by Kate Hardy
‘We would’ve had a nice day doing touristy things,’ he said. ‘And, if we’d had the chance to get to know each other a bit more, I might have suggested meeting up with you in London and seeing where things took us.’
‘And now?’
‘We’ve kind of skipped a step. We’ve made a baby without having a real relationship first.’ He paused. ‘Maybe we can rewind a little bit and get to know each other properly. Go on dates, as if the baby isn’t part of the equation.’
It all sounded sensible.
But he hadn’t said how he felt about her, or asked how she felt about him. She had the distinct feeling that Harry Moran kept his heart under armed guard. It was understandable, given that his marriage had ended badly, but it was frustrating. If he wasn’t prepared to take a chance, open up to her as she’d try to open up to him, it wouldn’t work between them.
‘There’s only one thing,’ he said. ‘Weekends are pretty busy for me at the moment. The quartet has a wedding booked for just about every Saturday between now and the end of the summer, and we have other commitments in between. I’m based in London, but we travel around a fair bit.’ He paused. ‘Which means Sunday lunchtimes are probably the best time for me to see you, and London’s the easiest place to meet. Does that work for you?’
This felt more like a business arrangement than a relationship.
And even though Holly had told herself she didn’t want any more relationships after Simon’s betrayal, she realised that actually she did. And Harry’s view on the whole thing felt lukewarm.
Did she really want to get involved with someone who was emotionally unavailable—to risk falling for someone who might not ever be able to feel the same way about her as she was starting to feel about him? She’d spent eight years in a relationship where she had been the one who’d loved the other the most, and she didn’t want to repeat that.
The alternative was to cut him out of her life, which wasn’t fair. This was his baby, too. And the baby deserved to know both parents.
At her continued silence, Harry said softly, ‘I know that probably sounds like too little, too late. But I don’t want to make any promises I can’t keep.’
‘It feels a bit clinical,’ she admitted. ‘OK, so I don’t remember our fling, but...’ But she wasn’t the sort of person to have a fling. Harry wasn’t either; so surely the fact that they’d both acted so out of character meant something? ‘Plus we made a baby. Unintentionally.’
‘I like you,’ he said. ‘At least I like the bit of you I’ve got to know so far.’ There was a glint of amusement in his eyes as he said, ‘Except possibly the hormonal version of you that stomps off in a huff.’
‘That,’ she said, ‘isn’t fair.’ Then she thought about it. ‘Or maybe it is. I don’t usually stomp off in a huff.’
‘Your colleagues call you Lara Croft—which I’m guessing is because you’re not scared of anything and you just roll your sleeves up and sort things out, quietly and methodically. I like that.’
‘And you make people feel things,’ she said. ‘I like hearing you play.’
‘That’s a good place to start from,’ he said. ‘I can’t promise you this is going to work out between us, because I don’t have a good track record.’
Was he trying to tell her that there was more than one divorce in his past?
The question must’ve shown on her face, because he said, ‘I’ve only been married once, and there haven’t been a string of long-term girlfriends. Or even much of a string of short-term ones. It took me a while to put myself back together after the divorce, and my work schedule means I’m not very available.’
‘Uh-huh.’ She didn’t know what to say. He was sounding more and more emotionally distant.
‘But I’ll try my hardest. And, whatever happens between you and me, I want to be a decent dad to our child.’
So her grand passion had fizzled out. Disappointment flooded through her. He didn’t want a relationship and he was clearly going to see her as an obligation. That wasn’t what she wanted. At all.
It must have shown on her face, because he said, ‘Holly, you need to know I’m not good at emotional stuff. I grew up with my parents fighting constantly and I used to escape into my music—which is an explanation, not an excuse, because I’ll take the blame where it’s due and I made a mess of my marriage. I know you’ve been hurt and your ex lied to you, and I don’t want to make a promise to you that I’m scared I won’t be able to keep.’
‘So are you saying you want to be with me, or not?’ she asked.
