by Penny Jordan
Like being sick and feeling tired, a traitorous voice whispered.
No, she was panicking over nothing. It was true that her body cycles were normally very reliable, but there had been odd occasions when she had experienced the odd hiccup, the odd missed period, and this time… Well, she had put it down to the fact that she was so emotionally upset.
One missed period, a little nausea, oppressive tiredness. What did they add up to, after all?
Nothing…
Guy’s child.
She closed her eyes and swallowed. That frantic desire she had experienced to conceive his child had been a momentary madness. She was not of the valiant breed of women able to support and rear a child on her own.
Financially, yes, she could do it, but there were other and, to her mind, more important considerations. She and her child would be completely alone. She had no family, no support network to help her to teach her child the reality of family life, the kind of life she would want her child to have. And she did not have the reserves within herself to be both mother and father. Oh, God, what was she going to do?
Don’t panic. You could be wrong.
Could be? She must pray that she was. How soon could one tell positively? If she had conceived on that last night…
It was pointless doing anything yet. She could wait until after Christmas. Until she was back in London.
Guy’s child.
When Lucy looked in on her half an hour later, she found her fully dressed and fast asleep, a small smile curling her mouth.
Lucy sighed and didn’t wake her, and then thought guiltily of the telephone call she had just made.
Never interfere in other people’s lives was Howard’s motto. Lucy would just have to hope that on this occasion he was wrong.
* * *
‘If you could just move the star a little to the left, Paul. There, how do you think that looks?’ Lucy appealed to Campion as they both stood back to admire the tree.
‘Wonderful,’ Campion told her, and it was true.
Dark, glossy greenery, rich red candles, and the sparkle of crystal candle-holders were reflected in the Venetian mirror above the fireplace.
In the window, the tree gleamed and sparkled, the red satin bows she and Lucy had spent most of the afternoon making, shimmering against the branches. Baubles painted with Victorian scenes hung on red loops, and the tree lights were tiny darts of white fire illuminating the whole scene.
‘Well, we should just about be ready in time for the children’s party, and then it’s Christmas Eve, and everyone else will be arriving.’
The last thing Campion really wanted was to be part of a noisy house party, but what was the alternative? A Christmas spent alone, moping in her flat, with Lucy offended because she wasn’t joining them.
She refused to allow herself to think about the cottage; about snow piled high outside the windows, and a fire burning warmly in the sitting-room grate. They couldn’t have had a tree like this one, of course, but there could have been a small one; decorated with old-fashioned candles in case the electricity went off. They could have hung stockings from the mantelpiece, and the turkey could have cooked slowly and succulently in the Rayburn.
It took the prick of salt tears behind her eyelids to bring her back to reality. What was she doing to herself? Guy had never once indicated that they should spend Christmas together, and in her heart of hearts Campion had not expected him to; he would have commitments with his own family, she was sure, but they could perhaps have met, have shared one day together… Stop it! she warned herself fiercely. All she was doing was adding to her own torment. The only time she and Guy had discussed Christmas, she remembered telling him she would be staying with Lucy, as she had done for the last few years, explaining to him how far their friendship went back. However, if he had even indicated that he wanted to see her, she knew that Lucy would have generously accepted her excuses and encouraged her to be with the man she loved.
But that was only fantasy. Guy did not want her.
‘Howard, what do you think?’ Lucy asked as her husband walked into the room.
Watching them together as he walked over and slid his arm round his wife’s waist, Campion was appallingly aware of her own inner pain and loneliness.
‘Wonderful,’ Howard responded, but he was looking at Lucy and not at the tree.
He bent his head to kiss her, and Lucy gave him a playful push. ‘Not in front of Campion! You’ll embarrass her.’
‘What time are the kids due to arrive?’ Howard asked, releasing her reluctantly.
‘About three. Campion and I have got all the presents wrapped and named. Your Father Christmas outfit is upstairs waiting for you. By the way, we’ve got one or two extras this year. Neighbours’ children,’ she added in an offhand manner, but, oddly, Campion had the impression that for some reason her friend was nervous.
‘Time to go and get ready,’ she added, smiling at Campion. ‘I hope you’ve brought something childproof with you.’
Experience of previous Christmas parties meant that she had, and as Campion donned the tartan dress, with its neat, white collar and silky bow, she reflected that it was just as well it was washable, because by the end of the afternoon it would probably be covered in smears from sticky fingers.
The weather forecast had been right, and they had a faint riming of snow, with more promised. The first batch of children arrived well wrapped up and pink-cheeked.
It was a rule that no presents were handed out until everyone had arrived and, to keep the younger children occupied until they did, Paul had been deputised to organise games.
The doorbell was just chiming for the umpteenth time when one small boy fell over and started to howl.
‘Oh, dear!’ Torn between rushing to his aid and opening the door in the absence of Mrs Timmins, who was setting out the tea, Lucy looked helplessly from Campion to the small, sprawled figure on the floor.
‘I’ll deal with the tears, you deal with the door,’ Campion suggested.
Despite her lack of contact with young children, she had always had a surprising affinity with them. She picked up the little boy and carried him through into Lucy’s sitting-room, where his howls gradually decreased to muffled sobs and then silence. He was crying, Campion learned, because someone had taken his car.
