by Zee Monodee
“Fine.”
“I—” She lowered her eyes, unable to look at him. “I better go.”
Shuffling where she stood, she didn’t dare glance up at him. It hurt to see the anger on his face. But Jamie was just a friend, nothing more—neither Emma’s adoptive father, nor the man bringing her up. The decision regarding Robbie Barnes lay squarely on her shoulders, and she couldn’t let anyone influence her in that matter.
“I’ll get the children—”
“Let them watch the game. I’ll bring them over afterward.”
“Okay.” She gave a curt nod.
He made no move to stop her when she left. She must be a fool for experiencing the tight ache in her chest that grew with every step she took.
There existed nothing between her and Jamie. There shouldn’t be.
So why did it hurt so much?
Brain over heart, Nolan. Get a grip on yourself.
Relationships? Not for her. The only one that mattered was between her and Emma.
Nothing more, nothing less.
***
More than a week went by without another glimpse of Jamie, or even a word from him.
Just as well. Seemed like her wishes had gotten fulfilled. She’d wanted him out of her life, and that’s exactly where he now stood. Distance need not be physical. In fact, distance that created an impenetrable chasm between two people physically close to one another hurt even worse. Shouldn’t she know? The day Harry had hit her, he’d been contrite right after, and had pulled her into his arms, rocked her back and forth. His tears had moistened one shoulder of her silk blouse, and his fingers had left crushing bruises on her upper arms. Yet, she’d drifted worlds away from him in that instant.
David had slept by her side every night, and some mornings, she had woken up to wonder who the stranger in her bed could be.
Jamie might be next door, his bathroom on the other side of the plaster wall from her own, but for all she knew, they existed on different planets.
She jumped up with surprise when he walked into her kitchen the next Saturday. Emma’s birthday weekend, and she wanted her daughter to have the kind of celebration she deserved. Events in Edna Milburn’s house had consisted of cake and a gift. No friends, no fun, no happy times. How could a child grow up that way?
She’d cringed at the prospect of a house full of tween girls. Party, dinner, sleepover—the plan. Being still early, she and Polina readied everything for when the horde would bore down later.
Her breath hitched in her throat when she found him standing there. Dressed in his grunge jeans, he also sported a grey and black Adidas jumper that emphasized the width of his shoulders. His shaggy dark hair hung damp, as if he’d just taken a shower and hadn’t bothered to dry the locks beyond a few rubs with a towel.
He, too, stared at her for a long time.
She had to admit it hurt. How could two people stand there, obviously eager to talk to one another, and not say a word?
“Jamie!” Emma dashed down the stairs and flung her arms around him. “I knew you’d come.”
Margo frowned. Come to think of it, she hadn’t invited Jamie. Emma had, apparently.
“Happy birthday, Em.” He hugged the girl and pushed a gift box, one size smaller than a shoebox, in her hands.
Emma jumped up and down. “My first gift today.”
Jamie glanced up, surprise evident in the raised eyebrows.
“I’m taking her shopping tomorrow, so we don’t duplicate gifts she’ll receive today,” Margo said when she found her voice.
“Can I open it?”
She smiled at the girl. “Sure. If Jamie doesn’t mind.”
“Go on,” he said.
Emma tore through the wrapping, then lifted the lid off the box. She removed a book, followed by a DVD case. “Sense and Sensibility,” she read aloud.
“I’m sure you’ll like it,” Jamie said. “Remember what we spoke about?”
Margo trailed her gaze from her daughter to her neighbour. What loomed between these two? A secret message had passed in his last comment, and damn if she could figure out what it meant.
“You can also watch the movie,” he said, “but the book spells it all better.”
Emma beamed at him. Then her best friend, Melissa, arrived, and the two girls dashed upstairs to Emma’s room.
“The book spells what better?” she asked. Curiosity killed the cat, and right then, she faced a swift death.
He smiled, and her heart did a little flip-flop.
“Have you read it?”
“Of course I have, and every other Austen, too.” She paused. “You’ve read Sense and Sensibility?”