‘I’m saying I’d like to try. Neither of us usually does mad things, but we still had that fling. My head’s all over the place right now, but I want to get to know you better. Not just on Sundays,’ he said. ‘It’s not that far a drive from London to Beauchamp. I could maybe come and see you during the week. I could take you out for dinner or into Cambridge and we could go punting on the river.’
So he did want to try. He was just scared that it would all go wrong. She could understand that, and it made her feel a bit less awkward. And, because he was offering something, she felt it was her turn to offer something, too. ‘Because I was a bit late finding out about the baby, I’m late for everything else, too. I’ve got a dating scan in London on Wednesday, if you’re free.’
‘I’ll make sure I’m free,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’ He paused. ‘Would you mind if we kept this to ourselves for now?’
‘To ourselves,’ she repeated. Was this his way of telling her that he didn’t think she was good enough for his family and he’d have to talk them round?
‘Dominic and Ellen will be thrilled,’ he said, as if guessing what she was worrying about. ‘My parents see the world in a very different way from most, and I don’t want them upsetting you.’
‘Oh.’ So it kind of was that he didn’t think she was good enough.
‘Right now,’ he said softly, ‘I need to get my head around the idea of being a parent. And it’s easier to do that at a distance from my own parents. You’ve met them, so you know they can be difficult. Even though Nell says they’re both eating out of your hand.’
‘I think they accept me now,’ she said. ‘At least, as the head of the dig.’
‘For what it’s worth,’ he said, ‘Dom and Nell like you. A lot. And Granny Beckett would definitely have approved of you.’
‘I see.’
He reached over and took her hand. ‘Let’s just give ourselves some time to get to know each other without any outside pressure.’
Even though she still felt insecure, there was the baby to consider. And they had to start somewhere.
‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘I could offer you tea and cake at my place.’
He was inviting her into his private space. Given that he’d told her he wasn’t good at emotional stuff, it couldn’t be easy for him to ask her there; he was making the effort and she appreciated that. ‘That,’ she said, ‘would be nice.’
* * *
Harry’s flat was the top floor of a Victorian three-storey house, and it was much smaller than Holly had expected. Everything was neat and tidy, but it felt more like a hotel apartment than a real home. The only personal things in evidence were the framed photographs on the mantelpiece and the top of his piano: wedding pictures of his siblings, pictures of his nieces and nephews, and a photograph of what was clearly the quartet at an award ceremony.
He made her a mug of tea just how she liked it, and sat next to her on the sofa.
‘So you’re a minimalist, then,’ she said.
‘I’m away a lot. It makes sense to keep everything very tidy,’ he said. ‘I’m assuming that means you’re not?’
‘Let’s just say I have a few overflowing bookcases, lots of maps, and a collection of fossils on display, not to mention the fact that I often work on my knees in mud,’ she said. ‘And I was expecting you to have
a lot of music.’
‘It’s mainly in digital format,’ he explained, ‘though I do have a cupboard full of Granny Beckett’s vinyl.’
That was what worried her. Everything was a little bit too neat and tidy. How would he cope with it being disordered? ‘Babies make a lot of chaos,’ she said.
He grinned. ‘Having two nephews and two nieces, I already have a rough idea about that.’
‘And you don’t mind?’
‘No.’ He looked at her. ‘So tell me about you.’
‘There isn’t that much to tell. I’m the younger of two girls. Our parents are both on the cusp of retiring and planning to travel a lot; my sister has a son and a daughter. I don’t have any pets, because if I’m on a dig that would mean putting a dog in kennels or getting my mum or sister to dog-sit, which doesn’t seem fair.’ She spread her hands. ‘That’s about it.’
‘Maybe we ought to find a list of speed dating questions,’ he suggested. ‘It’ll be a quick way of getting to know each other.’ When she nodded, he did a quick search on his phone. ‘Right. What makes you happy?’
‘Work,’ she said promptly. ‘And my family and friends.’
‘Snap,’ he said. ‘Next: do you prefer the city or the country?’
‘Both,’ she said. ‘I love living in London—but I also enjoy it when a dig is in the middle of nowhere and all I can hear is birdsong. You?’