Promising to restore it to him, Campion dried his eyes and distracted him by asking him what he wanted from Father Christmas.
The list that was enthusiastically delivered was demoralisingly technical. What had happened to train sets and skates? Campion wondered, feeling a stab of sympathy for the parents who were expected to produce this cornucopia.
‘Shall we go back and see what everyone else is doing?’ she suggested, satisfied that the tears were forgotten.
He wanted to be carried, and she willingly obliged, opening the door and then coming to an appalled halt.
Across the width of the hall, with his back to her, talking to Lucy, stood Guy.
Campion’s heart leaped like a landed salmon. She could actually feel the physical jerk of it lifting in her body. Her arms tightened round her wriggling burden.
Oh, God, what was Guy doing here? Did he know that she was here? She suspected not. Oh, how could Lucy have done this to her? She put the little boy down, intent on escape before Guy turned his head and saw her. She couldn’t endure the humiliation of meeting him like this, or knowing that her friend had probably engineered his appearance, without suspecting that she was the very last person he would want to see.
She fled into the kitchen, and from there upstairs, using the stairs that had been used exclusively by the servants.
Two women were standing on the landing. One of them was vaguely familiar, for some reason, the other was elegant and soignée, with a cool, languid accent.
‘Poor Guy, he really didn’t want to come, did he? I wonder why?’
Campion stood transfixed. Neither of the women noticed her standing near the top of the staircase. There was a
note of restraint in the brunette’s voice as she responded quietly, ‘I think he’s just tired. He’s been very busy at work recently.’
‘Oh, yes, I know all about that!’ Amused malice almost rippled from the blonde’s tongue.
‘Hart’s were amazed at the changes he managed to get that Roberts woman to make in her manuscript. Very prim and proper the original work was, not at all what Adam Hart wanted. I heard that he was ready to break the contract, but Guy promised him that he’d find a way to get her to toe the line. Rumour has it that he spent three weeks shacked up with her somewhere, helping her with the alterations.’
Campion felt sick. The acid, knowing way the blonde woman was talking about her—about the time she had spent with Guy—made her feel soiled, used.
‘That’s just gossip, Sandra,’ the brunette said sharply, ‘and I shouldn’t repeat it in front of Guy if I were you.’
‘Poor Guy! I don’t suppose he does want it known that he had to take the woman to bed to get her to change her manuscript. What’s she like? Have you met her?’ she asked idly.
‘No, I haven’t—and I think we should go downstairs now.’
The brunette’s tone was distinctly unfriendly now. She walked towards the stairs, and the blonde followed her, leaving Campion alone and shaking.
What she had heard confirmed every worst fear, including those she had forced herself to suppress. Guy had made love to her not because he wanted her, not because he desired her, even in passing…but because of her book. Oh, God, why hadn’t she followed her own instincts? They had told her clearly enough that a man like Guy French could never have found her attractive, but she had chosen to ignore them. She had chosen to go and make a fool of herself.
She buried her burning face in her hands. The thought of people discussing her relationship with Guy the way she had just heard it being discussed made her stomach heave.
She only just made it to her bedroom.
* * *
She was re-applying her make-up when Lucy knocked and walked in, looking concerned.
‘So you’re here.’
‘Yes. I wasn’t feeling very well. Lucy, would you mind if I don’t come down? I…’ To her chagrin, tears flodded her eyes.
‘Campion, what is it?’
Instantly Lucy was at her side, her arms going round her, her face concerned.
‘I don’t know. I’m just not feeling well. Perhaps I ought to go back to London…I don’t want to spoil your Christmas.’
‘You’re not going anywhere, especially if you aren’t well. First thing tomorrow, I’m going to get Dr Jamieson to come and have a look at you…’
‘No. No, that won’t be necessary. Perhaps I will come down.’
‘I shouldn’t have invited Guy, should I?’ Luch said quietly, guessing what was wrong. ‘His sister Meg is one of our neighbours. She’s married to Tait Drummond, so I knew you wouldn’t recognise the name, and I thought it might be a good way of getting the two of you together…’
Guy’s sister…the brunette who had looked so familiar!
‘I shouldn’t have interfered.’ Lucy looked upset.
‘You meant well. Has he gone?’
‘Yes.’ Lucy crossed her fingers behind her back. ‘Look, if you don’t feel well, why don’t you go and sit in the library for a while until the kids have gone? I’ll get Mrs Timmins to bring you something to eat.’
Campion looked wryly at her. The library was her favourite room in the house, a wonderful, book-lined retreat.
‘All right. I’ll follow you down.’
* * *
Campion was half-way across the hall when she heard him call her name. Lucy had lied to her, after all.
She wanted to run, but how could she, with four dozen children milling around, and their mothers looking on with interested eyes? He touched her arm and her skin burned. She couldn’t bear to look at him. Where was the blonde? Where was his sister?
‘So you are here.’
‘Lucy is my friend,’ she told him without turning her head. ‘I always spend Christmas with them. Remember, I told you?’
