by Helen Brooks
The thought was electrifying rather than alarming, causing her blood to surge hotly and a little humiliating ache at the core of her before she could gain control of herself.
'Goodnight, Victoria.' Zac's voice was cool and remote, his lips merely brushing hers as she looked up at him with wide, surprised eyes, and her goodbye was still hovering on her lips as he turned, walking back to the car parked at the far end of the little street with lazy, unhurried steps that were somehow an insult in themselves.
Well, that had put her in her place. She was still standing—mouth slightly agape—when the Jaguar roared off in a swirl of sleek metal, and it was another full minute more before she opened the front door and stepped into the muggy warmth of the flat, her skin warm and glowing from a day in the fresh air.
Her hunger, which was positively embarrassing these days and especially after the way she had stuffed herself at lunch and again on the boat, drove her into the kitchen in search of hot milk and chocolate biscuits, and she took them into the bathroom with her, too hungry to wait until she was in bed for the snack.
She ran herself a bath, eating the biscuits in the meantime, and after undressing lay in the warm soapy water drinking the hot milk with her eyes shut, until a pair of tiny feet reminded her she was guilty of neglect.
'Hello, Sweet-pea.' It had become a habit to talk to the baby when she was alone, and now she watched, fascinated, as her belly answered, protruding then subsiding several times. 'Are you a boy or a girl, Sweet-pea?' she asked softly. 'Not that it matters. You're strong, that's the main thing, and you'll be beautiful to me whatever sex you are or whatever you look like.'
The tears were hot and scalding and they surprised her because she didn't really know why she was crying—she had hardly ever cried in her life before she was pregnant and now she didn't seem to be able to stop. She wasn't sure if she was crying for the baby who would have to make do with her most of the time as mother and father, or Zac—the ten-year old Zac who had wrenched her heart, and the man himself who tied her up in knots every time they met.
Or perhaps her tears were for her mother, who had never known the bitter-sweet joy she was experiencing now in spite of she and Zac being parted, and who would still miss out on the wonder of grandmotherhood. Not for Coral a warm, baby-scented little bundle snuggling into her neck and a downy head against her chin—her mother would never know or understand the sheer thrill she was feeling now at her baby kicking, Victoria thought sadly.
But most of all, she admitted silently, once she had climbed out of the bath and padded through to the bedroom, she was crying for herself. Because she wanted Zac. She loved him and she wanted him, and she didn't want to have to bring their child up alone.
Would she have given him a second chance if she hadn't been pregnant? she asked herself as she pulled her nightie over her head with trembling fingers. Patiently waited and loved him and prayed that he would change? Hoped that he would have learnt to love her the way she-loved him, and accept that the eternal triangle had no place in their marriage? Probably. She nodded soberly to herself. She didn't like to admit it—it smacked of weakness—but that was probably what she would have done.
But she didn't have that option. The baby was too important for her to risk it being brought up in a warring home, with a mother reduced to desperation by a husband who couldn't see his way of life was detestable to her. She couldn't take the risk that Zac might change, not now. Might wasn't good enough.
It wasn't even just his affair with Gina. Victoria plumped down on the bed, shutting her eyes as she hugged her middle and swayed back and forth. He would never understand that she needed to share everything with him and function as his partner as well as his wife and lover.
Perhaps it was the result of her lonely, isolated childhood, but she couldn't bear the thought of entering a marriage where two people pulled in opposite directions. She just wasn't strong enough emotionally to cope with that sort of forced isolation again.
And then the memory of Zac's face and the pain in his dark eyes as he had talked of his own young days pierced her through. She didn't know what was worse if she thought about it—having an idyllic childhood until the age of ten and then having your world fall apart, or having the sort of upbringing she had gone through. At least she hadn't suffered the pain of having experienced what she'd always missed, unlike Zac.
She slid down under the light covers after a time, but her mind continued to dissect each moment of the afternoon and evening, every word that had been spoken, every gesture and action, until she thought she'd go mad.