‘Both,’ he said. ‘I love living in London, too, but I like punting down to Grantchester and wandering through the meadows.’
‘Sounds nice,’ she said.
‘I’ll take you there,’ he promised, and consulted the list again. ‘What are you reading at the moment?’
She winced. ‘Something really nerdy. A book about facial reconstruction.’
‘I think I’ve seen an article about that in one of the Sunday supplements. Isn’t that where you find a skeleton and the artist can work out what the person actually looked like when they were alive?’ he asked.
‘Yes. It’s fascinating. They make a 3D model of the skull, import it to a virtual sculpture system, and the artist then reconstructs the facial muscles. There’s an amazing one at the Johns Hopkins in America—the Cohen Mummy. For decades, everyone thought it was a boy, but it turned out to be a woman.’ She grabbed her own phone and found the pictures for him. ‘And they managed to do that from a partial skull—the jawbone was missing.’
‘That’s absolutely amazing.’ He looked at her. ‘I can see why you love your subject.’
Simon had always zoned out a bit when she’d talked about work. Having a partner who was actually interested in what she did felt strange—though in a good way. ‘What are you reading?’ she asked.
‘A biography of Bach,’ he said. ‘Though I also like crime novels. Not the gore-fests—I like the ones where you get inside the characters’ heads.’
‘Me, too,’ she said. ‘There’s a brilliant series about a forensic archaeologist. I’ll lend it to you, if you haven’t already read it.’
He smiled at her. ‘Thanks.’
‘What about TV?’ she asked.
‘I don’t bother very much. I’d rather be at a concert,’ he said. ‘How about you?’
‘Costume drama,’ she said. ‘My best friend absolutely loves Jane Austen, so I’ve seen every adaptation going.’
He looked at his phone. ‘Lark or owl?’
‘Lark,’ she said.
He wrinkled his nose. ‘I’m an owl. I think we’re both going to have to compromise a bit there.’ He checked the screen again. ‘What makes you laugh?’
‘Bad puns.’ She looked at him. ‘What’s an archaeologist’s favourite sort of joke?’ At his shrug, she said, ‘Pre-hysterical.’
He laughed. ‘Love it. What’s the difference between a fish and a piano?’ When she shook her head, he said, ‘You can’t tuna fish...’
‘I think,’ she said, ‘our nieces and nephews are all about to double their joke stock.’
‘Sounds good to me,’ he said. ‘What’s your ideal holiday?’
‘Somewhere with lots of ruins and museums to explore,’ she said promptly. ‘Yours?’
‘Somewhere with lots of concerts.’
‘So not a beach holiday?’
He shuddered. ‘That’s my idea of a nightmare.’
‘Mine, too.’ She looked at him. ‘So we have a lot of things in common.’
‘Which is a really good start.’
True, but she wanted more. She wanted him to want her, not to feel obliged because of the baby.
‘What time is the scan on Wednesday?’ he asked.
‘Half-past nine. I’ll text you the details,’ she said.
‘Thank you. And are you going straight back to Beauchamp afterwards?’
‘Possibly.’
‘Or maybe you could come to a lunchtime concert with me first? Some of my friends are playing Mozart at St Martin’s on Wednesday. We could grab something to eat in the crypt beforehand.’
He was asking her on a real date? Something that was both reassuring and exciting. Maybe he wasn’t going to see her as an obligation after all. ‘I’d like that,’ she said. ‘And maybe we can take your nephew and nieces to see the mummies at the British Museum at the weekend, if you’re around on Sunday.’
‘I’d like that,’ he said. His eyes crinkled at the corners. ‘We could make a list of all the things that you would like to do, and work our way through it.’
A list. He was really beginning to sound like a man after her own heart, which gave her hope. ‘You’re a planner?’ she checked.
‘Lists are my guilty pleasure,’ he admitted.
‘Mine, too.’
He persuaded her to stay a bit longer by playing the piano for her, some of the pieces that he’d already played her on the cello, and then he drove her back to her flat.
