by Liz Fielding
Run away? Hide? He was damned if he would. Let the world think what it wanted; he knew he was trying to do his best for Amy and the baby. It wasn’t his fault that she refused to co-operate.
‘The pub will be fine,’ he said.
They walked across the green, keeping a clear foot of space between them by unspoken consent. As if they both knew that touching wouldn’t be a good idea. It was the christening all over again, and while his mind was keeping them apart, his body was plotting all kinds of ways to get close. Then, as they entered the pub, Amy stopped briefly, frowned.
‘What is it? What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing.’ He wasn’t convinced but she shook her head. ‘Really, I’m fine.’ She headed for the bar. ‘What do you want to eat?’
‘Sit down, I’ll see to it.’
‘You’re the hired help.’
‘I’ll charge it to expenses. What would you like?’
‘Whatever pasta dish they have on the menu.’ Then she grinned. ‘Just be sure to check that the cheese is pasteurised.’ Before he could answer, she added, ‘And I’ll have a ginger ale.’
‘You’re feeling queasy?’ He felt an immediate and answering nausea.
‘No. I like ginger ale. And while you’re there you can catch up with Dorothy.’
‘Dorothy?’
‘Dorothy Fuller, the housekeeper you’re paying to keep an eye on me. That’s her, playing darts. Golly, she’s good, isn’t she? The pub could do with her on their team.’
‘They can have her; she’ll be staying for a while. You might be able to manage without her at the moment, but you’ll need her eventually.’ He crossed to the bar, ordered food, trying to ignore the unsettling feeling that he was on the edge of quicksand and that whichever way he moved he was going down.
He carried the glasses back to the table, sat beside Amy in the window seat. She glanced at his own drink. ‘You’re drinking ginger ale, too? I hope you’re not getting sympathetic nausea?’
‘I’m driving,’ he said glibly. ‘Tell me what happened just now,’ he said. ‘When we arrived. And don’t say nothing. I know something did.’
‘I felt the baby move. At least, I think I did.’ She laid her hand against her waist very gently. ‘It was so faint, a tiny flutter, like a butterfly… Oh, yes!’ She reached for his hand and put it beneath hers so that he could feel it, too. ‘There!’
It was so small that he wasn’t sure he’d felt it. He didn’t much care. Just to touch her, to feel the warmth of her body as he laid his hand against her waist was enough. Then she smiled again. The tiny flutter could have been his imagination. Her face told him that it wasn’t.
‘Should we be here?’ he asked, his voice struggling through emotional treacle. ‘Maybe you should have your feet up…’
‘What did it say in all those books you’ve been reading, father-to-be?’ He shrugged helplessly. ‘All those books and you still don’t know?’
He looked up, realised that she was laughing at him and took his hand away.
‘You’re not taking this seriously.’
‘You’re wrong about that. I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life.’
‘Really? So have you decided where you’re going to have the baby?’ Practicalities. Stick to the practicalities.
‘Is there a good nursing home around here? Should I book you into somewhere private? In London, if you like?’
‘Yes. And no.’ Before he could interrupt, she said, ‘Yes, I’ve decided where I’m having the baby. And, no, the private maternity hospital won’t be necessary. I’m having her at home.’
‘At home? Are you kidding?’ His voice rose and the people at the next table stopped talking, turned round and gave him a suspicious look. Amy smiled, reassuring them. ‘That’s positively Dickensian,’ he said, when he’d regained her attention. ‘No one has babies at home any more. Suppose something goes wrong? It’ll be December. Suppose it’s snowing and an ambulance can’t get to you? No,’ he said, ‘I won’t allow it.’
That appeared to amuse her. ‘I think you’ll find that you don’t have any say in the matter.’
‘Dammit—’ He stopped as a young girl brought cutlery to the table, waiting impatiently for her to go. ‘Dammit, Amy—’
‘Yes?’
