Mr. Nice Guy by Belinda Williams

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chelsea could barely concentratethe next day, which was saying something, because it was normally pretty hard to ignore preschoolers when they were intent on getting your attention. Even Barb commented on Chelsea’s subdued mood.

Kendra’s eyes widened to the size of saucers when Barb asked for the second time that day if Chelsea was all right. Anything more than aloof disinterest in her employees’ lives outside of work was unusual.

Chelsea finally relented and told Barb and the team about the previous night’s events. Not the part when her housemate had told her that he didn’t trust her enough to sleep with her, but the part about saving a man’s life. This produced the expected “oohs” and “aahs” from her co-workers and an understanding nod from her boss.

‘An excellent example of how important regular First Aid training can be, girls,’ she’d told them.

After that, they didn’t question Chelsea’s mood again. Despite trying to put on her best happy face for the kids, many of them sensed “See” wasn’t her usual self today. Some of the clingier ones hovered near her legs whenever they could, trying to cheer her up. Chelsea continually marvelled at the kids’ perceptiveness, and found herself getting teary several times.

She told herself that it had to do with the aftershock of helping a dying man. She did her best to put Tom’s rebuff and distrust of her out of her mind. Like he’d said, they weren’t anything serious anyway. They hadn’t even slept together.

So why was Chelsea such a mess?

Because his lack of trust hurt, that’s why.

One of the good things about working in childcare was the hours passed quickly. Before Chelsea knew it, Barb was overseeing story time, and as Chelsea headed towards the break room, Barb ushered her over.

‘Matt will be picking Dylan up soon,’ Barb whispered in her ear. At Chelsea’s raised eyebrows, Barb added, ‘Tori has cleared it. For Dylan’s sake, let’s treat it as business as usual.’

This meant Chelsea should greet Matt and not Barb, as was their old routine. Half an hour later when Chelsea saw Matt hovering near the rear entrance, she rushed outside to meet him before he came inside.

‘Matt. Hi!’ She almost winced at her overly cheerful welcome.

Matt shoved his hands into his jeans pockets and looked down at his feet. Chelsea took the opportunity to take in his appearance. He was thinner than usual and his cheekbones appeared hollow, leaving him with a gaunt look. His skin was paler, too. But he was in one piece, and that was a good start, Chelsea reasoned.

‘Matt,’ Chelsea said less cheerfully, but no less firmly. ‘It’s really great to see you.’

Matt released a tight breath and met her gaze, which seemed difficult for him to do. His grey eyes swirled with emotion.

‘Thanks. Thanks for letting me come here to pick Dylan up.’

Chelsea stepped in close, keeping her voice down. ‘You’re Dylan’s father. You’re always welcome here.’ She reached out and touched his arm briefly to bring home the point.

He released another breath, like he had to remind himself to do so. ‘I got your card.’

‘I’m glad. I wasn’t sure . . . I didn’t know . . .’ Crap. She tried again. ‘We wanted you to know that we were thinking of you.’

‘It meant a lot.’

Chelsea wanted to ask him how he was doing. No matter how good her intentions were, it didn’t seem like an easy question for him to answer given everything he was going through. Instead she said, ‘If there’s anything you need, please let us know.’

‘Thanks.’ He reached behind him and took out an envelope from his back pocket and handed it to her. ‘This is for Barb. It’s the permission form for my mother to be able to pick Dylan up. It’s what we agreed on for the next little while. Until I’m . . . back on my feet, Tori wants Mum present. I’m living with her now. She’s out in the car if you want to come and check that she’s with me—’

Chelsea caught his wrist. ‘I trust you. We’ll wave from the window when Dylan’s in the car. That way the routine doesn’t seem too different for everyone.’

Matt dropped his hand to his side. ‘I don’t want you to think that I’d just run off with him or anything. I’d never ever hurt my kids.’ His lip curled in disgust, but it was directed at himself. ‘This is such a mess. I can’t believe how much worse I’ve made things for us.’

‘Life is messy, Matt,’ Chelsea said gently. ‘Thirty preschoolers is proof enough of that. And you don’t have anything to be ashamed about. Mental illness is tough.’

Matt nodded, biting his lip. ‘I didn’t realise I had a problem until . . . Well, you know. Until it all became too much.’

Hell of a way to find out, Chelsea thought, but decided the best thing to do was keep things as normal for Matt as possible.

‘How about we go find Dylan?’ she suggested.

Little Dylan lit up when he saw his daddy. Chelsea knew for a fact that Dylan was aware of and concerned about his dad, though Tori hadn’t told him about the attempt that he’d made on his life. She’d framed it in terms of how people can feel really sad sometimes and how it can be like a sickness.

