The next ten minutes pass as we make painful small-talk. I turn the questions onto him, asking about his life in Australia and his plans now he's back in London. Neither of us mention his PTSD or the way he behaved when he came back from Iraq, but the knowledge of it underscores every word we utter. By the time the huge white clock suspended from the raftered ceiling clicks over to one o'clock the conversation has fizzled out to single word answers. I'm not sad to see that my lunch break is over.
“I should go,” I say. “I need to get back to work.”
His face falls for a minute. “I thought we could go for a walk.”
The suggestion panics me, jolting me from the comfortable lull our conversation has created. It's one thing to talk to somebody you're afraid of when you're surrounded by diners, another to contemplate seeing them completely alone.
I'm not ready for that. Nowhere near.
I look behind me again, and Callum notices my wide eyes, his expression questioning. When I don't answer—mostly because I'm too busy trying to regulate my breath—Callum stands, rolling his napkin into a ball and dropping it into his empty cup. “Amy, I didn't realise that was you.” His voice is over-loud and thick with brogue, as if he's hamming it up for effect. “Shouldn't you be back at the office by now?”
I nod mutely.
“I've got to go,” I tell Digger. We stand together, both of us stepping back. It takes all the strength I have not to lean until my back is pressed against Callum’s chest. I don't think I've ever wanted to be held more than I do right now.
“Who's that?” Digger asks, pointing at Callum. He looks smaller now, wiry and thin. Almost petite in comparison.
“My boss...” I stutter, “Well, my ex-boss.”
“Callum Ferguson.” He offers his hand to Digger. There's nothing friendly about their handshake. Callum pulls his hand away, resting it lightly on my shoulder. Maybe I should be annoyed at this gesture, and the sense of ownership it conveys, but there's something so warm and reassuring about it. This time I allow myself to sink against him.
“Shall we go?” Callum asks me.
“We should,” I agree. Safe in his protection, I turn to my father. “It was nice to meet you.” I'm not sure if it was, but it seems the polite thing to say.
“You too, sweetheart.” He glances up at Callum to see if he's noticed the term of endearment. From the way Callum pulls me closer, I'd say he has. “I'd like to see you again.”
“Okay.” I breathe the words out, but they don't feel light. “I'll call you.”
Digger goes to kiss me, and I step back again, firmly into Callum's embrace. The strength of his muscles against my back flusters me, but the only way to pull away is to walk into my father’s arms.
Rock, meet hard place.
Eventually, my father gives up, and I relax out of Callum's grip.
“I'll see you soon, then.” Digger says, picking up his wallet and pushing it into his back pocket. “Say hello to your mum for me.”
I watch him leave, as he half-swaggers through the café. He's out of the door before we start walking, and if I'm honest I can't say I'm sorry to see him go.
A wind whips around us as we emerge into the plaza, lifting my coat like a trickster.
“Well, that was intense,” I remark as we corner the building.
“And that's an understatement.” Callum stops, reaching for my hand, and his gesture brings me to a halt.
“What?” I ask. He says nothing, simply tips my chin with his hand, his eyes searching my face. “I'm okay, honestly.”
“Will you just let me take care of you?” he mutters, his thumb rubbing my cheek. “For five fucking minutes?”
I lean against the brick wall at the back of the canteen, while Callum presses into my front. Though we are alone—except for the overflowing rubbish and recycling bins beside us—I still ch
eck guiltily for any observers.
“I don't need looking after.”
“Well, maybe I need it,” he shouts. “Maybe I need to take care of you. Maybe I need to protect you and know that you're okay.”
“But why?” I'm genuinely confused. I peer at him, frowning, and try to ignore the stench that carries in the wind from the bins beside us.