Carrying The Single Dad's Baby

‘Rapunzel,’ Daniel supplied.

‘Aye. And she talks like the Queen, all posh.’

‘Yes.’

‘I like her. Do you like her, Dad?’

Awkward question. ‘I work with her,’ Daniel prevaricated.

‘She’s nice. Can she come for tea tonight?’

‘No, Iain. She’s busy.’

But his son wasn’t to be put off. ‘Next week, then?’

‘She might be busy.’

‘Ask her,’ Iain said. ‘Go on, Dad. Ask her. Please.’

‘Do you want to go and get pizza?’ Daniel asked, hoping to distract his son with a treat.

It worked. Until bedtime, when Iain started on about princesses again. ‘Do you think Bee’s married to a prince?’

Daniel had no idea, but maybe if Iain thought Beatrice was married he’d drop the subject. ‘Probably.’

‘Then why didn’t the prince come to play football today?’

Daniel loved his son dearly, but the constant questions could be exhausting. ‘Maybe he can’t play football.’

‘Oh.’ Iain paused. ‘If she’s a princess, do you think she knows the Queen?’

‘I don’t know, Iain.’

‘Mum likes Prince Harry.’

Daniel tamped down his irritation. ‘I know.’

‘Do you think Bee knows Prince Harry?’

‘I think,’ Daniel said gently, ‘it’s time for one more story and then sleep.’

He just hoped his son wouldn’t say anything about Beatrice next weekend, when Iain was due to stay with his mother. The last thing he wanted was Jenny quizzing him about whether he was dating again. He knew she still felt guilty about what had happened between them, and that if he started seeing someone it would make her feel better, but he really didn’t want to date anyone. He wanted to concentrate on bringing Iain up and being the best dad he could be.

On Sunday, Iain seemed to have forgotten about his new friend. But then on Monday Daniel picked up his son from nursery, and Iain handed him a picture: a drawing of a woman with long golden hair and a crown, a man playing football and a small boy with red lines coming out of his elbow.

‘It’s Bee making me better on Saturday,’ he announced, although Daniel had already worked that out for himself. ‘I drawed it for her. Can you give it to her tomorrow?’

‘All right.’

Iain beamed. ‘I know she’ll like it.’

‘I’m sure she will.’ If she didn’t, he’d fib and tell Iain that she loved it. No way was he going to let his little boy be disappointed.

* * *

Beatrice was in the staff kitchen when he walked in, the next day. ‘Are you busy at lunchtime?’ he asked.

She looked surprised, then answered carefully. ‘It depends what it’s like in Resus.’

‘OK. If you’re not busy, I need to talk to you—and lunch is on me.’

She shook her head. ‘There’s no need.’

‘I want to say thank you for rescuing Iain on Saturday. His arm’s fine, by the way.’

‘Good, but really there’s no need to buy me lunch. I just did what anyone else would’ve done because I was the nearest one to him when it happened. Though thank you for the offer.’

‘Can I just talk to you, then?’ He really didn’t want to give her the picture in front of everyone.

She nodded. ‘We’ll go halves on lunch.’

‘Good.’

Daniel switched into work mode, and managed to concentrate on his patients for the morning: two fractures, a badly sprained ankle and an elderly woman who’d had a TIA and whom he admitted for further testing. He had no idea how busy Resus had been, but at lunchtime Beatrice appeared. ‘Are you OK to go, or do you need a bit of time to finish writing up notes?’

‘I’m OK to go,’ he said.

He waited until they were sitting in the canteen before handing her the envelope.

‘What’s this?’ she asked.

‘Iain asked me to give you this,’ he said.

She opened the envelope, looked at the picture and smiled. Her blue eyes were full of warmth when she looked at him. ‘That’s lovely—me, him and you at the team football day on Saturday, I’m guessing?’

He nodded.

‘Tell him thank you, I love it, and I’m going to put it on my fridge, right next to the picture Persephone drew me of her horse at the weekend.’

‘Persephone?’ Daniel asked.

‘My niece.’

He blinked. ‘So your family goes in for unusual names.’

She nodded. ‘My generation’s all from Shakespeare—Orlando’s the oldest, then Lysander, then me.’ She spread her hands. ‘It could’ve been worse. My mother could’ve called me Desdemona or Goneril. And, actually, Beatrice is Shakespeare’s best female character, so I’m quite happy to be named after her.’

Her accent alone marked her out as posh. The names of her brothers and her niece marked her out as seriously posh. And had she just said that her niece had a horse? Posh and rich, then.