking plates.
‘My mate Charlie’s just had another one. Ellie. He’s exhausted but happy.’
Ruairi whimpered. Beth unbuckled him, pressing him gently to her chest. ‘There, there,’ she murmured, swaying instinctively.
‘You’re a natural,’ Kieran said quietly.
Beth gave a small, shy laugh. ‘Hardly.’
‘How’s Charlie coping with a newborn?’
‘Fine. Ellie was two weeks late, but healthy.’
‘Some babies never arrive at all,’ Beth whispered.
The words hung in the air like smoke. She turned away sharply, her chin on Ruairi’s soft hair.
‘I should go,’ Kieran said, his voice low. He didn’t want to leave, but something in her tone told him this was dangerous territory.
‘Sure,’ said Beth, managing a faint smile. ‘Good to see you, Kieran.’
Outside, the air was warm again, the world deceptively calm. He jogged home slowly, thoughts tangled. Lisa. The voice in his head. Beth.
It’s just the aftermath of the storm,he told himself.That’s all.
But as he ran, the quiet inside him felt fragile. As if the storm hadn’t ended but gone underground, waiting to rise again.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
‘You’ve been ignoring me.’
‘No I haven’t. I’ve been busy, that’s all.’
‘Pah.’
A sulky ripple of light skittered across the pinball glass. Gigi materialised in ruffled cuffs and a velvet waistcoat the colour of a bruised plum.
‘You’ve not so much as looked at me in three days. Three! Do you know what that’s like in genie years?’
Beth folded her arms. ‘No, and I don’t care. I’ve enough on my plate without pandering to a supernatural ego trapped in a seventies arcade relic.’
‘You wound me, Beth.’ His voice deepened theatrically and he clasped his hands together, protruding from the Austin Powers-worthy frilly sleeves. ‘Do you remember when you used to confide in me? All those nights when you’d come down here with a cup of tea and tell me about your tragic little marriage.’
‘I did not!’