‘I can’t stand this.’ She waited. ‘I can’t stand being excluded. This is my baby, too. I want him to have my name. I want—’ He stopped. He no longer knew what he wanted.
She put her hand over his. ‘If you want your name on her birth certificate, Jake, you just have to come along to the register office with me. But don’t think it gives you any say in where she’s born.’ There was a hiatus while the waitress brought their food, checked that they had everything they needed, took Jake’s order for another drink.
‘Home births are risky, aren’t they?’
‘No, but don’t take my word for it. Check it out in one of those books you’re so keen on quoting.’
‘I will.’
Amy picked up a fork and began to eat. Jake had earned his place on the birth certificate because of his very real concern for her and her baby, even if he would prefer to help at one person removed and believed that money could take the place of personal commitment.
More than that would require a sea change in his attitude.
‘Tell me what you’ve been doing since I last saw you,’ she asked, deliberately changing the subject. ‘What do you do when you’re not working?’
For a moment she thought he would persist, but after a moment he shrugged. ‘I’m always working. I don’t have time for anything else.’
‘Not even your family? You don’t see your mother? Willow told me—’
‘Willow knows nothing about my mother. I have no mother,’ he said flatly. ‘No family. None that I want to know. There’s just Lucy.’
‘The famous Aunt Lucy?’ she said, letting the rest go. One day he’d tell her. When he was ready. ‘She’s fostered dozens of children through the years, hasn’t she? She must be a pretty amazing person.’
‘I suppose she is.’
‘Have you told her about the baby?’ He shook his head. ‘Maybe you should.’
‘Oh, yes, I should certainly do that. The trouble is I know what she’ll say.’
Amy laughed. ‘You’re a bit old to be sent to bed without any supper.’
‘Not too old to be made to feel as if I should be,’ he said ruefully. ‘She’s a real old-fashioned lady with real old-fashioned standards.’
‘I could come with you, if you like. I’ll swear it was all my fault.’
Amy’s eyes sparkled at his discomfort. Lucy would love her, he knew. As he did. His heart seemed to pause, wait for his head to catch up. His head didn’t appear to be in any hurry, but it would get there eventually.
Love was a meaningless word, too easy to say, too hard to live up to. He’d excised it from his vocabulary.
‘Thanks for the offer, Amy, but she wouldn’t believe you. And if I took you to meet her when I told her about the baby she’d assume we were getting married.’ He placed his fork very carefully on his plate. ‘Maybe that’s the answer.’
She waited a moment, not quite sure if she’d heard right. ‘Excuse me?’
That he wouldn’t marry was the one thing he had been certain of. But this was different. There would be none of that moonlight and roses pretence. It would simply be a practical arrangement. ‘It would make sense. That way I could look after you, both of you, properly.’ He’d have rights, too. Rights to insist that Amy took sensible precautions, had her baby somewhere with every facility.
‘Was that a proposal, Jake?’
He was slow to look up, face her. ‘I’m offering you security. That’s all.’
‘Your name and your bank book?’
‘It’s all I have to give. Take it or leave it,’ he said, more harshly than he’d intended.
‘Er…I’ll leave it, thanks.’ One step forward, two steps back, Amy thought as she lift
ed a fork and began to eat, slowly and carefully, aware that he was watching her with that completely baffled expression that she found so endearing.
‘What do you want, Amy?’
You. All of you. Body and soul. Unless she was prepared to settle for his wallet, this was not the moment to weaken.
‘Nothing. I told you. Forget it.’
‘I’ve tried. I can’t forget it.’
‘But you want to. You can’t face the responsibility of caring for a fragile life, something that relies on you entirely, is that it?’ He didn’t answer. ‘Always having to be there? In person? Always putting her first? Afraid of being needed and not being able to deliver? That, like your mother, you’ll run out when the going gets tough?’
‘If that’s what you want to think.’ Jake didn’t disabuse her. It was marginally less painful than the truth. And at least he wasn’t pretending, playing a role he was unfitted for.