What was Zac doing right at this moment? The thought came from nowhere and hit her like a ton of bricks, causing her to clench her teeth and sit up sharply as her hand reached for the lampshade. She didn't care what he was doing, she told herself irritably as light flooded the room. She couldn't afford to think in this way; it was too weakening.
She was unsettled because of the day spent in his company and the things they had shared; that was all it was. She had known all along this crazy idea of spending time together wouldn't work—for her at least. It was too bittersweet, altogether too painful, although obviously he could handle it perfectly well.
Did he ever spend the night with Gina? She liked that thought even less than the previous one, and knew she had to cut the cycle before her mind continued on such a self-destructive path. A book. She'd read a book for a while, she thought determinedly. She had at least four or five she had been meaning to get into for months now.
She read for an hour or more, forcing her mind to concentrate when it jumped all over the place, but she couldn't recall what she had read when she eventually settled back down under the covers. It was some time before she drifted into a restless, troubled sleep full of nightmarish images and strange long corridors where a little girl ran and ran, frightened and alone, and when she awoke the next morning it was to the realisation that she still had a long way to go in putting Zac Harding out of her heart and her life.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Victoria saw Zac several times during September, and she couldn't fault his studious concern and decorum. She couldn't fault it, and by October, which blazed in with a riot of ochre, russet and crimson on the leaves of the shrubs and trees in the little park nearby where she took an early morning stroll each day, she had hardened her heart to the feeling of pain and regret that always accompanied his now distant approach.
It doesn't matter that it's all over and that he obviously finds you totally unattractive now, she told herself on a dew-drenched morning towards the end of the month as she lumbered round the square of park, the sharp smell of clumps of late chrysanthemums and the faint aroma of woodsmoke from an early morning bonfire somewhere near mingling in the air.
Zac had taken her to the cinema the night before, and it had seemed to Victoria that the building was full of lithe, slim, model-type females with ten-inch waists and small pert bosoms. And she, in spite of the concealing folds of her maternity dress which, like the summer ones, wasn't really a maternity dress at all, had felt like a giant hippopotamus waddling along at his side.
Zac, of course, had been his usual well-dressed, lean and altogether devastating self, and she had coped with her inadequacy—not to mention the sort of fierce sexual desire that no self-respecting hippopotamus should have— by hiding behind a grumpy façade that had made the evening a trial for both of them.
He had made no attempt to kiss her goodnight after walking her to her door—if the tepid pecks on the cheek he had indulged in since the day on the boat could be called kisses, she thought morosely—and had walked away as though he was glad to see the back of her. Which fee probably was, Victoria admitted with black humour. The front wasn't any big deal. He also hadn't said when he'd be seeing her again.
Which was fine, just fine, Victoria told herself sharply, turning in the direction of home so she could have a cup of coffee and two of the wickedly addictive chocolate biscuits she now kept a hoard of before she set out for
work. This chummy, friendly thing had been his idea anyway, all part of the supposed compromise he had harped on about. If he chose to end it, that was fine—great—by her. She hadn't cried once in the last few weeks, and she was doing very well all round. She was. And when the baby was born she'd do even better—not only would she have her child to love and look after, but she could start planning the rest of her life. She would be in control then in a way she felt she wasn't now.
She was still speaking silent encouragement to herself when she arrived at work half an hour later to find Mrs Bretton in a dreadful flap, the older woman's face as red as a beetroot.
'Oh, Victoria, oh, I'm so glad to see you, dear.' Mrs Bretton almost leapt on her as Victoria opened the door of the shop. 'I don't know how it's happened, I've never done it before in my life, but I totally forgot about an order for a bride's bouquet and a box of buttonholes one of my neighbours asked for. Her daughter's getting married today—at the registry office, you know?' Mrs Bretton whispered the last few words and bobbed her head in a meaningful way, which Victoria assumed meant the girl in question was going to be another hippopotamus in a few months' time. 'And she rang me late last night to ask why I hadn't dropped the bouquet in. Well, I felt terrible, I can tell you.'
