He turned as she came in, put the mug on the table and with complete naturalness went to take Jake from her, holding him confidently, smiling down at him. Watching him, Tilda’s first reaction of pleasure was swamped by an uprush of misery. Just so had she imagined David holding his child, the strong, cradling arms in heart-touching contrast with the weak helplessness; the bobbing, rolling head supported against the broad shoulder. In that brief moment she both resented Saul and, simultaneously, longed to rest against his strength. ‘Piers must have been up early. I see he’s already had his breakfast.’ She poured herself a glass of milk, taking refuge in banalities – ‘Ten minutes on the bleeding obvious,’ as David, intolerant of any kind of pretence, would have remarked – ‘He usually comes down a bit later at the weekends.’ ‘Too excited to sleep?’ offered Saul, making faces at Jake. ‘Birthday boy and all that? Can’t wait for his pressies?’ ‘Oh, shut up,’ said Tilda crossly; Saul too, always saw through any kind of subterfuge and once again she experienced mixed emotions: relief at not having to pretend with him and irritation that he refused to co-operate with her evasive tactics.