Dylan knew that his dad’s “sad sickness” was something that took time to get over, and he had to be patient. Chelsea adored the fact that a three-year-old’s approach to depression wasn’t to try to cheer his dad up. Instead, he simply wanted to be near his dad and was happy to accept him for how he was.

Once they’d said goodbye at the window and confirmed that Matt’s mother was driving, Chelsea headed into Barb’s office to leave the permission note on her desk. Barb’s desk was an exercise in tidiness, and not for the first time, Chelsea hesitated about where to put the envelope. To place it in the middle of the desk would offend Barb’s sense of military style order. At one stage she’d had a tray for files that needed actioning, but she’d recently deemed that too messy and Chelsea hadn’t been made aware of the alternative system yet. Of which there would be one.

‘Damn,’ Chelsea muttered.

Maybe she’d just leave it between the keyboard and the computer monitor. At least that was somewhere safe but not in the middle of everything. Chelsea ducked behind the desk and set the envelope in the most inoffensive location possible, but accidentally knocked the mouse as she did so.

Chelsea blinked as the screen came to life, showing Barb’s inbox. For all of Barb’s fastidious ways, she still hadn’t caught up to the twenty-first century and didn’t appear to have a password on her computer. Chelsea should probably show her how to set one, but then that would involve making a suggestion regarding their mighty leader’s processes, and they all knew how that would go down.

Chelsea turned to leave, but the name of an email caught her eye.

RE: Chelsea Cartwright. From: The University Of Newcastle.

‘Oh, shit,’ Chelsea said.

The forms. The university application forms. How stupid was she? She’d listed Barb’s business as her employer in the section about gaining additional credit, but she hadn’t actually thought they’d contact her boss personally. Or at least not without Chelsea’s consent.

Chelsea collapsed into Barb’s desk chair.

Clearly Chelsea filling out the forms and signing them communicated her consent for the university to reference check her employer. It was probably in the fine print somewhere, which she was sure she’d read. However, by the time she’d finished the forms, her hands had been shaking and she couldn’t believe she was actually doing it, so it was completely possible that she’d missed that part.

What was she going to do?

Come clean, obviously. But this wasn’t how she’d wanted things to go. She’d planned to tell Barb at some stage. Some stage meaning the day she started her classes, most likely.

Chelsea quickly closed the email so Barb wouldn’t know she’d seen it. Her gaze involuntarily fell on the email after hers and she blinked.

It was something from John Hunter Hospital—Newcastle’s major hospital.

Don’t open it, Chelsea. Do not open it.

Of course, she opened it.

‘Oh, God,’ she breathed. ‘Barb, no.’

It contained details from a heart specialist about an upcoming surgery. Something related to cardiomyopathy, whatever that was. The patient was listed as Barbara Summers. Hand shaking, Chelsea closed the email.

Barb had heart problems? She hadn’t said a word to anyone here. Not a soul. Unless she’d told one of the other girls, but Chelsea seriously doubted it. Chelsea was the most senior here below Barb, and she couldn’t imagine Barb telling the younger girls before her.

In a daze, Chelsea forced herself to stand. Barb was a widow. She’d lived alone as long as Chelsea had worked for her. There was the occasional mention of a sister nearby, and less common references to her deceased husband, who it sounded like she’d sort of loved. If sort of loved meant tolerating him when he was alive.

They’d never had children. Barb’s children were the Kinder Kids.

Chelsea suppressed the urge to sit down again and told herself to go back to the children, pretending like she hadn’t seen anything. Obviously, if Barb hadn’t told anyone about the upcoming surgery, it couldn’t be that major, could it? Except, according to that piece of paper, it had sounded rather major.

She was just rounding the desk when Barb strode in.

‘Ah, there you are. Kendra’s looking for you. What are you doing in here?’

Chelsea avoided her eyes and gestured to the desk. ‘I left the permission note for Dylan’s new pick-up arrangements on your desk.’

Barb saw the envelope and slipped past Chelsea to retrieve it. ‘Don’t leave it there. Look, I’ve got a new file management system over here now.’

Barb turned and nodded behind Chelsea to the top of the filing cabinets, but when she saw the direction of Chelsea’s gaze, her eyes narrowed.

Chelsea’s own eyes widened. She hadn’t meant to look at the computer screen, but the shocking news about her boss’s state of health was still swirling in her head.

‘Ah,’ Barb said, nodding again, but this time in recognition. ‘The email from the university. Yes, I did wonder when you were going to get around to telling me.’

Chelsea frowned. ‘I don’t care about that,’ she blurted. ‘What about the email from the hospital?’

She snapped her mouth shut and stared at Barb. Whether her boss was potentially dying or not remained to be seen, but for now she was very much alive and she looked furious.

Barb pointed to the visitors’ chair. ‘Close the door and sit down, Chelsea.’