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‘Not the point, Summer.’

‘Oh.’ She grinned up at Angela. ‘This is why I want to be a vet. Animals don’t care about people talking about them. I think they’re a lot easier to work with than people.’

‘I think you’re probably right,’ Angela agreed, her mood darkening as she thought about a certain person she really didn’t want to be working with. Maybe if she was lucky he’d have given up and left by the time she got back to Bill’s.

* * *

Rick was not in a good mood. Harry had turned out to be the local bobby, and was clearly not a Rickhead. Instead of being won over by his smile and charm, he’d proceeded to lecture him on the behaviour that he would consider acceptable — or not — and made it very clear the whole village was highly dubious about his presence, and were basically waiting for him to screw up.

Once he’d finished reading him the riot act, he’d all but dragged him back into the courtyard, locked up the small office and kitchen, placed the key above the door — which made absolutely no sense to Rick — and had given him another warning before he headed back to do whatever policemen do in backwards little villages like this.

It was a far cry from the usual adoration, and he really did not like it. He couldn’t wait to get back to the devoted arms of his Rickheads, and the sculpted perfection of Yvette.

Needing to reassure himself, he logged on to check his latest reel. If he was super critical, he could see that he did look a little pale — but the Smile was still in full force as the digital mini-him strode up and knocked confidently on the sanctuary’s gate. Angela’s less-than-friendly face and painfully bright fleece were attracting a lot of comments, and he started to grin as he flicked through them. He winced at the viciousness of some of his fans’ support, then shrugged. They were welcome to their opinion — and if they thought Angela was a “miserable old cow” and a “lemon-sucking outdated hippy” who was he to argue?

‘Oh, you’re still here.’ Angela glared at him. She screeched the gate open — setting his teeth on edge again — and hobbled in, clutching the wire box she’d left with, which banged against her crutch, making the black bird inside jump.

Belatedly remembering his manners — and that he needed her to like him — he jumped up from the wall and ran to take the crate from her.

‘I’ve got it, thanks.’

‘Really? Because he doesn’t seem to like being bounced around that much.’ He peered into the box. ‘Hello, little duck.’

‘That “duck” is a moorhen. And “he” is a she.’ Angela put the thing on the wall. Apparently she’d rather balance the animal precariously than trust him. He supposed he didn’t blame her for that, but it stung a bit to think he couldn’t be trusted to even hold a cage. ‘And I need to set up a pen for her, and settle her in, before I can get on with the rest of my work.’

‘How can I help?’

‘You can stay out of my way.’ She huffed and rearranged her crutches to try and pick up the box, but struggled, unable to grasp the handle with the stick in her hand. He watched as she wove her fingers through the mesh, only to get a painful-looking peck from the ungrateful specimen within.

‘Way to show me gratitude for trying to save your feathery behind.’ Angela tutted at the bird. ‘I know this isn’t what you’re used to, and you probably have a handsome mate missing you tonight, but you really do have to stay here until you’re better — and hopefully until you learn not to play with cats!’

She stomped into one of the sheds and the door slammed shut behind her, making it very clear she didn’t want to be bothered.

Not knowing what else to do, Rick pulled out his phone to check through the reactions, stars, hearts and follows his latest reel was attracting. He threw out a few likes and replied to a few comments, but he wasn’t really feeling it, so tucked his phone away. He wasn’t really feeling very “maverick”, or like the cheery, teasing self that his Rickheads expected — and that brands paid so much for.

If he was honest with himself, he hadn’t felt much like his online persona since the accident. It had shaken him more than he’d admitted to anyone. He’d tried, briefly, to talk to Yvette about it, but she’d brushed his concerns aside. It wasn’t like anyone had died, and the negative feedback in the papers had disappeared pretty fast under the weight of his followers jumping to his defence online, who called for help on mental health issues and awareness raising.

He’d tried mentioning it to his agent, who had also brushed his concerns aside, reassuring Rick that the “volunteer” angle had gone down well with the test panel, and he was getting positive responses from everyone. Well, everyone apart from the person who he really wanted to get on side. He stared at the shed she’d hobbled into.

And hobbled was the right word. Yvette was right — he hadn’t killed anyone, but he had hurt Angela badly. Maybe the judge did have a point.

* * *

Angela huffed and heaved the bird onto the work bench, trying not to disturb her newest visitor. The poor hen had already been through enough stress without needing Angela’s bad mood to make things worse. And she really was in a foul mood — although, dealing with a moorhen, maybe that should have been fowl.

She shook her head at her own silliness before looking around for her waterfowl food. Of course, because it was typical of the way her day had been going, it was on the highest shelf — the one she usually needed a stool to reach. But with her still-healing leg she knew there was no chance that she’d be able to climb up, so instead she swiped at it hopefully with her crutch, succeeding only in pushing it further back. She sighed and tried again, flipping the crutch around to try and use the handle as a hook. Of course the blasted thing caught on something she couldn’t see or reach and, when she wriggled it to try and loosen it, it snagged then suddenly gave — dragging the bird food and a couple of heavy tins crashing down with it. She did her best to cover her head, but one of the tins clunked heavily against her temple, making the shed spin and toppling her to the floor. Rubbing the sore spot, she gingerly and awkwardly stretched to start clearing up. She forced herself to try and be positive, to think of what she was grateful for.

One — she could be grateful that nothing had hit the moorhen. Two — even though a wastefully indecent percentage of the bag now littered the floor, at least there was still food in the packet for the moorhen. Three — she could be very grateful that Jake . . .

‘Hey, I heard a crash and wanted to check . . . oh.’

She could imagine what she looked like, legs akimbo on the floor, sitting amongst the cascade of tins and explosion of stinky fish-meal-based pellets. Duck and waterfowl food was hardly the worst-smelling thing she dealt with on a daily basis, but the exploding packet had sent a cloud of fishy, algae-scented dust into the air.

To his credit, he didn’t laugh at her, and barely wrinkled his nose as he surveyed the chaos, then reached out his hand. ‘Look, I know you’re not particularly thrilled to have me here, but I am supposed to be helping out — especially while you’re on those things.’ He gestured to the crutches that she loved and loathed in equal measure. ‘Maybe we could start over, beginning with me offering you a hand up. I know you think I’m pretty useless, and not to be trusted, and you’re probably right, but I can at least give you a hand up off the floor. And, useless or not, I’m pretty sure even I can figure out how to use a broom. Or one of those little scoop things.’

‘Do you mean a dustpan?’ She gaped at him.

‘Sure, one of them.’ He tried out the Smile, but it fell flat — again. She really did seem to be immune to one of his greatest weapons. ‘Come on, Angela. I know you probably hate me — and with good reason. But are you really telling me that sitting on the floor surrounded by . . . whatever the hell this is . . . is better than accepting a hand?’