'And you said?' Victoria prompted gently.
'I made an excuse, said I was waiting for a delivery of some flowers for the bouquet, and that I'd pop it round before eleven this morning,' Mrs Bretton said breathlessly. 'Look, I've done all the buttonholes—I was here at six this morning—and I've done most of the bouquet but you know what I'm like with the arranging side. Would you finish it off? It needs your touch. And then I'll pop everything round to her if you don't mind holding the fort for a bit? I won't be all that long.'
'No problem.' Victoria looked at the bedraggled bouquet on the table in front of her and added gently, 'You go and freshen up while I see to the flowers, then.'
By twenty past nine the bouquet was transformed into something lovely, and by twenty-one minutes past Mrs Bretton was on her way out of the door. She turned on the threshold to glance back at Victoria as she said, 'I'm just going to nip and get a wedding card and a little present, some glasses or something, on my way, so expect me back about elevenish. All right, dear?'
Victoria nodded. 'That's fine, and don't rush.' It wasn't the first time she had been left in charge of the shop since she had started working for Mrs Bretton, and she was quite confident of coping with any eventuality. 'I'll get on with the order for those table decorations for Mr and Mrs Baxter's silver wedding celebration tonight, shall I, if I get a moment between customers?'
Mrs Bretton beamed her agreement. 'Lovely, dear.'
Victoria never was quite sure how the accident happened One minute she was standing on the stepladder in the back room as she reached for an oasis—the stock in the front of the shop having run out—and the next she was lying on the floor in a tangled heap of plant pots, flowers, earth and water, with the stepladder rocking precariously above her before it mercifully steadied and became still.
The impact of the fall had knocked all the breath out of her body and for a moment she just lay there, watching the stepladder and praying that it wouldn't crash down on her. And then, as everything became still again, she felt panic as she had never felt it before. What had she done? What had she done?
She hurt Everywhere she hurt, but the pain in her back, which was shooting through to her stomach, petrified her. She'd hurt the baby. Oh, God, please, please, God, no. Please don't let anything have happened to my baby, she prayed desperately. Please, please, please. I'll do anything You want, anything, but don't let the baby be hurt. How could she have been so stupid?
She continued to lie without moving, praying the sort of unkeepable promises that people prayed at moments of dire need, and then, as she heard the shop bell tinkle and the sound of footsteps and a child's voice, she called, 'Is anyone there? Could you help me, please? Come through to the back of the shop.'
The young mother and toddler were like angels from above. Whilst his mother phoned Zac on the number Victoria gave her, the little boy squatted gravely at Victoria's side, holding her hand and talking to her as if he were thirty instead of three, showing her the grazes on his chubby knees and telling her she would be all right in a little while, just like him.
Victoria had managed to sit up but that was all—every time she tried to rise to her feet the knifing pain in her back made her gasp and sink back again—but the child's chatter helped, pulling her out of the frantic spiral of fear and panic her concern for the baby had taken her into as she talked back to him.
How Zac got from his office to the shop in ten minutes flat Victoria didn't like to consider, but when she heard the Jaguar screech to a halt outside she wouldn't have been at all surprised if the siren of a police car had followed.
Within seconds he was kneeling down by her side, his face as white as hers and his voice gentle as he said, 'Where does it hurt exactly, Tory? Don't try to move, just tell me.'
She was eternally grateful that he didn't say 'I told you so' at any point during the hours that followed, and also that the consultant obstetrician at the hospital Zac took her to—who just happened to be a good friend of her husband's and was at her bedside in Casualty before she could blink—was both tactful and kind. Beyond one sharp glance of surprise when Zac explained the circumstances of the fall, Ross Goodwin didn't indicate that he found it puzzling that the heavily pregnant wife of his millionaire friend was working in a tiny flower shop in the heart of Richmond, instead of taking it easy at home.