‘I just wanted you to know that I understand. That I’d rather you just walked away than try and do what you believe to be your duty. It would be easier.’
‘You think so? If you want me to go, Amy, make it easy. Take the money.’
‘I’m truly sorry, Jake. I can’t do that.’ She turned away, staring up at the blackboard behind the bar. After a long moment, she cleared her throat and said, ‘Offer me strawberry gateau and I might be tempted.’
CHAPTER FIVE
FIFTH MONTH. Your baby is moving distinctly now, and you will begin to look noticeably pregnant. Some women become tetchy and irritable and occasionally weepy at this time. It’s time to think about booking antenatal classes.
JAKE abandoned a spreadsheet and opened the book of babies’ names that he’d bought at lunchtime, flicking through it, picking out names at random. Mark? James? James Hallam sounded good. James Jones did not. He didn’t like it one bit.
George. That was a strong, solid name. George Hallam. George Hallam Jones. He frowned. It was the Jones bit that was the problem. Marriage was the only way to fix it, but Amy hadn’t taken to that idea. Well, she wanted a lot more than he could give.
They’d walked back to the cottage but she hadn’t asked him in, had simply turned to him, kissed his cheek and said goodnight. When the door had shut between them he hadn’t felt relief. He didn’t know what he’d felt. Only that he hadn’t liked it. In fact he’d hated it. Hated it so much that he’d spent the last month chasing up a business lead that any other time he’d have left to someone else, just to keep himself from thinking about how much he hated it.
Yet he’d still found himself wandering around fashionable baby stores, marvelling at how small the clothes were. Touching the pink bootees in his pocket. Buying books filled with names that no one in their right mind would ever inflict on an innocent baby. He’d still found time to organise a car for her.
Maggie put her head around the office door. ‘The car’s arrived. Do you want to go down and check it over, or shall I get someone else to run the driver back to the garage?’
He got to his feet. ‘I’ll do it myself. I want to get the feel of it before I take Amy out in it.’
‘You?’ She laughed. ‘You’re going to teach her to drive?’
‘You’ve got a problem with that?’ he enquired irritably. Maggie’s scarcely veiled amusement at his dilemma was beginning to wear dangerously thin.
‘None whatever. It’s a great move if you want to guarantee she’ll never speak to you again. Is that the plan?’
It was one answer. But not one that would convince his nagging inner voice, or make sleep any easier. Sleep was very hard to come by. He only had to close his eyes to be taken on a slow motion rerun of his night with Amy.
‘If I book a course of lessons for her she’ll just cancel them, and I can’t think of any other way to ensure she gets behind the wheel and stays there.’ He wasn’t totally convinced he could persuade her to do this, but he had to try. ‘I won’t be back today.’
She paused in the doorway. ‘Why don’t you make that the rest of the week? Your body is coming into the office but your mind seems to be elsewhere.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. I can’t just waltz off in the middle of—’
‘Jake,’ she said gently, stopping him. ‘If you fell under a bus tomorrow would the company cease to function?’ He stopped. Frowned. He was the company. His brains, his name…but, no, it wouldn’t cease to function. ‘We might all run around like headless chickens for a week or two, but no one is completely indispensable. Not even a genius like you.’ When he didn’t answer, Maggie said, still gently, ‘You run it. Not the other way round. Take a couple of days off and sort out your minor domestic crisis—’
‘It’s not…’ he began, then stopped.
‘A crisis?’
‘Minor.’
She smiled. ‘Okay. Make that three days. You’ve got your cellphone. If there’s a panic you can be in the office in an hour.’
‘An hour?’
‘Sorry,’ she said innocently. ‘I assumed you’d be staying in Upper Haughton. My mistake.’
‘No, mine. But maybe you’re right. This needs my full attention. Reschedule my appointments for the rest of the week. Once I’ve got Amy properly organised, I can forget it.’
‘Right,’ she said. She didn’t sound convinced.
‘Amy, it’s Jake.’