He nodded. “And Pride and Prejudice. And Persuasion. And Emma. And Northanger Abbey. And Mansfield Park.”
“Why?”
“My mother made me. Told us, me and my brother, that if we ever hoped to understand women, we had to read Austen.”
A laugh escaped her. She tried picturing the very masculine Jamie holding a Jane Austen book, with the pastel-coloured cover, in his hands. “Your mother must be quite something.”
“You don’t know the half of it. She’s an English professor, specializes in Austen and the Romantic era.”
Margo smiled. She missed Jamie and his wit, his funny remarks, the way he rattled her cage and made her laugh at the same time.
“You’re a fan of Austen?” he asked.
She nodded. “Emma’s mum, too. That girl is named after the character from the eponymous novel.”
“Lots to be gathered from the lady’s books. I’ve heard opinions that say Darcy is the ideal man.”
“He could well be, for some Elizabeth out there.”
“Why do I get the feeling you don’t believe the ideal man exists?”
She shrugged. Maybe because a Wickham had burned her, and her luck had never allowed her to meet an Edward Ferrars, let alone a prized paragon such as a Darcy.
The doorbell chimed, and Polina went to answer. Margo’s high spirits crashed when she saw the caller.
“’Afternoon, Margo.” Robbie greeted her when he stepped into the kitchen. “Is Emma here?”
He’d come to their house once in the past week, but already, he strode around the room as if he owned the place.
Was he still a cocky bastard?
She tore her gaze from Robbie and looked down. She didn’t dare glance in Jamie’s direction. She’d find his face closed, anger in his dark eyes and twisting his handsome features. He hadn’t wanted her to let Robbie into Emma’s life, but she’d believed the decision lay with the girl, and with her alone.
During the course of the past week, she had sat down with her daughter and told her everything about Robbie. She’d hidden no detail, believing Emma to be old enough, as well as mature enough, to understand and form her own opinion.
Emma hadn’t decided on the spot. Night brought wise counsel, and the girl had slept on the decision. At breakfast the next morning, she’d told Margo she wanted to meet the man who had fathered her.
The three of them had met in Upton Park, a neutral location, and though she couldn’t say Emma and Robbie had hit it off, they got along well, and Emma hadn’t decided that meeting her father once had proved enough. Two days later, he’d opened an account in Emma’s name, with a ten thousand pound balance, and handed the reins over to Margo.
He’d visited the other day. Emma had wanted him to see where she lived. And hence, his presence here today, as well. Robbie had wanted to bring a gift for his daughter on her birthday. How could Margo have said no, when he and Emma had gotten on well, so far?
How to make Jamie understand all that? He only knew that Robbie had behaved like an arse when faced with his current flame’s pregnancy almost thirteen years ago. True, Margo hadn’t told Jamie how she’d grown more and more convinced Robbie had changed. He’d broken away from under his family’s protective umbrella, setting out as his own person to start a construction company from scratch, a few years earlier. Today,
he operated a successful business and appeared to want to turn his life around.
Who could fault that?
“Hello, mate.” Robbie thrust out his hand towards Jamie.
Tense silence that, to her, stretched for ages, descended on the kitchen.
Finally, Jamie shook Robbie’s outstretched hand. She breathed a sigh of relief.
She made the introductions, and as soon as Jamie released Robbie’s hand, she would bet he’d be out of there.
Indeed, he gave her a curt nod and, after he turned on his heel, darted out of her house as if lightning bolts threatened to hit his ankles if he didn’t move quickly enough.
Why did it have to be that way? She wanted him back, wanted him to continue talking to her about Austen and anything else under the sun, provided he looked at her with laughter in his eyes. Not with the hard ice in his gaze as he’d left.
“Margo, where’s Emma? I’ve got her gift right here.”
That’s when she noticed the blanket-covered basket under Robbie’s arm. “I’ll go get her.”
Emma preceded her down the stairs. Margo remained on the landing, reluctant to descend to where the three of them would form a unit. She didn’t want that, not with Robbie.
