Assignment: Single Man. Caroline Anderson

she thought, in view of the mother. She opened cupboards until she found the side plates, placed a few biscuits onto one and set them down on the coffee-table in front of them.

      ‘Aren’t you having one?’ Josh asked her.

      She shook her head. Once she started on the chocolate biscuits, she couldn’t stop, so it was easier not to start. ‘No, thanks,’ she said, deadpan. ‘I might outgrow my uniform. Anyway, I’m busy,’ she added, deciding she may as well begin preparing the supper as stand there and watch them.

      Something reasonably light, she thought, considering his recent surgery, but on the other hand it needed to be tasty. A nice chicken casserole, perhaps. If she could find some, she’d sling in a bit of sherry or wine or something. She poked about the cupboards, looking for some herbs or even a bouquet garni, if she was extremely lucky, but she drew a blank. Ah, well, she’d stick them on her shopping list. She hadn’t expected to find them. Josh didn’t really need a bouquet garni to heat a ready meal in the microwave, she thought with a little smile.

      ‘Are you looking for something?’ he asked her.

      ‘Herbs,’ she said.

      ‘Not a chance,’ he grunted. ‘I told you, I don’t cook.’

      No, she thought, you told me your mother didn’t cook. You never mentioned yourself, but it was no surprise.

      ‘No problem,’ she said lightly. ‘I’ll work round it for tonight.’

      She would have been fine, of course, if he’d had stock cubes, but all she could find was ketchup and soy sauce. The casserole was going to be a strange one, she thought, but they’d live. While she chopped and peeled and sliced the vegetables, she kept an eye on Josh, and after a few minutes she noticed him starting to flag.

      His mother was recounting some story from a bridge party, and his eyes were glazing. He glanced up and caught her eye, and his look spoke volumes. She put her knife down, washed her hands, dried them and walked over to Mrs Hardy, laying a gentle hand on her shoulder.

      ‘Mrs Hardy, I think it’s time for Josh to have a rest now, if you don’t mind,’ she said quietly but firmly.

      Josh’s mother opened her mouth to protest, but Fran just smiled, and Josh, right on cue, leant back against the sofa and sighed only slightly theatrically.

      Mrs Hardy stood up, leant over him and kissed his cheek. ‘You should have said, you silly boy. I didn’t realise you were tired. I’ll go now.’

      Fran showed her to the door, closed it behind her and chuckled softly.

      As she went back into the kitchen, Josh was laughing. ‘Very neatly done. I owe you one for that.’

      Fran picked up her coffee, went over to the sofa and perched on the other end of it.

      ‘I meant it, really. You ought to have a rest.’

      Josh shook his head. ‘I really don’t want to go to bed. I can’t sleep at night at the best of times. The last thing I need is to sleep so much during the day that the nights are completely endless.’

      ‘OK,’ she agreed, ‘but you really need to put that leg up.’

      Fran stood up, took his coffee from him and, lifting both legs at the ankle, swivelled him round. He winced a little, but then sighed with relief and dropped his head back against the arm.

      ‘Thanks,’ he murmured. ‘Any chance of another coffee?’

      ‘OK, but it’s the last one. If you have any more you certainly won’t sleep tonight, and I really think you need to. Which reminds me, where am I sleeping?’

      ‘The guest room’s through there,’ he said, gesturing towards the hall.

      Fran arched a brow. ‘I don’t think so. That’s miles from you. How will I know if you get into difficulties in the night?’

      ‘What kind of difficulties am I going to get into?’ he asked with a chuckle. ‘The mind boggles. Anyway, I thought I was going to sleep?’

      ‘You are,’ she said firmly, ‘and if I have anything at all to say about it, so am I, which means I can’t lie at the other end of the house straining my ears down the corridor in case you call for help. So, is there a closer room?’

      He shrugged. ‘Not with its own bathroom, but the room next to me has a shower opposite.’

      ‘That’ll do fine,’ she said, and stood up. ‘Now, you settle back and rest and I’ll finish the supper.’

      She went back into the kitchen and put all the ingredients together. At first he watched her, but then his eyelids started to droop and, as she’d anticipated, within moments he was asleep.

      She put the casserole into the oven, and then went quietly down the corridor to the room next to his. It shared the same beautiful view, the king-size bed placed opposite the window to take full advantage of it, and she thought longingly of early mornings lying with a cup of tea, staring out across the river. What a fabulous way to start the day.

      She turned down the bedspread and found the bed made up with soft, pure linen. Not for Josh’s guests the polycotton sheets of normal mortals, she thought with gentle irony, and the pillows and quilt felt like goose down.

      She went back through the kitchen, checking on him as she went, but he hadn’t stirred and so, letting herself out of the front door, she went down to her car and retrieved her bag.

      There were all sorts of things in her car, stuffed into the boot where she’d thrown them last night as she’d left London, but all she really needed was the bag. She looked down into her boot, at the carrier bags and boxes that were all she owned in the world, and with a little sigh she closed the boot lid, locked the car and went back into the house. She’d sort the rest out tomorrow.

      She put the case in her room and unpacked it, and then went back to the kitchen. Josh was still sleeping, his lashes dark against his bruised cheeks, and she had a crazy urge to run her fingers over the short, dark hair. He looked vulnerable, younger with the lines of strain missing, and his mouth without the crooked grin looked soft and full and generous.

      She looked down at his leg, at the pins locked to the metal bar that held the bone steady, the pins penetrating the skin and holding all the fragments in line. Judging by the number of pins, he’d been lucky not to lose it. It all looked healthy, though, she was relieved to see. The last thing he needed was a nasty infection.

      Fran checked the casserole, but it was fine and didn’t need her attention. Suddenly at a loose end, she wandered out into the hall and studied the paintings which until now she’d only had time to walk past. They were beautiful, full of energy, very simple and yet astonishingly lively. They were obviously by the same person, and they were signed, but she couldn’t read the signature and even if she had been able to, it wouldn’t have meant anything to her. She’d never studied art, she simply knew what she liked—and she liked these.

      She looked at the other doors in the hall and hesitated. She didn’t want to be nosy but on the other hand, it might not hurt to be familiar with the layout. At least, that was what she told herself as she turned the knob on the nearest door and entered the room.

      It was the guest bedroom, of course, that he’d pointed out, more lavishly appointed than the one she’d chosen, but probably no more comfortable and without the fabulous view. She’d trade the luxury of the bathroom just for the view alone.

      The next room was a library, stuffed with books, the shelves groaning. They were all real books, as well, battered old favourites as well as classics old and modern, some leather-bound, others tatty old paperbacks.

      Eclectic taste, she decided, and wasn’t surprised.

      Then there was the dining room, and finally, after the cloakroom, the last room off the hall, furthest from the kitchen and presumably the sitting room.

      She turned the knob and went in, hesitating in the doorway. She reached