Page 93 of Safe Hands

Reggie sighed.

Paige didn’t answer. In the basket, Sam stirred and settled again.

“That’s a very good pitch,” Paige said.

“Thank you.”

“It wasn’t a compliment.”

Lauren stopped scratching Reggie. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Paige uncurled her legs and sat forward, elbows on her knees. It was the look she used to give Lauren in the bungalow kitchen when she rolled in at an hour that had a number but no name and pretended she was fine.

“I love you,” Paige said. “You know I love you. But I’ve known you a long time, and I’ve watched you do this before.”

“Do what?”

“Make yourself useful to a woman so she has to keep you around.”

Before Lauren could argue, Paige held up a finger. “The florist. You did her bookkeeping for a year. You weren’t even good at bookkeeping. Remember the girl with the van? You drove her to every gig for six months and slept on a beanbag. And that last one, the one who kept coming back for one more night: you ran her errands, walked her mum’s dog, fixed her shower. Every single time, you found the thing they needed and made yourself the person who did it, because if they needed you, they couldn’t leave.”

“That’s not what this is.”

“Maybe it isn’t. I’m asking.” Paige’s voice softened, but she didn’t back off. “Do you want a dog? Or do you want Carly to need you?”

It landed like a dropped plate.

Lauren’s first instinct was to laugh. Her second was to leave. Her third was to be furious, because she’d come for a cuddle with a golden retriever and a pat on the head, not an interrogation in front of a sleeping baby.

“Wow,” she said. “Thanks.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what? I’m not doing anything. I’m sitting here being psychoanalysed over lasagne.”

Paige waited. When Lauren didn’t fill the silence, she went on, more gently.

“And while we’re here. The clinic.”

“What about it?”

“Last week, you rang me from the gym car park practically screaming because Carly asked you what the rent would be on a high street unit. You said someone with actual business sense thought it was viable. You said you were going to sit down and do the numbers.” Paige tilted her head. “Have you done the numbers?”

“I started.”

“How far did you get?”

Lauren thought of the spreadsheet on her laptop. CLINIC in bold, and three column headings. Rent. Rates. Clients. Nothing underneath.

“I’ve been busy.”

“Busy coaching the under-eighteens. Busy with the gym videos. Busy cooking chicken and rice for a German Shepherd.” Paige spread her hands. “You keep telling me you want to build something of your own. Something that’s yours, that nobody can take off you. And I believe you. But every time you get close, you find someone else’s thing to build instead.” She paused. “So is Berkeley the dream? Or is he just the latest way to make yourself indispensable to Carly?”

Lauren looked down at Reggie.

It hurt, in the humiliating way only true things did. She’d wanted what a lovely idea. She’d wanted Carly’s lucky to have you. Instead, she’d been handed a mirror.

She didn’t trust herself to say anything.