The girl remained polite. No flinging of her arms around Robbie, as she’d done with Jamie. She barely allowed her father to kiss her cheek.
Robbie took the attitude in stride, and extended the basket to Emma. She searched for Margo with her gaze, asking for confirmation that she should accept. Margo nodded.
Emma peeled off the blanket and grinned. “It’s a kitten.”
“I thought of you when I saw him,” Robbie said. “See, the reddish-gold of his fur is the same colour as your hair.”
Did he really care? Was she making a mistake here?
Unfortunately for her, she behaved as a true mother to Emma—her daughter’s needs came before her own.
Sadness would linger, and she could never be more certain of that when, later that day, she watched Jamie amid a gaggle of tween girls. He set up his DVR that he’d carried over, so the sleepover crew could watch the latest England game that he’d recorded.
“Who is that bloke?” she heard Melissa ask.
“Jamie, our neighbour,” Emma said.
“He’s hot.”
“Innit? My mum’s got the hots for him, but she’s so daft, she won’t do anything about it.”
“How daft,” Melissa said. “Trust me, such a cutie won’t remain free for long. She better get her game on quick.”
Emma snorted, and the sentiment behind that sound stayed with Margo, more than the surprise of hearing twelve-year-old girls talk of her as if she were a foolish cow.
Could she do something about Jamie?
She took a deep breath. What more did she have to lose? He couldn’t despise her more than he already did. She didn’t want to make him see her side of the argument. No, she just wished for them to be friends again.
And maybe, just maybe, something else could develop from that friendship. Long shot, but sometimes, as she’d learned when piecing autopsy reports and crime cases together, far-fetched really didn’t appear that far at all.
***
Jamie glanced up from the papers on his desk when a knock resounded on the open door to his practise. All his patients had gone, and Helen had just left for home.
Surprise, and a zing of energy he’d lacked in the past days, surged through him when he found her standing in the doorway, a plate in her hand.
What was Margo doing here at—he threw a glance at his watch—six o’clock?
“Can I enter?” she asked. “I come in peace.”
That’s what every evil-minded alien said when they landed on Earth and set out to bring about total annihilation.
Would Margo wish for his complete destruction? After the way he had treated her, he couldn’t blame her. He’d behaved like an arse. Jealousy had blinded him with a distorting screen of red-hot anger. Yes, he still thought of Robbie Barnes as a bastard up to no good. He had a bad feeling in his gut. Something about that bloke didn’t click, though he could be prejudiced.
He’d started to care for Emma, too much, and he resented the fact that the man who could demand that she call him ‘father’ had happened upon the scene again.
Not Margo’s fault. She had refused to put her foot down and ask Barnes to stay away, as she could have done, as every family court would have allowed her to do. That meant she hadn’t done what he, Jamie, wanted to see happen.
How could he fault her for that? She hadn’t been blindsided by emotion. She’d allowed a rational mind to work through the scenarios, and had done the best thing possible, when she’d turned the decision over to Emma.
Emma had told him how it all happened. They still had their regular chats and, even though Barnes stood in the picture, nothing had changed between the two of them. He’d been a fool to think of him as a threat to their relationship. All to Margo’s credit that she insisted on total honesty between her and her daughter, so the girl would grow up to have a strong, discerning heart.
He put his pen down and sat straighter. What did Margo want? Peace, or his total surrender? She was, after all, a woman, and none he knew came over with offerings without an idea at the back of her head.
“You’re escaping the tween riot?” He nodded at the seat across from his desk. “Come on in.”
She slid into the chair, gave him a glimmer of a smile, and placed the plate on the surface between them.
He glanced at the gingerbread men. “You baked?”
“Peace offering.” She clasped her hands in her lap. “Jamie, listen. About Robbie—”
“It’s okay. I understand.”
“You do?”
He winced. “I’ll admit it’s not what I wanted, but it’s your call.”
Tell her she is right, you moron.
“It’s Emma’s, actually.”
“True.”