‘Yes, yes you did, didn’t you? You don’t look well,’ he added abruptly.
‘I’m just a little tired. Excuse me, would you? I…’ She started to move away and winced as his fingers gripped her arm.
‘My God, is that all you can say to me? Campion, I…’
How could he do this to her? She could have cried out at the agony he was inflicting. Why was he continuing with this farcical display of concern? Of caring? Obviously, he didn’t know what she had overheard. Perhaps he was already looking ahead, to her next book. She literally shook with rage and anguish at the thought of his duplicity.
‘Please let me go, Guy,’ she said, as evenly as she could.
‘I want to talk to you.’
He really was a good actor, she marvelled. He sounded almost distraught, even a little frantic, and the look in his eyes… If she hadn’t known better, she could almost have mistaken it for an anguish to match her own.
‘What about?’ she asked politely, and as distantly as she might a stranger. ‘I really must go, Guy. I promised Lucy I’d help her with the food.’
‘I take it you’re not here alone?’
Not here alone? There was an odd glitter in his eyes. His mouth was tight and hard.
‘That’s right. I’m not,’ she lied, hating him, and hating herself for allowing herself to be so easily manipulated. Of course she must tell him what he wanted to hear. She must allow him to pretend that he had not hurt and discarded her, that she had quickly and easily replaced him in her life as he would do her. She must lift from his shoulders any burden of guilt or blame.
She spun away from him as he released her, not waiting to see him claimed by the blonde she could see approaching them out of the corner of her eye.
She saw them leave, though.
The brunette, with three small children, and the blonde, linking her arm through Guy’s.
CHAPTER NINE
‘I’M AFRAID there could be one or two complications.’
Campion stared at the specialist.
‘What kind of complications?’ she croaked, her rebellious stomach heaving.
It had been like this ever since Christmas, and now, on a bleak, freezing cold January day, she had just received very definite confirmation that she was pregnant.
‘A vitamin deficiency—nothing that can’t be put right, but I’m afraid your pregnancy won’t be easy. Of course,’ he looked down at his immaculate desk and then back at her, ‘you could always go for a termination.’
It took several seconds for the words to sink through, but, when they did, she was horrified.
Abort Guy’s baby? Never!
‘No! No, I don’t want to do that.’
‘No, I can see that. Well, if you’re sensible,’ he paused and looked hard at her, ‘if you eat and rest properly… Of course, we’ll have to monitor your progress. The baby’s due in August. It’s January now. You’re going to have to take things very quietly for the next six weeks.’ Unspoken, but there none the less, was the threat of a possible miscarriage.
Campion listened as he talked about tests and vitamins, but her mind was only half on what he was saying.
She had known before, of course, that she was pregnant, but she had not known until now how much she wanted her child. She would do anything, anything to protect its fragile hold on life.
‘You work as a writer. Writers forget to eat, they become absorbed in what they’re doing. It might be a good idea if you stopped work for the next six weeks. Do you live alone?’
Campion nodded.
‘Mmm… Do you have any family? A friend you could stay with?’
So he didn’t trust her to obey him on her own.
‘No family. Some friends, but…’
Tactfully, he had said nothing about her baby’s father, other than to ask for medical details, which she hadn’t been able to supply.
‘I s
hall be perfectly all right on my own,’ she told him brightly, preparing to leave.
But would she? Her flat depressed her. A London flat was no place in which to bring up a child. A child needed a home—a proper home.
So…she could work just as easily outside London. She could find herself a small house somewhere.
The specialist had given her several information sheets to read. She made herself a cup of coffee—decaffeinated now, for the baby’s sake—and sat down to read them.
The ring on the doorbell surprised her. She wasn’t expecting any visitors. She went to answer it, surprised to see Lucy outside.
Her friend, now well into her pregnancy, really was blooming. Campion felt drained and lifeless in comparison.
‘I came up to London to do some shopping. I haven’t heard from you for ages, and so I decided—’ She broke off and stared at the leaflets. ‘Campion, what on earth’s all this stuff? My God! You’re pregnant, aren’t you?’
Common sense warned her to deny it, but her mind didn’t seem to work very quickly these days.
Lucy sat down and stared at her. ‘It’s Guy’s, isn’t it? You’re having his child. Oh, Campion, why didn’t you tell me?’
Ridiculously, Campion was crying. She seemed to cry a lot these days—hormones, she supposed.
‘Does he know? Have you told him? Will you tell him?’
‘No, no and no again,’ she sniffed. ‘It was an accident, more my fault than Guy’s.’ She blushed when she saw the way Lucy was looking at her. ‘I want this baby, Lucy,’ she added quietly, not really knowing what impelled her to say the words out loud.
Lucy wasn’t listening to her. She had picked up one of the information sheets, and she was reading it with a frown.
‘Something’s wrong, isn’t it?’ she demanded. ‘You’re not well…’
Campion measured her chances of deceiving her, and decided that they were too slim.
‘A vitamin deficiency. The specialist says I should be all right, but I’ve got to give up work for six weeks, and then… What on earth are you doing?’ she demanded, as Lucy got up and went into her bedroom. She followed her and watched as she opened cupboards and drawers.