Amy opened her mouth, swallowed, pressed the little cellphone closer to her ear. It had seemed like for ever since he’d come racing down to the cottage at Willow’s insistence and she was beginning to think that he’d taken her at her word. And forgotten her. She wasn’t finding it that easy to forget him. He haunted her mind in a way she could never have imagined. He was the last thing on her mind as she drifted off to sleep, her first thought when she woke. Alone.
That was increasingly hard.
And each time he took her by surprise she found it a little more difficult to maintain a cool, low-key reaction. Just the sound of his voice was enough to send her heart flying up to her throat, making it extraordinarily difficult to simply say hello. A warning of just how painful it would be if he did finally take her advice to walk away and ‘forget it’.
She’d bear it; she’d survive. She’d survived worse. But she was beginning to wish she’d said yes when he’d asked her to marry him…
Dear Lord, what was she thinking?
She took a deep breath, remembered that she was a fully functioning human being who didn’t need a prop to support her. A partner was something else—a man at her side who would acknowledge her as unique, precious, equal. She didn’t want a man who was chained to her by duty because in the heat of passion they had made a baby.
‘Amy? Are you there?’
‘Sorry, Jake,’ she said, and cleared her throat. ‘A customer had a query.’ And when she was back in control, her heart behaving itself, could trust her voice, she continued, ‘Now, what can I do for you?’
‘For me?’ He sounded as if the idea of her doing anything for him was an alien concept. ‘Nothing. I was simply checking to make sure you’d booked antenatal classes.’
Not, How are you? How’s my baby?
‘What?’ she asked, aspirating crisply.
‘Antenatal classes. According to my book you should be thinking about them now.’
‘Really?’ So that was how he was handling it now. By the book. ‘Well, thank you for letting me know. I’ll be sure and get right on to it. If that’s all, I’m very busy—’
‘No…I thought we might have dinner tonight.’
‘Oh? Did you?’ She wasn’t going to play the I’m busy—it’s too short notice games, but she wasn’t about to sound as if he’d just made all her dreams come true. Even if he had.
There was a pause while he apparently waited for her to fall in line with his thought processes. Then, when he realised she wasn’t going to oblige, he said, ‘Would you have dinner with me this evening, Amy? If you’re not doing anything else? I realise it’s short notice and that you have a life—’
He caught on quickly and she rewarded him with a laugh. ‘Tuesdays through Saturdays at the shop, paperwork in the evening and pregnant to boot. A life? Not so’s you’d notice.’
‘Is that a yes?’ he enquired, not falling into the trap of taking her acceptance for granted. He was very quick about some things.
‘I’d love to have dinner with you.’
‘Thank you.’ There was another pause and it occurred to her that there was more to this call than antenatal classes. She didn’t leap in to fill the gap, though, leaving him to say what was on his mind.
‘Have you settled on the colour for the nursery ceiling yet?’ Jake asked, finally breaking the silence.
The nursery ceiling? That wasn’t what she’d expected. She hadn’t had time to give it much thought and she’d hardly expected him to be worrying about it.
‘Not yet. Maybe you’d like to help me choose?’ she offered.
‘I’ll be glad to. What time do you close? I’ll pick you up at the shop and we could go to the local DIY store.’
‘Not tonight. I have to dash to the supermarket after we shut and I don’t know how long I’ll be. I should be home by sixty-thirty. I’ll see you there—’
‘Don’t dash,’ he said. ‘Make a list and I’ll do your shopping for you. Then you won’t have to carry it on the bus.’
‘Oh, sure. I can just see you at the business end of a shopping trolley, racing down the aisles hunting down the bogofs.’
‘Hunting down the what?’
‘Confess, Jake. You haven’t been in a supermarket in years.’
‘On the contrary, I still occasionally take a week off to help out Aunt Lucy in the Eight ’til Late Shop she refuses to give up despite all my efforts to install her in an all mod cons bungalow in Bournemouth.’