His gut tightened, as if punched by a fist, when she glanced up at him. Blimey, the woman could do things to him, all with a mere gaze. How could he go about telling her how much she and her daughter had become indivisible parts of his life? How did he let her know how much more he still wanted?
He couldn’t, because that remained Margo’s call. She didn’t trust easily, and something told him it all had to do with her past. Whatever had happened to her had moulded her into an overly careful woman who didn’t put herself on the line, not emotionally.
What, though? He ached to know.
Anger brought nothing good. Neither did resentment. He had to face the fact that Robbie Barnes existed in Emma’s life.
So long as Barnes stayed out of Margo’s. Margo belonged to him.
And you win better dispositions with honey, not vinegar.
Glancing at the cinnamon-brown gingerbread men on the plate, he smiled and shook his head. At least, most of them hadn’t turned glistening coal-black, like her first attempt.
“From first degree murder to involuntary manslaughter. I’d say you’re making progress.”
She frowned, and her eyes sparkled. He’d made her angry.
“Fine.” She stood and grabbed the plate. “If you don’t want them—”
He closed a hand around her wrist, which stopped her words short.
“I want them,” he said softly.
She looked at the biscuits, then at him. “Truce?”
Without releasing her, he stood, and brought his face a few inches from hers. Her lips parted, and she blinked.
No, Margo Nolan was not immune to him. It made him sad to reckon he felt like a conquering, ecstatic primate basking in that knowledge, but a man had to do what a man had to do.
“Truce,” he replied.
Call out the cease-fire. That way, when he made his move, Dr. Nolan would have no defences up.
Chapter Eight
Margo must’ve missed out on the ‘shopping as a universal female pastime’ gene. She dashed in and out of outlets on Ox
ford Street with Emma that Sunday, and couldn’t say she enjoyed herself. They’d been to H&M, Next, and Gap, with the girl trying out half a dozen outfits at each retailer. The only clothes they’d bought so far consisted of a T-shirt and a pair of jeans.
If it depended on her, she’d have plopped Emma down in Harrods’ or Harvey Nichols and asked her to make her choice. Better yet, she’d have settled the girl in front of a computer and asked her to select her gifts online. Who had the time to sprint down a street over a mile long while darting into every possible store on that stretch? Lucky for her, Emma hadn’t deigned enter the La Senza stores. Lingerie had to be still a long—she hoped, very long—time away.
When, at last, they reached their intended destination—Soccer Scene—more than two hours had passed, and she sighed with weariness. She didn’t put up any resistance while her daughter danced about and added football gear to their shopping basket. No, what remained of her mind focused on the total. Emma had definitely turned out as Cora’s daughter—one should never hand them a purse with the strings untied. Or give them a credit card.
She exited the store laden with bags.
Emma dashed to the left on the pavement, unencumbered by any baggage. “Melissa said Esprit has these amazing skirts.”
“How far is Esprit?” she asked with a sigh.
She couldn’t walk for much longer. Her feet were killing her. She moved a lot in her job; nevertheless, her day-to-day activities did not involve that kind of relentless spree.
“It’s just two shops away, Mum.”
Emma knew the layout of Oxford Street like a shopping-addict fashionista. Strange, because she proved herself no fashion victim, preferring sensible, tomboyish clothes to trends, and even girly wear.
Margo trudged in front of HMV while Emma flitted a few yards away like a butterfly. The girl stopped in front of a clear glass pane, her gaze riveted on the display racks inside.
ALDO. Margo could well understand the awe on the girl’s face. Most people didn’t know she had a definite ALDO shoe fetish.
“Can we go in?” Emma asked.
“Sure.”
While they sat on the upholstered ottomans and tried on boots, wedges, platforms, and sandals, Margo realized that, for the first time, she and her daughter were doing something they loved side by side. It had taken shoes, and a special shop, to bring them together—never before had she felt as close to Emma. Her arms itched to reach out and hug her while Emma giggled and paraded in high heels. Though she’d say the girl seemed more at ease in a pair of cleats, she rocked platform wedges very well.