‘I’ll see you on Wednesday,’ he said on her doorstep. ‘Maybe I can pick you up from here and we can go in to the hospital together.’
Like a real couple.
Funny how that made her feel so warm inside.
‘Goodnight, Holly.’ He looked at her and his eyes darkened.
Was he going to kiss her?
For a moment, she thought he was going to take a step backwards. And then he cupped her face in his hands, his touch gentle. Her skin tingled where it made contact with his, and as he stared at her mouth she felt her lips parting.
Slowly, slowly, he dipped his head and his mouth brushed against hers. And it felt as if the dull evening suddenly turned Technicolor, with the brightness and the saturation both turned up to the max.
By the time he broke the kiss, she was shaking—and she could see a slash of colour across his cheekbones. He might not be saying it, but she knew that he was affected by this thing between them just as much as she was.
‘See you on Wednesday,’ he said, and stole another kiss—as if he was finding it as hard to tear himself away from her as she was finding it to let him go.
CHAPTER EIGHT
AND JUST LIKE that Holly found herself in a relationship again. Except this wasn’t safe and familiar, like it had been with Simon. Even seeing Harry’s name on her phone screen made her heart beat faster.
She imagined this was what dating was supposed to be like in your teens—not that she’d dated much back then. The headiness, the excitement. Not being able to stop thinking about him and how it felt when he kissed her. Was it the same for him? She was beginning to think that it might be, because on Monday Harry texted her a photograph of the church where he and the quartet were playing Haydn. On Tuesday he called her, just to say hello. And on Wednesday her doorbell rang at a quarter to eight in the morning, when they’d arranged to meet at half past to go to the hospital.
‘Good morning.’ Harry handed her a beautiful bouquet of roses. ‘I know you’
re not going to be here to enjoy them again until Saturday, but I couldn’t let today go without bringing you flowers.’ He kissed her lightly. ‘And I brought us breakfast.’
Which turned out to be freshly squeezed orange juice and still-warm croissants. ‘Thank you. That’s so lovel—’ To her horror, Holly felt a tear slide down her cheek. She brushed it away with the back of her hand. ‘Sorry. Hormones. I’m really not one of these women who cries buckets at every little thing.’ But she wasn’t used to feeling as if someone cherished her, and it threw her.
‘I know you’re not a weeper.’ He kissed her again, his mouth warm and sweet and reassuring, yet at the same time it sent her pulse rate soaring. ‘So are you OK?’
She nodded. ‘I’ve just put the kettle on. I’m supposed to drink loads of water—’
‘—before the scan,’ he finished. ‘I’ve been reading up on things.’
He ended up making the tea while she put the flowers in water.
When had someone last brought her flowers?
Apart from the ones all her visitors had brought her after the accident, she thought it was probably her mum on her birthday. Simon hadn’t been one for romantic gestures. And Holly was discovering that she liked romantic gestures. She liked them very much indeed.
Harry held her hand all the way to the tube station, all the way on the tube journey, and all the way to the hospital. And he kept his fingers laced tightly through her own in the waiting room, after he’d checked that she was comfortable and had water. Was he maybe nervous of hospitals? she wondered.
* * *
Harry felt sick. Adrenaline was speeding through his bloodstream. It was way, way worse than the nerves he always felt just as he walked onto the stage. But on a stage he knew what he was doing, plus he had his cello to cling to. Here, he had no control over whether things would go well or not. He was holding Holly’s hand, and he knew he was holding it way too tightly, but he couldn’t help himself.
The last time he’d been a prospective father, it had all gone so badly wrong. He hadn’t even got to the stage of having the first scan with Rochelle, because she’d lost the baby two days before their appointment. Even if today turned out to be fine, so many things could still go wrong. Maybe it had been a mistake to search the Internet to find out what to expect at each stage of the pregnancy. Holly was past twelve weeks, so in theory she was out of the major danger zone, and the dating scan would give them an accurate figure. But supposing the sonographer couldn’t find a heartbeat? Supposing, instead of happy tears, there was just despair, like last time?