'Several pulled muscles, along with a good deal of bruising that will make you feel as though you've been kicked by a mule by tomorrow morning,' he said cheerfully, after he had finished his examination of Victoria, and called Zac into the room. 'I'd suggest complete bed rest for a few days, and then taking it easy for a week or two. Those muscles are going to need time to heal.'
'And the baby is all right?' Victoria asked in a very small voice. 'There's no chance this could start anything off?'
'The baby's fine.' Ross Goodwin was the antithesis of Zac, being small and plump and balding, but his smile was sweet and his brown eyes gentle as he added, 'They're tougher than you think, you know, and quite ruthless in taking everything they need to make their stay in there a comfortable one.' He indicated Victoria's rounded belly as he spoke, and then said, 'But no more acrobatics, eh? You're not as agile as you used to be.'
She nodded quickly, smiling with reaction. 'Thank you, Doctor.'
'Don't worry, Ross, I'll take care of her.' Zac's voice was grim and unusually gruff, and as Victoria glanced at his face guilt and remorse were added as further coals of fire on her head. This was his baby too, she reminded herself silently, and she could tell he had been as worded as her.
Zac insisted on taking her to the car in a wheelchair despite her protestations that she could walk, opening the passenger door and lifting her inside as though she were Meissen porcelain instead of a two-ton tessie, but in spite of his gentleness it hurt.
'You'll pull a muscle in your back,' she said nervously, in an effort to lighten the atmosphere, as he pulled the white blanket he had borrowed from the hospital more snugly round her legs. And then, as he continued to lean over her, looking deep into her blue eyes, she said, 'I'm sorry, Zac. I…I wouldn't do anything to harm this baby for the world.' Her mouth trembled.
'You think I don't know that?' he said roughly. 'You need protecting from yourself, that's the thing, and I've failed miserably in that regard, haven't I? But no more, Tory.'
'This wasn't your fault, Zac,' she said quickly, her voice high with surprise. 'It was me; I should have been more careful.' And then, as she went to reach out to him, she gasped with pain and subsided back into the seat, her face draining of colour.
'I'm taking you home.'
There was an inflexion in his voice that made Victoria think he didn't mean her little flat in Richmond, and she stared at him as he strai
ghtened up out of the car before saying carefully, 'Thank you. At least with the flat all being on one level—'
'I said I'm taking you home, Tory.' His voice was crisp and matter-of-fact and very, very firm. 'And I mean home. Our home.'
'The flat is my home now,' she protested quickly.
'The hell it is.' He didn't raise his voice but the tone became even more staccato as he repeated, 'The hell it is,' before he shut her door, quietly but with great emphasis.
Oh, wonderful. Wonderful. What was she going to do?
She couldn't exactly leap out of the car and run off, Victoria thought desperately as she watched him walk round the bonnet. And if she opened the window and yelled rape, or whatever else women shouted in situations like this, who on earth would believe her after one look at her great belly? They'd give him a medal if anything, she thought with bitter black humour. But she couldn't go with him.
When Zac slid into the car Victoria turned her head to him—the only part of her anatomy she could still move without thinking she was being stabbed by a hundred red-hot pokers—but before she could even open her mouth he took the wind completely out of her sails by saying, his voice soft, 'Tory, in this one thing, please don't fight me. I'm aware you don't trust me and that you're scared to death to make any sort of commitment, but I'm just asking you to come and stay at the house until the baby is born, that's all. You can't possibly fend for yourself over the next few days, you can barely move as it is, and you're putting the baby at risk if you go back to the flat. What if you fall again and you can't get to the phone? Or you start to feel ill?'
'Surprisingly I don't intend to make a habit of it,' Victoria said stiffly, the tightness in her voice hiding the pain in her heart as she warned herself this concern was for the baby, not her—not really. 'And there is another two months before the baby is due; I can't possibly stay with you until then.'